Chapter Thirteen

“Are you sure you should move Danny so soon?” Jeannie asked as she stepped out into the morning sunlight. Golden radiance flowed over the mountains to the east and, as so often at this time of year, the air quickly warmed.

Just as well, she reflected, for Finnan MacAllister still went but half clad. The sunlight brushed his shoulders as he moved, and defined the muscles of his chest and arms.

Her fingers tingled, and she acknowledged how she wanted to touch him. What had come over her last night, speaking to him as she had in the depth of the darkness, telling him of her past? She so rarely confided in anyone. But something about the moment, or the man, had invited confidences.

She had to admit, Danny looked a bit better. The lad actually sat upright on the back of his horse, pale but able to speak.

As she watched, Finnan reached up and closed the lad’s single hand more firmly about his reins.

“I have no wish to intrude upon you further, Mistress MacWherter,” Finnan told her, and added softly, “You have been kindness itself.”

Aggie slipped out the doorway behind Jeannie and went to Danny’s horse, where she spoke to him.

Finnan stepped to Jeannie’s side and gazed down at her. “Geordie was right about you, it seems. He said you were an angel.”

Among other things, apparently. Jeannie schooled herself to remember the anger Finnan had directed at her when first they met, and not fall victim to the seduction in those half-veiled eyes. He’s changed his mind about you, her traitorous emotions whispered to her. He’s learned better.

She said, “Are you certain you can get safely past Avrie House? Danny will not be able to stand another attack.” She wanted to make it clear her concern was all for the lad and not for him.

“We will take a different route, up along the hillside. Trust that I know every path through this glen.”

“Still, you might be better leaving him here and coming back for him with a guard.” Jeannie looked again to where Aggie now leaned up to Danny’s horse, her hand covering the lad’s.

Finnan said ruefully, “I have no guards. Unlike the Avries, I ha’ no force of hired men. And as I say, I would impose on you no longer.”

Jeannie nodded, unwilling to admit she feared for him. Or how thoughts of him—of his safety, that was—would occupy her mind. She moved to step back, but before she could he reached out and caught her hands in his.

And just like last night beside the fire, when he had stroked his hand through her hair, the shock of it—the pure, searing pleasure—flared through her from where his warm, strong fingers clasped hers. Her gaze flew to his and held, caught like a hare by a hound.

What did she see in his eyes? It was difficult to read his mood at any time, and now the light there held only mystery. Its gleam might be that of desire, or gratitude—or even malice.

Danger, her mind screamed at her a moment before he said, “Thank you, Jeannie MacWherter. You ha’ been most kind.”

He leaned toward her, and her pulse sped unpreventably. His lips found her cheek in a kiss that should have been chaste but instead burned like the touch of hot iron on her soft flesh. Ah, how she felt those lips! The warm, agile texture of them, sending ripples of awareness through her, seemingly carried by her accelerated heartbeat to that place where no man had ever touched her.

She ached to turn her head so her mouth met his, desired it with a deep and sudden hunger she’d never dreamed of feeling. Heart, mind, and body all reached for it, and only shock kept her still.

He straightened, withdrawing all the promised pleasure, and stood there looking at her. The newly risen sun made a halo of his hair, flamed red.

No halves for him, Jeannie warned herself. He is indeed a wicked man. But everything within her wished to experience, in full, his wickedness.

“You will have a care going home,” she said in a voice that sounded nothing like her own. His fingers still held hers captive, and heat still thrummed through her in waves.

“Aye, you may rely upon it. And, Jeannie MacWherter, will I be welcome to call on you again?”

“Certainly, Laird MacAllister. Aggie and I will both be most anxious to learn how Danny gets on.”

He bowed his head toward her again, and she steeled herself for another brush with that impossible pleasure. But he only spoke in her ear. “I did no’ mean that. I would like to call on you, Jeannie, the way a man calls on a woman.”

Shock speared through her again with still more intensity, though she would not have believed she could perceive such shades of difference with all her senses scorched and burned.

Discerning her thoughts, no doubt from her expression, he asked, “Why look so surprised? You are a widow, after all. And I am alone in the world.”

Alone in the world. Something in those words spoke to Jeannie, fell into the deep, empty place in her heart. Not wise, a tiny voice in her mind warned. You know what he is—a wolf before the sheep. And anyone who can affect you so with one chaste touch could wound you very deeply indeed.

Yet he stood there waiting, watching her with those mysterious eyes, irresistible as the summer’s morning.

She attempted to draw her fingers away; his tightened, and a whole new wave of heat beat through her.

“I am sure that is not what Geordie—or the ghost of him—meant when he asked you to look after me.”

“Perhaps not. But grieve for it as I might, Geordie has gone to his rest, while you and I remain.”

Tell him no, advised the small voice again. Send him from your door.

But every other sense argued differently. She remembered him rising from the pool, every part of him naked to her gaze, the overwhelming, wild, and terrifying beauty of him. Might I have that? she asked herself, and the question shocked her still more deeply.

She was a widow, yes—one who had barely felt a man’s touch. She and her husband had never lain together. He had kissed her on the lips—a sweet, whisky-flavored caress that had stirred her pity rather than her desire. Nothing, nothing like this. Was she to grow old alone, die without truly living, without tasting fire?

She lifted her chin and told him with what propriety she could muster, “Yes, Laird MacAllister, you may call on me.”

Oh, and what was that she saw in his eyes? Satisfaction? Victory? Desire? For something flared there that made Jeannie’s stomach flutter in response.

She drew her hand away again, and this time he let her. He made a slight bow that tumbled the wild hair over his shoulders. “Until then, Jeannie MacWherter. Be safe.”

He turned from her, took the bridle of Danny’s horse in his hand, and, leading the other animal behind, moved off. Aggie, a thoughtful look on her face, stepped away. Both women stood watching until the movements of the small party could no longer be seen down the glen.

****

Aye, and this would be easy, Finnan told himself as he moved off and away, his feet padding in whispers on the soft, green turf. Far easier than he had imagined at the outset. He had bedded many women in his time, and he knew full well when he had snagged one’s desire.

Jeannie MacWherter wanted him, and he had not yet even kissed her on the lips. She wanted what she’d seen at the pool, and she wanted his mouth on her, everywhere.

He would be happy to comply—possibly the next time they met. He would, of course, have to get the little maid out of the way. Seduction never worked well with an audience. But he did not doubt he could have Jeannie in broad daylight, right in her cottage—Geordie’s cottage that she had stolen—and in any position he chose.

The thought enflamed him. He pictured Jeannie on her knees before him, her golden tresses in a tangle and her lovely red lips parted in anticipation of what he would give her. He wondered again about the curves beneath that plain gown, how her breasts would look, how they would feel in his hands. But this was not about desire.

It was about revenge.

Of course he had the Avries to deal with first. He glanced over his shoulder at Danny. “All right, lad?”

“I will no’ complain.”

The words pricked Finnan. ’Twas something Geordie had always said, and usually with a touch of dark humor, when things were at their very worst. They might be hungry, wet, and cold, with battle wounds, and nowhere safe to lay their heads, but if he asked his friend how he fared, the response was always the same.

He gave a hard laugh now, grim in its acknowledgement of their situation. Surrounded by enemies once again, and him with paradise to hold and this lad to defend.

Yet the promise of Jeannie MacWherter lay before him.