His Wicked Highland Ways

by Laura Strickland

  “What have they done to you?” she sobbed.

  “Never mind that.” He could scarcely reply, his throat tight with emotion. “Jeannie, forgive me. Forgive me if you can. I know full well I ha’ not earned your forgiveness, just as I never earned your love. Not one thing has happened to me since I left your door that I did not deserve for how I used you. I know it. I know it full well.” He closed his eyes against one single rush of desire, to impart how he loved her. For he knew they had only moments, and those rushing like sand through the fingers of the gods.

  She touched his face, the slightest brush of love, and his heart nearly burst within him. He opened his eyes, and they gazed at one another long.

  Perhaps he did not need to tell her, after all. Perhaps the bond that had formed between them at some point even while he sought to hurt her—magical, unpreventable bond—let her feel everything that lay in his unworthy heart. She deserved better, far better. She deserved someone like Geordie, who understood softness, kindness, and the wisdom of choosing love. But he knew until his last breath she had his heart instead, a ragged, damaged gift, but hers completely.

  She smiled, wobbly and trembling, through her tears. “Tell me I belong to you,” she bade him. “It is all I need to hear.”

  “Like my breath,” he vowed to her, “like my heartbeat. Like everything I am or ever will be.”

  “Then nothing can part us—not hard words or old anger.” Her lips trembled again. “Not death.”

  “By all that is holy, Jeannie, I am sorry I brought this upon you—”

  He got no further because she leaned forward then and covered his mouth with her own.

  And what did he sense in that kiss? Her fear, aye, but also her certainty, and enough love to tear down the walls of this prison.

  He knew then he had received an answer to his night-long prayers, far better than he deserved. He knew that in the midst of hatred, his heart had found peace.

  Her lips left his, touched again very gently, and lingered. Her sweetness lifted and strengthened him. She raised her head once more, and her light flooded upon him.

  “I love you, Finnan MacAllister.”

  “I love you, Jeannie MacWherter. Faith, I did not know what love was until you came into my life.”

  “Well, then.” The light that embraced him strengthened and united them. “I am complete.”

  “Are you?” His lips twisted. “’Twould have been far better, love, had I admitted it before all this trouble came upon us. Where is Danny?”

  The gladness in her eyes dimmed. “Caught, him and Aggie both. We made a bid to rescue you with the Dowager Avrie as captive. We failed.”

  “That blood all over you”—his gaze caressed her, as his hands could not—“it is not your own?”

  “The Dowager’s. We meant to exchange her for your freedom, Finnan. But she sacrificed herself, threw herself against Danny’s blade.” Darkness flickered in Jeannie’s eyes. “How well do you know her, Finnan?”

  “I knew her all my life.”

  “And did you know that she and your grandfather were lovers? That Gregor Avrie was his son, rather than her husband’s?” Jeannie licked her lips fretfully. “I think she may have been behind much of this trouble, Finnan. She believed Gregor entitled to an inheritance; I suspect she drove the men of her family to chase it.”

  Surprise curled through Finnan, battering his already strained emotions. “That means the night he came to Dun Mhor”—the night Finnan’s world had fallen apart—“he slew his own half-brother.” Finnan’s anger stirred again. “And then wed his son to his half-niece.” And he, Finnan, had killed his own half-uncle, upon his return to the glen. Ah, the sorrow that had come from all the twisted desire, greed, and hate!

  And no way out of it, now. But he had to find a way out of it, for the sake of this woman at his side.

  “Jeannie, see if you can free me. We have not much time.” Deirdre’s cruel version of mercy would not extend long.

  “How?” Desperately, she eyed the manacles that bound him. “It needs a key, Finnan.”

  “See can you loosen the pegs from between the stones.” He had worked at just that during the brief intervals he had been alone, between Deirdre’s terrible visits, without success. But now he had much more for which to live.

  Willingly she slid over the cold stone to reach his wrists. He heard the jangle of the chain as she pulled at it. “The hasps are pounded in tight.”

  Aye, and surely Stuart Avrie would never have left Jeannie here if she had a hope of freeing him. He had rarely felt so helpless or, were he honest, so frightened—for Jeannie, if not himself.

  “I ken so, but try,” he urged.

  She did. She grunted and pulled with all her might, using her slender body as leverage. Finnan helped as best he might by pulling at the shackle, and felt the skin at his wrist tear, but to no avail.

  She sat back on her heels and shook her head. Tears choked her voice when she said, “It is tight.”

  Finnan thought desperately. “Do you think you can scale a wall and get out?”

  She tipped her head up and examined the place. The shelving that had once housed books had burned and fallen away from the stone wall; most of the ceiling gaped open.

  “Leave you, you mean?” Her gaze returned to his and locked on. Blood oozed slowly from her scraped cheek, but courage fairly illuminated her. Never had she looked so beautiful. “I will not.”

  “Please, Jeannie, lass. For she will use you to hurt me.” Of all things, he could not bear to witness that.

  “These walls are too high. And they will have men keeping watch outside.”

  Aye, Deirdre would be canny, for she played a game with him. She wanted to see what he would do, whether he would sacrifice himself for Jeannie. He would, in an instant. But if he could not trust Deirdre and her husband, what would that serve?

  “Listen to me, Jeannie. This was my Da’s room, the very place where he received his mortal wound. He always kept weapons about him. There must be something we can use.” He sent his thoughts reaching back over the years. “Go to the fireplace,” he told her, his voice a rasp. “Quickly now, before they come. There is a stone on the right hand—six down from the coat of arms. See?”

  She scrambled up onto her feet, swayed where she stood. She crossed to the far wall, and he lost sight of her. “Where?”

  “There is a loose stone. Draw it out. My father kept a cache of weapons.”

  “I do not see—ah.” He heard her fumble. “It is too hard to pull out, Finnan. I do not think I can.”

  “You must.”

  Did she have strength enough? Not the kind required to move the stone, nay, but to use what she might find within. When they came, would she fight to save herself? He could hope for no more.

  But he understood now what had prompted his mother’s actions on the night his father died. She had sent Finnan off, leaving her beloved daughter behind, because she knew she could go on if at least one of her children remained living. Finnan felt that way for Jeannie, now. So long as she drew breath, saw the sky over her head, beheld beauty…

  “It has come loose,” she said with a new note in her voice. “There are weapons within.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “Tell me all the Dowager Avrie said to you,” Finnan demanded tersely, “before she died.”

  “I already have,” Jeannie replied with false calm. Finnan could hear so much in her voice now—all the emotions that filled her heart, varied as the colors of this glen he loved. He heard fear and longing and determination like iron.

  She sat curled on the stones above his head, working furiously with his father’s dirk to loosen the mortar around the shackle that secured his left wrist to the floor. How much time did they have? Surely Deirdre would not leave them together long, unmolested. She and her husband would soon come. Sweat broke out all over his body at the very thought.

  “Why did she tell this thing to you?”

  Jeannie’s attack
against the mortar never ceased: ding, ding, ding. Would they hear her beyond the scorched doorway?

  “She wanted to destroy my hope they would trade her for you. She wished me to know she believed in her cause—that her son and grandsons claimed full right to this place. She seemed to think the blood gifted the claim.”

  “So it does.” Finnan’s voice wavered in his own ears. Blood was blood, his own father had taught him that. And what value legitimacy? Could he say the heart had no right to choose? His lips twisted. Feuding was an old game in the highlands, but not usually among blood kin.

  Softly, Jeannie went on, “She said your grandfather had promised Gregor a share, but when he died there was no bequest.”

  So the vassals had remained vassals, and ire had soured the old woman’s heart. Finnan could understand that. “Stuart, Trent, and I are cousins,” he mused. “As are Stuart and Deirdre. Aye, well, cousins wed often enough in the highlands.” It explained why Gregor had thrown off the bonds of loyalty, so many centuries strong.

  He found it difficult but not impossible to imagine the Dowager capable of the kind of passion he and Jeannie shared. Yet if he had learned anything these many days past, he had learned that love came as it would, and could not be gainsaid.

  He looked at the woman huddled on the floor and felt his heart struggle within his breast. Whatever happened to them—however terrible—he knew at least the love would endure.

  Upon the thought, he heard the sound he had been dreading all the while, that of approaching footsteps.

  “Jeannie, Jeannie, they come.” He implored, “Kiss me one last time.”

  She complied and bent to him, her lips warm and tender.

  “And,” he pressed then, “promise to follow as I lead.”

  “That, my love, I can pledge to do—always.”

  ****

  Jeannie’s heart beat in sickening thuds as she heard her captors approach. How long had she and Finnan been here together? She could only guess, but the sun had moved over to the west, creating a pool of shadows on one side of the room. She secreted the dirk in her waistband at the small of her back and shoved the second weapon she had taken from the hidey hole—a longer, bone-handled knife—up her sleeve. Then she stumbled to her feet and backed away from Finnan.

  She could barely look at him, for the wounds he bore. Wrists and ankles seeped blood where he had fought the shackles. The older wounds at his shoulder and down his arm had broken open, and many new cuts had been laid.

  At the same time, she could not keep her gaze from him. For she knew each glance might be her last.

  He loved her. Her laboring heart struggled and bounded in her breast. One miracle, at least, had occurred: the hatred he felt for her on Geordie’s behalf had transmuted into this unbreakable bond. Might they not expect yet another such miracle?

  The scorched and flame-darkened door opened, and Jeannie prepared herself for what she expected to see: both Avrie brothers and a troop of their men, set on murder. But she saw only Deirdre Avrie with a knife in her hand.

  Tall and straight as a spear, Deirdre moved into the room and closed the door behind her.

  “Well, Brother? Have you decided how you will die?”

  Finnan reared up and met his sister’s gaze. “Have you come to kill me by your own hand? Is your hatred so very bright?”

  Deirdre had no chance to answer. The door opened again, and Stuart Avrie stepped in. He, too, came armed, still wearing his sword and, no doubt, with a dirk secreted somewhere about him. His face wore an expression of cautious consternation.

  “Wife…” he began.

  Deirdre shook her head as if she knew already what he meant to say.

  “There has been pain enough,” he told her. “Let it be done.”

  She answered, without ever taking her gaze from her brother, “Aye, so it will be, this day. But first he will suffer. I want him to choose. He must make an impossible choice, even as I did.”

  Stuart Avrie drew a breath, and his gaze moved over her, considering. “We are so close to having all we ha’ ever wanted.”

  She did turn her head then and look at him. “All you ha’ ever wanted,” she corrected. “Take the glen, Husband. I want only his heart.”

  Abruptly she switched her gaze to Jeannie, who felt its touch like the bite of cold iron. “Only, I think it no longer lies within his body.”

  The breath scraped in Finnan’s throat as he drew a ragged breath. “Let her go,” he said. “She has no part in this.”

  “Oh, but I think she does.” Deirdre’s smile looked sharp as the blade in her hand. “Hard to believe my brother could care for anyone—actually experience love—and feel it true. But I suspect ’tis so. He will do anything to save her, Husband. He will seek to save her, as he never did me.”

  Finnan did not attempt to argue it, merely stared at his sister in mute agony. His chest rose in another convulsive breath. “Only let her go, and I will do anything you ask, die any way you choose.”

  “Och, you will do whatever I ask, Brother. Remember how it was when I entertained you with my blade all last night? How much better if I give her the same treatment? Cut her face, so ’tis not so pretty. Slice through that white flesh.”

  “Deirdre,” Stuart said, an objection, and she rounded on him, displaying sudden fury.

  “You shall not deny me this! Call your brother—the two of you will hold her down while I let her blood. See what he offers us then.”

  “I offer it now!” Finnan bellowed. “You want my signature on some paper? Bring it. You want my heart bleeding on this floor, Deirdre? Take it. But first you will set her free.”

  Jeannie’s emotions rose like a wild conflagration, like unstoppable flame, and she turned her gaze on the man who arched against the stones. All the strength and loyalty ever he had harbored, and for the sake of which he had fought, was now hers alone. He gifted it to her on the strength of his love, far more than she had ever hoped to gain. Ten years had he battled, so hard had he struggled. This glen meant all to him, yet he laid it—and his life—at her feet.

  “Get your paper,” Deirdre told her husband. “Call your brother.”

  “We will no’ need Trent to finish this.” Stuart drew a paper from inside his vest. Carefully, he circled Finnan as he might a maddened dog on a chain.

  “Let her go first,” Finnan said again. He did not so much as glance at Jeannie, but nodded at the sheet in Stuart’s hand. “And you will need to unbind me if you want my hand on that.”

  “You will give over all ownership of the glen?” Stuart pressed. “You surrender it to me and mine?”

  “So long as you guarantee Mistress MacWherter’s safety.”

  Stuart grunted and slanted a look at his wife. She said nothing, but avid light filled her eyes.

  Jeannie had seen Finnan harbor that same light, and fear twisted her gut.

  “No,” she said, only that, but it snared Deirdre’s attention. The woman clutched the knife—the same with which she had cut her brother?—and circled behind Jeannie.

  “Go ahead, Husband, unfasten his right hand—bring the ink and let him sign. If he makes one wrong move, she will die.”

  For answer, Stuart dug into the pouch at his belt and produced pen and ink. He fumbled with those and the sheet of paper, laid them all at Finnan’s shoulder. Then he caught up a key that hung on a chain round his neck—that to the shackles, as Jeannie saw.

  Her poor, beleaguered heart rose. Dared she hope they might escape this with their lives? Once Avrie had his paper, surely there remained no reason to kill them. He would have full claim to the glen. Yet she could feel Deirdre close behind her, bristling with menace.

  Stuart went down on one knee and used the key on the iron at Finnan’s right wrist. As soon as it came free, Finnan gave a mighty bellow—Jeannie’s name—and heaved his body upward.

  All his remaining strength lay in the movement, and it tore the shackle on his other wrist—that on which Jeannie had worked so diligently—
from the ancient mortar between the stones. As he rose he swung the chain, still attached to the shackle, in a wide arc that took Stuart Avrie in the side of his face. At the same moment, Jeannie leaped forward out of Deirdre’s reach.

  “Finnan!” she cried, drew the long knife from her sleeve, and placed it in his waiting hand.

  That left her unarmed save for the dirk at the small of her back. She spun to face Deirdre, already looming above her, knife at the ready, and a wild look in her eyes.

  All her life Jeannie had lived a civilized existence. The most vicious aspects of Dumfries were its gossip and alehouses; her greatest fears had been want and uncertainty. Now she faced danger at its most primal in the form of Deirdre Avrie with a stained blade in her hand.

  Would she rise or fall? Stand or flee? Jeannie spared a thought, if not a glance, for the man on the floor behind her who, from the sound of it, was engaged in a battle of his own. Then she looked deep inside herself. She drew the dirk from her back and leaped at Deirdre Avrie.

  Chapter Forty

  Finnan ached to know what happened behind him. He could hear that his sister and Jeannie confronted one another, and he knew Deirdre had that wicked, sharp knife in her hands. But he dared not steal so much as a glance over his shoulder, for he found himself in an unholy, unequal battle of his own.

  Stuart Avrie had no time to draw his sword or call for his guards once Jeannie passed the long knife into Finnan’s grasp. But Stuart, looming over Finnan, had the power of superior position. And Finnan, in a weakened condition and with his ankles still shackled, could not rise to fight.

  If he did not overcome Stuart swiftly, Jeannie might well die.

  That thought gave him strength. He looped the chain that dangled from his wrist around Stuart’s neck and pulled rather than thrust away. Stuart, his face already bloody where the end of the chain had caught him, fell atop Finnan, his weight a crushing blow, and they thrashed together like wrestlers. Finnan grunted, desperate to find room enough to employ the knife.