So it had.
Finnan’s lips twisted in an ironic snarl. “A bit late for me now, Geordie, do you not think? Wounded—bested—I do not have long.”
“Bested? When ha’ we ever been bested?”
Finnan gave his friend a grave look. “When you were in Dumfries, it seems. Why did you not call on me? I would have come.”
“Would you?”
“I hope you know it!”
“But you had your own quest that led you through every hardship and back here again—you were well caught in the fight for this place. How could I call you away?”
“Because you are my friend, my brother.”
Now Geordie smiled. “Aye,” he said softly, “aye. Is it not a strange thing, Finn? We traveled so long together, yet we stayed so different. For you always thirsted after revenge, and I after love.”
“Jeannie,” Finnan said, and the emotions inside him tangled impossibly: regret, aye, and desire even now. “I paid her right well, Geordie, for what she did to you.”
Again Geordie shook his head. “Aye, you waged a right war against her, did you not? But Finn, lad, ’twas all for naught, for she did nothing to me. Have you no’ been listening? I did it all to myself: I it was who put the rise and set of the sun on how she felt for me, when she could not choose how to feel. I let her decide my worthiness—when all the while ’twas a decision I made back at Culloden that weighed on me. How many good men died because of us, Finn? When I tried to sleep, they would walk through my mind. Even the drink did not chase them, no matter how much I took.”
Realization speared through Finnan like a bolt of pain. “It was never about Jeannie, then. ’Twas about Culloden. But we made up for what we did that day. In the end, our hearts remained highland, and true.”
“Is that what you told yourself? Well, but, Finn, that did not bring back the men we slew at the outset. ’Twas they who haunted me. Sometimes they would sit down next to me in the tavern as I sit with you now, and speak of their wives and children.”
“We were mercenaries, Geordie. Hired swords!”
“Aye, and turned coat—twice.” Geordie leaned still closer. Finnan could see the flecks of brown in his eyes and follow the curl of the grouse tattooed on his cheek. “Listen to the trout, lad. Choose peace. Choose Jeannie.”
“No time.” Finnan swallowed hard. “I am going to die.”
“Ah, and where is the Finnan I know? When have you ever thought it too late for anything? How many times, lad, did you keep me going on a march with the promise of a dram or a rest at the end of some ill-fated campaign? Aye, and now you truly have something for which to live.”
“What is that? Deirdre means to kill me. My own wee sister, Geordie!”
“Aye, for she has chosen hate. There is another path for you, Finn. Listen to me, lad, if ever you have done. I wanted Jeannie to love me, aye. What man would not? But ’tis you she loves.”
Finnan closed his eyes on a terrible rush of pain. “Loved. No more, Geordie. I ha’ destroyed all that, if ever it was true.”
“If you think so, then you do not know the woman she is. Her heart may be hard won—the gods know I could not claim it. But once won, ’tis bestowed for good and all. She loves you, Finn. She loves you yet. And you love her. You need to admit it.”
“I have lost everyone I loved. My da and my mother. You. And now Deirdre. ’Tis safer not to love.”
“Safer, aye, maybe. But I can tell you, for I know—in the end ’tis the one thing that matters and worth the fight, if ever anything was.” Geordie gave Finnan the smile that had, for so many long and weary miles, traveled at his side. “I promise you, ’tis the one thing that can save you now.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Morning light broke over the glen in a delicate wave of radiance. What a morning, Jeannie MacWherter thought, to decide the outcome of her life. For after the agony of the night just past, it seemed apparent her future rested all on one question.
Did Finnan MacAllister still live?
It did not matter so much if he never saw her for the woman she was, that she might never kiss him again, or even that they would not be together at any time during that future. Her heart could continue to beat so long as Finnan lived somewhere in this world.
What difference if this scheme on which they embarked proved entirely mad? What, if she must sacrifice her own life? She knew she would trade her existence for his.
Because fight it as she might, she loved him.
Very well, then, she told the mystical, bright morning. Have it your way. I am a fool of a woman. I love the man who hates me.
Yes, and she found some small comfort in admitting it.
“Come ye out!” Danny shouted at the empty, singed doorway of Dun Mhor. “Or she dies!”
The Dowager Avrie jerked in Jeannie’s hands. There had been considerable discussion among the three of them—Danny, Aggie and Jeannie—as to how they must play out this gamble. A one-armed man could not hold a woman, even a frail, old woman, prisoner and keep a dirk at her throat. And yes, the Dowager Avrie was frail; Jeannie could feel the woman’s bones beneath her clothing, fragile as those of a bird. For Jeannie did service as captor while Danny employed his dirk.
She could not feel the Dowager breathing; it crossed her mind the woman might yet pass away in her hands and cost them their sole chance to bargain.
Jeannie heard fear in Danny’s voice, and a corresponding kick of terror tore through her gut. Aggie, standing at Jeannie’s back, went armed with a knife stolen from the kitchen of Avrie House, where they had snatched the Dowager at dawn. Jeannie dared not so much as glance at her.
People began spewing from the blackened doorway of Dun Mhor. The scene seemed to shimmer in the clear morning light: first came two men at arms, then a confusing knot of other figures, two with heads of glossy dark gold. Another had a flaming auburn mane.
Deirdre. Jeannie let out a breath she had not realized she held. The Dowager Avrie stiffened at the sight of her grandsons, and Danny, very close to Jeannie’s side, pressed the blade tighter against the old woman’s throat.
“Ask,” Jeannie bade Danny. “Ask if he lives.”
Instead, Danny called, “We have a captive, as you can see, and wish to trade.”
“Grandmother!” called one of the Avries—Trent, Jeannie thought.
Stuart Avrie stepped forward from the small throng, and Deirdre with him. Jeannie tried desperately to count heads in order to weigh their chances. Seven people she could see; no doubt others lurked, unseen. Avrie would send men—probably guards—to surround them.
No matter. Right now Jeannie needed to know only whether Finnan still occupied her world.
Stuart and Deirdre conferred hastily, heads together, and Jeannie felt a flare of satisfaction. They had not expected this. Their quarry caught, they believed themselves in an unassailable position.
“Send out your prisoner,” Danny called, “and we will release ours. Quickly now—’twould be the easiest thing in the world to kill her.”
“Do not listen to him, Stuart,” the Dowager cried in a surprisingly strong voice. “I am ready to die so you may legally claim what we are owed.”
Desperate sweat broke out all over Jeannie’s body. She increased her hold on the old woman—one arm across the bony torso, one hand clutching the woman’s wrists—and felt the Dowager tremble.
“Does he live yet?” she called, and Danny twitched violently. He had made Jeannie promise to let him do all the negotiating. The promise had not endured in the face of her fear.
“Ah, so it is the dutiful widow,” Stuart said cuttingly. “What is your stake in all of this? What will you gain by dying here today?”
“His freedom.”
Shockingly, Deirdre Avrie began to laugh. Her mirth tumbled into the morning, brittle and far too bright. “Ah, so my brother’s charm works still! Foolish woman, do you not know Finnan’s interest has only ever centered around himself? He merely projects an aura of genuine worth
. My father believed in it—aye, and my mother also. And now you? Have you bought into his lies, as well?”
“He owns my loyalty,” Jeannie answered. And her heart.
“Ah, and so the three of you—ragged remnants of his adoring many—come here, do you, to succor him?” A terrible smile twisted Deirdre’s lips. “How very touching.”
“Just haul him out here,” Danny sounded shaken, “and let this be done.”
“Done?” Stuart Avrie rejoined. “This will not be done until the blood of the bastard in there”—he jerked his head at the ruin at his back—“wets these stones.”
Jeannie nearly fell down, so great was her relief. He lived. They had not slain him during the endless, terrible night.
“Do no’ be a fool, man,” Danny called to Stuart. “Do you want to see your grandmother dead?”
Again Stuart and Deirdre conferred. Jeannie adjusted her grip on her captive; the old woman turned her head and looked into Jeannie’s face.
“There is something you do not know,” she said in a low voice. “My grandsons’ cause is just. They have a right to this place, as much right as Finnan MacAllister.” She gave a tight smile, and her eyes grew frenetic. “My son Gregor, you see, was no Avrie but a MacAllister born. Finnan’s grandfather and I were lovers. Och, do no’ look so shocked. ’Twas never that weak milksop wife of his he loved, but me. And he promised Gregor would have a fair share of all he owned. He lied, but Gregor’s sons will have it now, even if it costs my life.”
Cousins. They were all cousins. Jeannie’s throat went dry, making it difficult to speak. “Then convince them to let Finnan go and talk it out amongst you. They have no choice but to make this exchange.”
Stuart and Deirdre seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. Concern marked Stuart’s handsome face; Deirdre’s looked dark with anger. Trent stepped up, arguing hard in his brother’s ear. Jeannie’s poor, abused heart rose on a wave of genuine hope. Of course they would not take a chance with the old woman’s life. They could do nothing but release Finnan. She need only find a means to get him safe away, after.
“Very well,” Stuart called, and the Dowager Avrie jerked again, violently, in Jeannie’s hands.
“Nay, Grandson—do not! Fight, fight for the land, for what is yours by birthright. Fight to the end and avenge your father!”
Without warning, the old woman leaped forward, tearing herself from Jeannie’s grip and into the blade Danny held against her throat. It happened so swiftly Jeannie could barely react; before she grasped what happened, the Dowager’s warm blood streamed down over her hands.
Someone screamed; it took Jeannie an instant to realize the sound came from Aggie. The Dowager sagged in Jeannie’s arms even as the life passed from her frail body. The onlookers bellowed—all but Deirdre, who smiled the sort of smile that might grace the countenance of the devil’s wife.
The bright morning wavered around Jeannie. She released the Dowager’s corpse, which slid into a heap at her feet. For an instant she feared she must tumble down also, impaled on the sharp blade of despair.
Only one sound broke the horrified silence. “Seize them,” Deirdre said.
****
“I have to thank you, Mistress MacWherter. My inestimable brother will be glad to see you.”
Deirdre Avrie spoke the words in a purr that carried the bite of an adder. She lounged, all confidence, in one of the chairs pushed back from the table of what had once been the dining hall of Dun Mhor. This room appeared only partially gutted by the fire that had heavily damaged the other chambers Jeannie had seen. Part of the ceiling lay open to the sky, and the delicate sunlight filtered in.
It lent a reddish halo to Deirdre’s hair and swirled dust motes before Jeannie’s eyes. Stuart Avrie, who held Jeannie captive, had both her arms pinned hard behind her back. So far he had not spoken. Was he in shock over what had just happened outside?
Jeannie’s mind stuttered over it: Danny had fought valiantly and was now wounded, he, Jeannie, and Aggie all prisoners. Their rescue plan lay in shreds.
She sagged in Stuart’s grasp and almost fell down. Without pity, he hauled her up again.
Deirdre leaned toward Jeannie; the smile she had employed outside once more twisted her features. “Do you not wish to know why I should thank you, Mistress MacWherter?”
Jeannie shook her head, too sick to speak.
“But I will tell you anyway: I have not been able to break my brother, not all this night past.”
Jeannie’s throat closed abruptly even as her stomach heaved. Terrible images flooded her mind and paralyzed her tongue.
“But now you have presented the weapon I need. The question is, how best to use you? Tell me, have you slept with him? Have you had him in your bed?”
Jeannie’s throat spasmed, and Deirdre laughed. “You need not answer, I can see it in your eyes. I suppose he thinks he owns you, like everything else in this place. Interesting.”
Somehow Jeannie fought through the terror and sickness to say, “He does not care for me. It is as you said outside—he cares only for himself.”
“Oh, there can be no question he does no’ love you. You have that right—he loves no one but the grand Finnan MacAllister. But he will fight to preserve whatever he believes belongs to him.”
Jeannie spoke again through wooden lips. “That night—so long ago, when your father died—Finnan did not want to leave you. He agonized over it.”
Deirdre laughed again, a shrill sound. “Stuart, husband mine, only hear her defend him!”
Stuart grunted in response. Jeannie could feel emotions streaming from him, though she could not identify them.
“He had years—years—in which he might have tried to rescue me, though after the first few I would have refused to leave this new family of mine. Fine and fierce they are, and know how to hate.”
“Let Danny and Aggie go,” Jeannie urged. “They are of little value to you. I will persuade Finnan. Only let me see him.”
“Oh, you shall see him, right enough. And we just may let your two companions go. What do you say, Husband? The man is sore injured, after all, and the maid useless. We might show some mercy.”
Stuart grunted again, and Deirdre said, “Mistress MacWherter, I might even let you go, once you have served your purpose. But that all depends, does it not, on whether my brother is willing to sacrifice himself for you?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Finnan stirred painfully in his bonds when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Geordie had left him at some point during the night, when Deirdre returned with her blade, but Finnan sensed he had not retreated far and would be there when Finnan released his hold on this life and slipped into the next.
And what would follow then? Would the two of them—he and Geordie—inhabit some warriors’ afterlife consisting of endless battles and wandering? Would there be no peace?
Peace, the trout had whispered in his ear, back in the pool. Aye, but he had chosen revenge. If he could do it all over again…
Ah, and what would he do different? Refuse to avenge his father? Find a way to rescue his sister? Call off his campaign of revenge against Jeannie MacWherter?
Jeannie. A bright image of her flowed into his mind, and his poor heart bounded. If only he might see her one more time.
But he knew he would be granted no such miracle. The stone floor stretched cold at his back, and the bright sky yawned above, mocking him. He had prayed to that sky all night, each time Deirdre employed her blade, driven by the pain not in his flesh but his heart.
And now, when he heard those footsteps, he lacked the strength to lift his head. How much more could his sister hurt him?
The door of his prison, singed and half burned away, swung open upon three figures: Stuart Avrie, Deirdre, and—
Finnan lost what breath remained in his body. Nay, nay, nay—
With a violent shove, Stuart tossed her into the room, her loosed hair a golden flood of brightness, to land on the flagged f
loor beside him.
“A gift for you, Brother,” Deirdre called almost gaily. “Is it not generous of me? I will even afford you some time together, during which you can decide which of you will die first.” The two of them, Deirdre and Stuart Avrie, went out and the door of the prison banged shut behind them.
Finnan’s heart sank within him, so hard and fast it felt like a mortal injury. During the hours just past, he had not believed he could feel any more desperate. This one moment proved him wrong.
Jeannie had landed hard on the stones and slid. She lifted her head, and he gazed into the blue of her eyes, now darkened by pain.
“Nay,” he said again, aloud this time. Her cheek, scraped against the stone, showed a livid abrasion. Her left arm had received similar treatment. The front of her dress was soaked in blood, as were her hands and forearms.
Finnan gasped and choked out, “What ha’ they done to you?” If they had harmed her because of him…
He could not bear it.
Jeannie, his Jeannie, warm, sweet, and so welcoming beneath him. So loving…
Aye, and when had he given her his heart, this poor, stunted thing that even now took up a double rhythm, struggling to beat not only for him but for her? Geordie had been right: Finnan loved her; by all the gods, he always had. And so long as she lived, he must keep on living also.
For one blinding, wondrous moment nothing else mattered, not what had happened in the past nor whether they had a future together, just that she was with him now, his whole world beside him.
As if she heard his thoughts, her gaze kindled; she took light from what she saw in his eyes.
“Oh, Finnan, Finnan, thank God.”
On hands and knees, she crawled the short distance to reach him. He felt her hands touch his chest, careful for his wounds, saw tears flood her eyes. She should be angry with him—he knew that full well. He had hurt her in the worst way possible and by the most deliberate means he could find. But in her eyes he saw only love; in her touch he felt nothing else. Humility swamped him in a staggering wave. He did not deserve this woman’s heart. But gratitude followed the humility, deep and strong, for he could see he possessed it yet.
His Wicked Highland Ways Page 21
