Page 31 of His Wicked Highland Ways

Finnan MacAllister stared into the pouring rain and told himself he should feel some measure of satisfaction. From the time he received Geordie’s final letter he had planned revenge against the scheming lowland wench who hurt him. Now he had that revenge in kind; the thing was over and done.

He needed it over and done so he could turn his eyes to the other matters that beset him: Rescuing Deirdre. Settling the Avries for good. Getting on with his life.

His life? What was left of it? Aye, well, there was this glen—place of his devotion, loyalty, and heart. But there seemed something wrong with his heart now. Ever since he left Jeannie MacWherter lying in the dark it had struggled to beat in his chest.

And why did his flesh still ache for her touch? That was over now. He had paid his debt to Geordie, the obligations of duty and brotherhood fulfilled.

It did not help his peace of mind that young Danny remained so persistently happy. Indeed, ever since Finnan had stalked from Rowan Cottage and met up with him at dawn, Danny had done nothing but prate about his Aggie. He went on about her even now, when the two of them crouched beneath a granite overhang trying to remain hidden and keep from the wet.

“I tell you, Master Finnan, I never thought any woman would want me. Me—with but the one arm. Yet when she came walking out to me last night, I could not mistake. A man does not mistake, does he, when a lass gives him her heart?”

Finnan grunted and cursed inwardly. Aggie had still been with Danny when Finnan came upon them in the half-dark. The lass had dressed swiftly and run off home, but not before Finnan saw her give Danny the kind of kiss that would have warmed him to his toes. And from what Danny had hinted, they had ample time before that to consummate their feelings.

“A priceless gift, a woman’s heart,” Danny went on, staring like Finnan into the rain with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Anyone’s heart,” Finnan asserted, trying to justify himself. How did Jeannie fare now? What had she done after he left? Stayed in the bed and wept? Hauled herself up on her dignity? Become angry? Cursed his name?

Had he destroyed her as he intended?

Aye, and now he must stop thinking of her. He must focus on Deirdre.

Danny said softly, “We ha’ pledged ourselves to one another. And you ken, Master Finnan, what that means. You and Master Geordie taught me what it is to make a vow and keep it.”

Aye, right, Finnan thought savagely—that was all he had done. Then why did he feel as if his own heart had been torn out by the roots?

“She is the one for me,” Danny went on devoutly.

Finnan said, with no wish to be cruel, “Are you certain, lad? ’Tis not just your cock talking, is it?” Danny had been with few women, and Finnan understood the lure of the flesh, the gods help him.

Danny turned bright gray-blue eyes on him. “Nay, though I do say ’tis a miracle she would accept me, maimed as I am. Damaged. But when she took the clothing from me, she did no’ seem to see that.” His voice lowered, became devout. “Master Finnan, she kissed me—even where my arm used to be.”

“You are no’ damaged, lad,” Finnan said. “For your heart is whole, despite all you ha’ suffered.” Unlike Finnan’s. He saw now, indeed, he was the one maimed. “And,” he added, “your Aggie sounds a good, generous woman.”

“She is that. I never hoped to meet anyone like her. But now, Master Finnan, we need to get through all this trouble.”

“Aye, lad, so we do.”

****

“What is it, mistress? Are you unwell?” Aggie posed the query softly as Jeannie stood at the cottage window staring out blindly at the rain. The rage that had possessed her when Finnan MacAllister walked out on her—the helpless, blinding fury—had abandoned her slowly, passed off like numbness from a stunted limb, leaving a well of hurt so deep she feared to sound it. Black and wide and merciless it yawned inside her, full of darkness that threatened to rise up on its own and overwhelm her.

He had done this deliberately, and in the most hurtful way he could imagine. She had been over it a thousand times, lying in the bed last night after he left, had recounted and remembered every word and every deed they had shared since she met him at the pool. She had relived it all, cast in the new light he provided, and saw what he had done: lured her, led her, used her—all for revenge. Not one single kiss had been true.

Yes, and what a cruel and vicious man he proved to be. Her father used to say nothing could match a highlander for vengeance. Now she knew it to be true. For none of this had been about any feelings Finnan MacAllister possessed toward her, save hate. It had all been about Geordie.

Her heart quivered inside her chest, proving it still sought to beat, and pounded pain through her in another wave. If she had caused Geordie MacWherter to feel like this with aught she had said, done, or refused him, then she deserved some pain. But she did not deserve having her heart torn out still bleeding, for she had not meant to hurt Geordie.

Never meant him any harm.

And Geordie had been a grown man who made his own choices, took his own chances.

As had she. No one had forced her to take Finnan MacAllister to her bed. No one had compelled her to bare her body—and her soul—to him, no one had implored her to kneel at his feet. That did not make this hurt any less.

And that must be the lesson Finnan wanted to teach. Her father’s scholarly mind, that had instructed her so long, made her regard that fairly even now. Finnan believed she had hurt Geordie deliberately, had used and denied him. She had not. And looking back on it, she could not be certain Geordie MacWherter was a grown man inside. A part of him had seemed ever the lost child.

Those letters—the ones he had written to his friend most likely when in a whisky haze—Jeannie would give much to know just what they said, not that it mattered now. She was destroyed completely. Did it truly matter whether Finnan MacAllister had justification?

“Mistress? You have taken nothing to eat today. Let me make you some tea.”

Perhaps the Avries would find him, corner him, put an end to his life—an end to his strength, grace, and beauty. For she found him beautiful yet. The remnants of her heart—poor quivering shreds—did.

He could not run forever.

And why did that thought cause her more pain?

“Come, sit down.” Aggie coaxed Jeannie to the bench and crouched down beside her. “What has happened? Did you and Master Finnan quarrel last night?”

Jeannie shook her head. They had not quarreled, no. He had loved her quite well, let her taste him everywhere—for the last time—and then shattered her world.

“Is it that you are worried for him? The situation is dire, yes. I am worried for Danny, as well, and for the life of me cannot see how it might come right. But there must be something we can do to help. I will go to Avrie House as soon as this rain lets up, see what I can learn. No one knows we have taken sides in this quarrel. At the very least, we can get information to them.”

Aggie got to her feet and bustled about making the tea. Jeannie felt sure she would not be able to drink any, but when Aggie brought the mug she reached out and snagged her maid’s wrist, stared into her eyes.

“His sister,” she said.

“Eh?” Aggie looked startled.

“MacAllister’s sister is there at Avrie House. Listen to me. You must find a way to speak with her, let her know her brother wishes to meet with her, rescue her. Perhaps she can work from within even as he works from without. She may have knowledge that will help.”

“You think so?” Aggie asked thoughtfully. “Does she want rescuing?”

“She was forced to wed Stuart Avrie long ago. Finnan will not rest until he frees her.”

“But how am I to win a word with her, and she a lady of the house? I go there only to visit her servants. Indeed, mistress, I have not laid eyes on the woman.”

“I have, the day I saw the Dowager. You will find a way, Aggie, clever girl that you are. Perhaps we can prevent further bloodshed.” For despite all Finnan MacAllister had done to her, despite the pain inside and how angry she should be, Jeannie felt something for him besides rage and hurt. She did not want to see him hunted and trapped, seized and slain.

She pictured him so, lying in his own blood, arms flung wide, hair spread around his head, all the wicked light flown from his eyes. Her poor, abused heart stuttered again in her chest. No, not that—anything but that.

Because she loved him. Heaven help her! Even though she knew she should despise him, and despite all his cruelty, she loved him still.