Chapter Twenty-Seven

Breath came hot and painful in Finnan MacAllister’s lungs, and he wondered with pitiless honesty how much farther he could run. He had been over the glen like a hart since leaving Jeannie MacWherter’s door—a hart well-hunted. Now night gathered over the mountains to the east, and he could not imagine where he would find the strength to go on. Hunted on his own lands, but not defeated—not just yet.

His left arm hurt like fire and would be damn near useless in another fight. His sword—already well-wetted with blood in not one but two encounters—had barely been out of his right hand. He ached for food and rest.

He ached for Jeannie MacWherter.

A wonder he could spare a thought for the woman, in his present straits, yet his mind returned to her again and again. He remembered the feel of her silken tongue gliding over his skin and the heat of it when she accepted him. She was like a fever in his blood.

But he did not see how he would get back to her cottage this night. Certainly he could not lead the hounds that pursued him there, if only for Danny’s sake.

For Jeannie’s sake.

He watched a line of torches, held by men on horseback, go by below him, and his tension eased a bit. He bent to a rivulet, a mere trickle of sound in the descending dark, and drank his fill. That answered one need. He eased down beneath a tree and, for the first time in hours, laid his sword aside.

Free, for the moment. Free to think on Jeannie.

What was it about the woman? Aye, well, he knew fine what it was—not only beautiful, with that air of impossible innocence, but she tasted like heaven on his tongue. No wonder Geordie had tortured himself over her.

Nay, but he had to keep his eye on the truth: ’twas she who had tortured Geordie.

He remembered again the way she had felt when he slid into her for the first time, searing with heat and so tight. And the way she had moved beneath him last night, in breathless invitation.

He shifted where he crouched, in an effort to ease the sudden tightness in his groin. Oh, aye, he wanted her again, would have her again. But probably not tonight.

And when he had her, he promised himself—when next he splayed her hot and quivering beneath him—would he break her heart then? Would he have his pleasure and then his revenge?

“All for you, Geordie,” he whispered into the darkness, and knew he lied.

****

Finnan MacAllister failed to come and collect his man when the dark descended like a deep blue curtain over the glen, even though Jeannie, Danny, and Aggie sat up talking long into the night. At last Danny fell into a fitful doze, and Aggie retired to the loft, but Jeannie dared not take to her bed.

She knew the scent of Finnan MacAllister remained there, along with his essence. She supposed she might strip herself naked, crawl among those blankets, and revel in memories. But she felt far too restless.

When the cottage lay quiet, she stepped outside and into the beautiful night. Stars spread overhead like bright clusters of jewels, or the eyes of pagan gods. A clear night, and not the best to be abroad and hunted. She stood silent, with her breath held, but heard nothing. No shadow stirred, approached, or transformed itself into Finnan MacAllister, and she trailed back inside, disconsolate.

By dawn, her desire had reached fever pitch, but he did not come then either. Danny was up by first light, moving under his own power and seeming as restless as Jeannie. She watched Aggie fuss over him, watched them converse together with their heads close.

She dissuaded the lad when he said he wished to leave.

“Laird MacAllister promised he would come and collect you. He will do so when he thinks it safe.”

Twice before noon they heard and glimpsed mounted parties that rode by and splashed through the ford that lay not far off, and Danny hid in the loft. But the horsemen did not stop at the cottage, and at last, in mid afternoon, Danny fell into a doze, with Aggie nodding beside him.

Jeannie, unable to quell her uneasiness, went out into her garden. Here the warm sun found her, and she told herself digging in the dirt would bring a measure of calm. But the surrounding quiet called on the sleep she had missed the past two nights, and she was more than half asleep when the first pebble landed beside her.

And from whence had that come? She raised her eyes to search for a source, and a second pebble joined the first, just beside her knee.

The third gave her a direction—a lone pine just up the slope from her garden wall. And did her eyes catch a hint of movement there?

Abandoning her hand trowel, she got to her feet. Her heart began to pound double time. She narrowed her eyes against the glare of sunlight and saw—

A flicker of well-known plaid: MacAllister tartan.

She allowed her gaze to sweep the immediate vicinity, searching out danger. Then she gathered her skirts, climbed the wall, and went up the slope, keeping her eyes down as if searching for herbs. Through the coarse grass she swept, and the bracken, and beneath the branches of the pine.

And there he stood, whole and breathing—the answer to all her prayers.

Oh, and he might as well be the spirit of the place, his hair the color of the tree bark behind him, his eyes full of reflected sunlight, far more handsome even than she had remembered.

And she had remembered him generously.

“Whisht,” he said at once. “Speak softly; sound carries far too well.”

She nodded, her throat tight with desire.

He reached out and drew her closer beneath the branches of the tree, his hand warm on her bare arm. His gaze moved all over her, like fingers in the dark.

“How fares Danny? I did not dare come last night and risk leading the hounds to you.”

“He is much better.” Somehow Jeannie drew her gaze from his lips. “Sleeping now, but he was up earlier and clear in his mind.” She barely breathed the words.

“Good. Keep him for me until nightfall, if you will. We will away then.”

“And, between now and nightfall?” Jeannie stepped still nearer to him, close enough that she could catch the wild, dusky smell of sunshine and pure male. His hand still grasped her arm, and her breath came more quickly.

“You must go back down and pretend I am not here.”

“No.”

“No?” He quirked an eyebrow and parted his lips, no doubt to protest. Jeannie did not give him the chance. She rose on tiptoe and covered his open mouth with hers.

Ah, bliss! The taste of him flooded upon her and promptly seduced all her senses. She had been craving just this, with every heartbeat.

This, and far more.

She raised her hands and pressed them against his chest even as she consumed him with her mouth. She wanted to draw his soul from him, possess it, own it—own him. Could such a man, so wild and wicked, be owned?

After a stunned moment, he began to participate in the kiss with enthusiasm. His tongue swept Jeannie’s mouth, trailing heat, in blatant domination. Jeannie’s knees promptly wobbled, and she tumbled forward against him.

The kiss ended on a ragged gasp, and she gazed up into his eyes. What did she see there? Desire, yes—raw hunger that matched hers. And something more, far harder to identify.

It occurred to her, the thought bright and terrifying: if she did not turn around now and go back down the hill it might be she who lost her soul.

God help her, she did not care.

“Let me stay,” she whispered, begged.

The dark, unnamed emotion in his eyes flared. Just so must the devil look, she thought, when he drove a bargain. But Finnan said only, “Nay, Jeannie, ’tis not safe. Should we be caught up here—”

Without so much as a glance behind her, she told him, “You can see for miles.”

His hands steadied her, restrained her. “And do you suppose I could spare an instant to keep watch, if I had you naked in my arms?”

For answer she took a step away from him, but only so she might raise her hands to her bodice. She saw a great breath expand his chest when she began to unlace the fabric there, but he did not move or reach for her.

She kicked off her shoes next and then took the pins from her hair one by one even as he had that other night, and scattered them on the ground.

If this keeps up I will not have a pin to my name, she thought. Please God it keeps up.

“Jeannie,” he said when she unfastened the ties on her skirt and let it fall about her ankles—only that. The warm summer air found her flesh even as she revealed it to him a bit at a time—feet, legs, and, as the loosened blouse came off, breasts.

And then she stood shameless before him—trembling with eagerness, wanton. Free.

“Now you,” she whispered. “I want to see all of you.”

The only part of him that had responded so far stood beneath his kilt—that, along with his ragged breathing, he could not hide. He remained unmoving as a stone when she unlaced his sark and pushed her hands inside to meet warm, supple skin. She dragged her palms ever downward until they encountered him through the rough wool.

He jerked to life then, seized her with hands less than gentle. “You are a witch, Jeannie MacWherter.”

She wished she were. She would weave a spell over him, make him remain always with her to do her bidding.

Perhaps she still could.

With a small smile, her eyes never leaving his, she fell to her knees.

****

Finnan struggled from the great depths of passion and tried without success to reach for his sanity. Overhead, through the branches of the pine beneath which they lay, sunlight glinted and dazzled his eyes. A thought teased at him as from a great distance—there existed some danger, and he should keep watch.

But Jeannie MacWherter, warm and completely naked, lay in his arms, and he could spare little attention for aught else. His entire body still quivered from the sensation of her mouth on him, hot and eager, so eager. He wanted it again, wanted her again, wanted nothing else.

She stirred against him, and he responded like a man in the throes of torture to a hint of pain. So aware was he of everything about her now, even her breathing felt erotic.

She laughed softly, and he nearly convulsed.

“What?” He tangled his fingers in her glorious hair and drew her head back so he could gaze into her eyes. They smiled at him. By all the holy gods, a man could lose himself in those eyes.

The corners of her luscious mouth quirked. Och, that mouth!

“It is a dragon,” she pronounced.

“What is?”

Bold and shameless, she held his gaze. “The tattoo that decorates your manhood. I confess, from first I saw you, I wondered.”

“Ah, that.”

“Did it not hurt?” She planted a small kiss at the corner of his mouth as if to assuage any lingering pain.

“I do no’ recall. I was drunk at the time.” He reflected with what remnants of his mind she had left him, “It did smart a bit the next day.”

“Poor dragon.” She ran her hands down his body and captured him. He came up between her fingers again like a raised sword.

“I told you I wished to see you,” she whispered while her hands did magical things. “All of you.”

“Ah.” The capacity for thought fled him. There existed only the softness of her breasts, the heat of her hands, and the blue of her eyes. He must keep sight of his goal here, though—remember that he meant to trifle with her heart.

“Why a dragon?” she persisted. “And did you need to be upstanding while it was put on?”

Perhaps. The tattoo artist, down near Falkirk, had been a lass, and not ill-favored. “A dragon is powerful magic,” he told her.

“As are you.”

He kissed her deeply, and she continued to massage him all the while. She broke the kiss and slid over his body to straddle him.

“Tell me about this one.” She touched his shoulder. “And this, and this.” Touch, touch, like sparks of fire.

“Why?”

“Because they are beautiful, and I want to taste them all.”

He growled, seized her hips, and positioned her where he wanted her. “Later.”

“Now.”

A battle of wills, was it? He smiled to himself. He had begun to learn of this woman; she would not be able to hold out long against him.

She bent forward and ran her tongue across his taut stomach. “Tell me of this one.”

“Victory tattoo got after a battle.”

“And this?” She moved to his right bicep, her hair trailing across his skin.

“Got that after I saved the life of a chief. I was in his hire—” He caught his breath. She had moved lower, far lower. He tangled his hands in her hair. “Ah—”

“And this?” The top of his left thigh, very nearly where he wanted her. He struggled to recall the marking there, and failed.

“And this?” Not waiting for an answer, she skittered her lips and tongue upward until they reached the skin above his heart.

He froze. “I told you of that one.” Geordie—the intertwined hounds they both shared, the brand of their sworn loyalty.

How could he have forgotten?

Her blue eyes swam back into his range of vision. Aye, beautiful she was—the witch.

“What is it?” she asked in a whisper. “What troubles you?”

“You must return below. Gather your clothing and go.”

“But we are not finished.”

“We are.”

“Most assuredly, my laird, we are not.”

Anger raced through him, combining with the passion he could not deny. He had a cruel and sharp tongue when in a temper, but he held it now. He would not spoil all the work—glorious work!—he had done.

How far could he push her? How much could he make her want him before he broke her in his hands?

He allowed himself another, small smile. By faith, he was indeed a wicked man.

“And,” she wondered, “what does that expression mean? An instant ago you looked ready to throttle me.”

Could she read him so well? “I think only of your safety, Jeannie, and that you should not linger here and so risk yourself.”

“At this moment,” she confessed, “I care little for risk.” She leaned up and whispered against his lips, “I want to stay.”

“Then best to ask me prettily,” he bade her.

And she did.