Page 17 of His Wicked Highland Ways

Outside the cottage a cock crowed, heralding morning. Jeannie heard it like a woman emerging from a dream, or more correctly one freeing herself from enchantment. For Finnan MacAllister had surely woven a potent spell.

She contemplated it, not sure she believed in dark magic. As a girl, she had attended the kirk, expecting it to afford her some comfort and peace. It never had, because the minister spoke only of ruination, sin, and sacrifice.

Ruination and sacrifice she had found in her own home. Sin, it seemed, found her only now.

Would it be such a sin to haul Finnan MacAllister away into her bedroom? To peel the clothing from that beautiful body of his, divest him of the rough, woolen kilt, and have him all for her own?

Unquestionably.

And she cared for her immortal soul, did she not? Of course she did. Well, perhaps.

He still held her pinioned against him, one arm hard across her back. His other hand remained thrust inside her bodice. Sweet heaven, how could she have let that happen? She looked down at her own body and saw his long fingers cupping her breast. A new, potent wave of desire assailed her.

But she was a sane, rational woman, and the cockerel had called her to herself. She released Finnan’s wrist and fought her way free.

Her dress, disconcertingly, gaped open. When had he untied the front of it? The shawl she had been wearing lay in a heap on the floor. The sheer impropriety of it brought heat over her in a rush.

Looking up, she encountered his gaze: bright with danger, hot as fire, and yet guarded. What did she see there besides admiration? Ah, but he liked what he had seen of her, and what he had felt. Triumph flared through her again.

She took another decisive step backward, out of his reach this time. “Laird MacAllister, I do not know what came over me,” she began.

“Or me.” He bent and caught up her shawl from the floor, offered it to her. When she took it, her fingers brushed his, and she recoiled as if burned, and clutched the woolen fabric to her bosom.

Earnestly, he asked, “Can you forgive me? I have no excuse save for your beauty, and the fact that I have been alone—far too alone—a long while.”

Jeannie, her thoughts scattered, did not know how to reply. The cottage seemed suddenly too small to contain both of them. She wanted to run out the door into the dawn.

Yet the remnants of his magical spell held her, and she knew, disconcertingly, if he snapped his fingers she would be in his arms again. She turned and fled to the only place she could, her bedroom. No door but only a curtain separated it from the other room. It seemed a woefully inadequate barrier now.

Outside the single window, gray light gathered, the half radiance that filled the glen at dawn. Her cockerel crowed again, and she blessed him. What would have happened but for his cry? Might she and Finnan MacAllister both be in this room by now?

She eyed the bed and wrapped her arms tight about herself. She had heard about the act from women she knew, not the least Aggie, led astray in Dumfries by a young doorman at a neighboring house, who had soon abandoned her. It could be awkward, uncomfortable, even painful.

With Finnan MacAllister, Jeannie believed, it would be none of those things.

She had to regather her sanity, needed to go back out there and act the mistress of this place. He was just a man. One with a magical touch, a hard, beautiful body, and delicious lips. Mating with him would be like mating with liquid fire. Taking him into her mouth…

She stopped herself there and tried to think of something—anything—that would dampen her imagination. Surprisingly, an image of Geordie MacWherter flickered to life in her mind—Geordie, with his wide, sorrowful gaze and the well of deep sadness he seemed to carry around with him.

Ironic, that the memory of her husband should now deliver her from temptation. Hastily, she straightened her clothing and bundled her hair into a respectable knot. Before she finished, she heard voices from beyond the curtain—that of Finnan MacAllister, which now seemed to have become rooted in her soul, or perhaps a bit lower down, and Aggie’s lighter tones. She pushed her way back through the curtain. Aggie bent over Danny’s makeshift bed, her hand on his forehead, and exclaimed in concern.

Finnan MacAllister—but no, she would not look at him.

“He is burning up,” Aggie said, “and will not wake.”

Jeannie swept forward to examine the lad. Two flags of bright color flew in his cheeks, and he tossed, restless.

“Go and dress yourself,” she told Aggie more brusquely than she intended. “It is not proper for you to appear in your nightclothes.”

Did she hear a faint snort from Finnan MacAllister’s direction? Still, she would not look his way.

“I did not know they were here,” Aggie began, in defense of herself.

“Just go.”

Foolish, for it left Jeannie alone with Finnan again, the last thing she wanted.

“Danny seems very ill indeed,” she said. “Have you dressed the wound?”

“I was just about to, when your maid appeared.” Finnan approached, and Jeannie’s entire body went on alert. She had never suspected she could quiver with awareness. Hastily, she stepped away.

“Jeannie,” he said, and the sound shivered through her. “Jeannie, will you not look at me?”

She would have fled once more, but his fingers snared her wrist. She shied from the immediate rush of pleasure.

“I am that sorry,” he told her in a low voice. “I have made things uncomfortable between us.”

It had not been all his doing, the kisses, the touching—she knew that very well. Yet she said, “You have made things impossible between us. You will have to leave.” Because now she could not trust herself near him.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Just as soon as I can move the lad.”

And when might that be? Danny had arrived on his feet last night but did not look capable of standing on them now.

Aggie came clattering back down from the loft and tied her apron around her waist.

“Please heat some water so Laird MacAllister can tend Danny’s wound, and then make some porridge,” Jeannie bade her.

Aggie nodded and leaned in close to Jeannie. “Have you told him those men were here yesterday afternoon?”

“I have. He will be leaving as soon as possible.”

Aggie did not look happy, but she went about her duties without further comment. Finnan MacAllister stepped away as she gathered a basin and bandages—further inroads on Jeannie’s best sheet. She wondered what thoughts occupied his mind and then cursed herself for caring. Last night had been a rush of madness, now over and done.

Yet when he began peeling the bandages from Danny’s wound, she followed the gentle movements of his fingers, all too aware of the way the thick auburn hair spilled down the back of his neck. She had touched that hair, tangled her fingers in it. She had been cupped by that hand, had pressed herself against that lithe body.

By heaven, was this a disease that afflicted her?

Danny stirred when the bandage came away, tossed his head restlessly, and moaned.

Jeannie bit her lip; the wound looked angry, the flesh red and puffy around the stitches.

“Inflamed,” she whispered.

“Aye, it looks bad,” MacAllister agreed. “But he has been through far worse.”

“What if the Dowager Avrie’s grandsons come back?” asked Aggie, from the hearth. Aggie had never been the sort of servant to speak only when spoken to.

“Surely they will not,” MacAllister replied, “if they ha’ already been here looking. They have no reason to believe you in league with me, have they?”

“None besides the fact that you once owned this property,” Jeannie said.

He looked at her, and his gaze skittered over her body, from her lips downward. “Still, that does not lead them to think you would protect me.” He corrected softly, “Or, us.” He turned his attention back to Danny. “By any road, we will be gone before you know it. Have you any herbs in the house? Yarrow or comfrey? This wound needs to be packed.”

Jeannie shook her head. “I have never needed to grow my own cures; there were plenty apothecaries in Dumfries.”

“This glen is my apothecary. I need to go out and search.”

Into that gray dawn? Jeannie glanced toward the door even as all her instincts rose in protest. “But…”

“Just for a wee while; I promise I will come back for him.”

“Is it safe?” she asked, without intention. Finnan MacAllister was not hers over whom to worry. And he could quite plainly look after himself.

“They may be watching the cottage,” Aggie added, proving she, too, felt protective.

“Just try and keep him quiet until I return.” Finnan moved to the door in that soundless way he had.

Let him go, Jeannie’s common sense told her, and pray he does not return. Better if he walked straight out of her life.

But he gave her a smile before he slipped out the door, and she felt its effect all through her body, down to her toes.

By heaven, what had come over her? She raised both hands to cheeks as flushed as Danny’s.

“Mistress, are you ill?” Aggie inquired.

“Yes. No. We find ourselves in a perilous situation, Aggie.”

“Yes, mistress. But we cannot turn our backs on them, can we? Not with this poor lad so sore hurt.”

Jeannie very much feared she would not be able to turn her back on Finnan MacAllister, not for any reason.