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.

Stuart, fit and strong, drove his head into Finnan’s chest. Finnan fell back, and his skull hit the stones of the floor. For an instant, blackness swam behind his vision. The sounds behind him—unseen and terrifying—gave him the impetus he needed to tighten the chain around Stuart’s throat and press the point of the knife beneath the man’s ear.

“Call off your wife,” he grated. “Call her off, or you die.”

Stuart stared into Finnan’s eyes, and Finnan experienced a thrill of recognition. Many long years had hatred ruled his life, the need to avenge his father and regain ownership of this beloved place. It had formed and perhaps even warped the man he was. But now he knew Stuart for kin, and to his own surprise did not want to let his blood.

“Deirdre!” Stuart hollered.

But the ugly sounds of two women struggling failed to cease.

****

Jeannie’s skin stung in half a score of places where Deirdre had slapped, clawed, or caught her with the edge of her blade. Facing Finnan’s sister felt like being snared by one of the sudden, violent highland storms from which there was no escape. Jeannie knew herself badly overmatched; she had not the nature nor the recklessness needed to prevail. Her small dirk seemed inadequate against the longer blade in Deirdre’s hand, and fear for Finnan drove her, rather than hatred such as her opponent held.

Hatred and madness.

For she did not doubt she faced a madwoman. And she knew, too, that the rational, civilized woman from Dumfries did not lie far beneath her own surface.

She whirled and tried to stay out of Deirdre’s reach as the blade struck out again. Her skirts tangled about her legs, and she very nearly stumbled. She knew without doubt if she fell she would die.

“Deirdre!” Stuart Avrie bellowed. Deirdre’s only response was a flicker of her eyes. She never looked away from Jeannie.

How long could Jeannie last? She asked herself the question. How long before the others in the house—Trent Avrie, the guards and hirelings—heard the sounds of confrontation and came running?

She turned again, foundering, as Deirdre lunged, stepped back, and barely caught herself. A terrible smile spread across Deirdre’s face, and the light in her eyes intensified.

She thought she had won.

“Deirdre!” This time Finnan called out. “Look at your husband. I ha’ finished it!”

Deirdre spun, the stained blade held before her. Jeannie allowed herself to look at Finnan for the first time.

Ankles still shackled to the floor, he crouched above the body of Stuart Avrie.

Deirdre gave a cry; the dreadful, stained blade dropped from her hand. She fell to the floor and then crawled across the stones—much as Jeannie had earlier—to her husband. When she reached him, she covered his body with her own and went as still as he.

She loves him after all, Jeannie thought in amazement. Despite how she had come to be his wife, despite the supposed hatred and desire for revenge that existed between them, they had bonded on some deep level.

She is not so different from me.

Jeannie raised her eyes to the face of the man she loved—her heart, her reason for drawing breath. Emotions shadowed and brightened his features as he looked at his sister, not the least of them tenderness.

“Here, Deirdre.” He reached out torn and bloody hands to capture his sister and lift her head. “He is no’ dead. Do you hear me? No’ dead—you have him yet. Deirdre, lass, let this madness be done. I am sorry for all you ha’ suffered and all I did not do to save you. But in the midst of it you have found your heart.” He glanced at Jeannie. “As have I.”

Deirdre said nothing. She turned her eyes back to her husband, marked his closed eyes, the blood on his face, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

“Lass,” Finnan said, “we are all of one blood, and there is enough room here for each of us. Forgive me?”