Page 28 of His Wicked Highland Ways

“My son is dead.” The Dowager Avrie spoke the words in a stark, level voice that nevertheless betrayed her pain. “Have you any idea how that feels? As a woman—a widow who has lost her husband—you should.”

Jeannie carefully set down her tea cup and looked at her hostess uncertainly. The old woman must have been beautiful once. Her white hair, piled atop her head, still showed a few threads of red, and her blue eyes remained bright. But her skin had become pale and translucent as old paper, and the severity of her expression chased from her any real attractiveness. Upright as an iron rod in her chair, she betrayed no hint of actual compassion toward her guest.

Jeannie struggled to decide how to respond. A messenger had brought the invitation—or should it more rightfully be called a summons?—this morning, that the Dowager Avrie wished to entertain Jeannie MacWherter for tea. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Jeannie had come.

Now she strove to compose herself and said, “I am so sorry for your bereavement, Lady Avrie.”

“My son Gregor was a good man, an extraordinary man, one in a thousand. He did not deserve to be foully murdered.”

And what of Finnan MacAllister’s father? Jeannie wondered as she strove to keep her own face expressionless. Had he deserved to be cut down, his family shattered and his son driven out, all to satisfy another man’s greed? Revenge, as she knew, was an old game in the highlands—tit for tat, cow for cow, head for head, even woman for woman. But the situation in the glen now went far past tit for tat.

“Fortunately,” the Dowager continued with a touch of savage pride, “my grandsons have returned to set things right.”

And what of this woman’s daughter-in-law, Jeannie wondered, the mother of those sons? A woman did not achieve the title of Dowager Lady unless there existed a Lady Avrie. But Jeannie saw no evidence of her here or anywhere.

“Forgive me,” she said, investing her voice with a full measure of curiosity. “What has this to do with me?”

The Dowager Avrie swept her with a cold stare. “This monster my grandsons hunt was friend to your late husband, was he not? A close friend. ’Tis why you are in possession of Rowan Cottage.”

“Well, yes.”

The Dowager’s chin lifted a notch. “I brought you here to request your cooperation—woman to woman—and your assurance that you will do nothing to aid this vile murderer, despite that relationship.”

Alarm raced through Jeannie like liquid fire. How was she to convince this old woman with the sharp eyes of a blatant lie? For she knew to her soul she would do anything to protect Finnan—throw herself to a pack of wolves, if necessary.

Back in Dumfries, she had learned to lie. Once an honest, truthful girl, she had been forced to grow into a duplicitous woman who assured her father his acquaintances from the tavern had not called for him and, indeed, that establishment was closed today. Surely she could deceive one old woman?

“I do assure you, Lady Avrie, though my husband was associated with Finnan MacAllister years ago, that was long before my husband and I met. I have absolutely no acquaintance with the man . ” His tongue, sliding over her flesh, his fingers invading her, his body claiming hers in an act of flagrant completeness… “Your grandsons have already impressed upon me how dangerous he is. I want only to keep out of what sounds a dangerous situation.”

“It is most important you offer him no succor, give him no aid of any kind. My grandsons have him well trapped and are watching his every move, tightening their net around him.”

Jeannie’s heart began to struggle in her breast. Was it so? Did they, then, know that she and Finnan had been together? Did this old woman play at a game of her own? Jeannie would not put it past her.

Danny had left her cottage early this morning, slipped out into the mist to join his master, and much recovered. Had his departure been observed?

“And,” she asked, knowing she should not, “what will your sons do with this villain once they catch him?” It should be of no concern to her; she would do much better demonstrating indifference. But to save her life she could not manage that.

The Dowager Avrie’s eyes gleamed. “He shall be treated as he deserves.”

Jeannie trembled and strove mightily to conceal it. “You will call the magistrates? Cause him to stand trial?”

The Dowager gave a thin smile. “That is not the way things are done here in the highlands. We make our own justice.”

“So you mean to kill him.” Jeannie had no idea now what showed in her face. With panic beating at her, she scarcely cared.

“How, Mistress MacWherter, would you deal with a savage dog? Would you have it stand trial, or would you make sure it will never harm anyone else?”

“Even a dog deserves its life. And we speak not of a dog but a man.”

“That is where you are mistaken. Finnan MacAllister is nothing more than a mercenary, a turncoat. Does he deserve to breathe the air of this blessed glen?”

And, Jeannie thought indignantly, who had driven Finnan MacAllister to the life of a mercenary? Who had forced him from his ancestral lands?

“A man,” she said carefully, “will do as he must to survive.”

The Dowager gave her a long look. “You have a woman’s heart, soft and sympathetic,” she observed then with no hint of kindness, “and so easily deceived. Do not be mistaken in the nature of this particular man, Mistress MacWherter. We speak of a dangerous felon who needs to be put down as swiftly as possible. Indeed, I thought to bring you here today and offer you our protection.”

“Protection?” Jeannie faltered.

“Aye, so. He is capable of occupying your house if he goes to ground, of murdering you and your lass, or worse.” The old woman’s eyes gleamed precisely as if she could see Finnan’s handprints all over Jeannie’s skin. Heat flooded her. Did the Dowager know the truth?

“May I suggest,” the Dowager went on, “you allow my sons to station a number of their men on your property? That way, if MacAllister does attempt to use you, they may intercept him before any harm is done.”

“That will not happen,” Jeannie said. “He will not approach me. As you say, he knew my husband, not me.”

“He will still consider that property his, no matter he deeded it to your husband under law. What is law to such a man?” The Dowager Avrie leaned forward in her chair and fixed Jeannie with a still more demanding stare. “I urge you, place yourself under our protection.”

A reasonable enough offer, Jeannie thought, given the situation here in the glen. And what excuse might she give for failing to accept it?

She twisted her fingers tightly in her lap. “I do appreciate your concern, Lady Avrie. But I am an independent woman and have been for some time, comfortable looking after myself.”

The Dowager Avrie did not so much as blink. “I am afraid I shall have to insist. I will send two of my grandsons’ men to accompany you home. They will remain and stand guard on the road to your cottage, and watch the ford, as well.”

Jeannie’s heart faltered in her breast even as she fought to keep from revealing the extent of her dismay. No, and no. How could Finnan return to her then?

How could she go on living if he did not?

Surely the Avries had seen something that made them suspect her.

A tight smile curled one corner of the Dowager’s mouth. “I assure you, my dear, it will only be until the blackguard is caught and dealt with.”

“I see.”

“And then life here in the glen will return to normal. We will rebuild Dun Mhor and take up a peaceful existence there. You will be most welcome to stay in the glen. Though the rest of that traitor’s lands will be forfeit, we will gladly leave Rowan Cottage in your possession.”

Jeannie fought an inner battle to hold back the words she wished to say, and failed. “How can that be? You do not hold ownership of Dun Mhor.”

“I do not, no. But with MacAllister dead, it will pass to my grandson, Stuart.”

“How is that, if you do not mind me asking?”

“I do not.” A small flash of satisfaction ignited in the Dowager’s eyes. “It comes to him by right of marriage. You see, he is married to Finnan MacAllister’s sister—the last surviving member of her family, as she will then be.”

“Oh!” Jeannie gasped.

“Indeed.” The Dowager folded her hands. “My grandson struggles on her behalf. Once that renegade is dead, she too can take her rightful place.”

“But MacAllister is her brother.”

“And she will do what is right. My grandson has taught her well about obedience.”

Jeannie’s heart sank. Did Finnan know his sister was here in his enemies’ power?

The Dowager tipped her head as if reading Jeannie’s expression. “Perhaps you would like to meet her before you go.”

Jeannie’s gaze stole to the door. “Is that possible?”

“It is.” The Dowager rang the bell at her side. When the servant whom Jeannie recognized as Marie came, she bade the woman, “Please ask Mistress Deirdre to step in.”

Jeannie got to her feet when, a few short moments later, a woman entered. It had crossed her mind while waiting that the Dowager Avrie—obviously a cagey old vixen—might have fed her a tale. But she could not mistake the woman she now beheld for other than Finnan’s sister.

Tall she was, slender, with a head full of auburn hair worn simply in a braid down her back. Her face—beautiful, severe, and undeniably feminine—yet carried the set of Finnan’s features in the cheekbones, nose, and eyebrows. Had Jeannie needed further confirmation, her gaze met Jeannie’s in a fierce stare; the tawny eyes might have been Finnan’s own.

“Deirdre, my dear,” the Dowager said brightly, “I wanted you to meet our neighbor, the Widow MacWherter. She is going to help us bring your brother to justice.”