Page 6 of His Wicked Highland Ways

From the hearth came a crash as the maid dropped the tray and all its contents. At least, Finnan thought, one of the women in this house had bought his tale. His eyes moved to Jeannie and measured her reaction; would she swallow it also? An intelligent if deceitful woman, she might be far harder to fool than an empty-headed servant.

He heard her draw a sharp breath and saw annoyance flood her eyes. With him, or the maid? No doubt, he thought, she rode her servant hard.

But when she turned to the lass, she sounded patient and gentle. “Here, Aggie, pick that up best you may.”

“But I’ve broken the teapot!” the maid wailed. “And it came with us all the way from Dumfries, wrapped in your petticoat.”

“Nothing to be done about it now. Find two more cups.”

“There are no more cups!” The maid cried, clearly overset.

“Find whatever you can and pour straight from the kettle.”

Finnan heard a sob, and the girl began to gather the crockery. Jeannie, her expression indecipherable, straightened and turned back to him. “My apologies, Laird MacAllister. It seems tea will take a few moments. Will you not sit?”

There were but three seats, a narrow bench and two stools. Finnan took one of the latter, avoiding the bench that had her gown draped over it. She gathered the garment up carefully and laid it aside before seating herself in the flickering light from the candle.

Ah, and how blue her eyes looked in that golden light. He could see why poor Geordie had thought her the bonniest thing he had ever seen.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I seem to have startled your maid.”

“You make an incredible assertion, Laird MacAllister. A ghost?”

“Not just any ghost, but that of Geordie. What did he tell you of our friendship?”

She considered it and shook her head. A tendril of gold, one single curl, tumbled down beside her ear. Finnan struggled not to notice. “He spoke of the past but rarely, and only when in his cups.”

Finnan frowned. Geordie had not been a drinker, at least not in the days when they traveled and fought together. Oh, aye, he would take a dram when offered—what man would not? But he had often chastised Finnan for drinking to excess.

“As I said when we met beside the pool, Geordie and I were close as brothers—closer. There is a particular bond between fighting men.” That he could not expect her to understand.

“He once told me you were the best friend ever a man could have.” She twined her fingers together in her lap and raised those wide, blue eyes to Finnan. “That is why I find it so difficult to understand why you should want to chase me from his home now, when I am in need. You say he wrote you letters.”

Anger licked up inside Finnan at her feigned innocence. “So he did.”

“Might I ask what he said of me that angered you?”

Finnan fixed her with a fierce gaze. He could not let his ire overset him, not when he played the part of the remorseful friend. He spread his hands. “You must understand we were used to confiding in one another, always. ’Twas part and parcel of the pact we made to one another, to keep in touch. He sent the letters to a mutual acquaintance in Fort William, and I collected them whenever I could.” Sometimes sorely late, but he had them, every one. “Of you, he said many things. I acknowledge now I may have taken his words a-wrong—I was not aware he had turned to drink. Whisky can affect both a man’s mood and his opinions.”

She frowned. A second golden tendril fell, this one beside her cheek. “Still, I would know what ill he said of me.”

Finnan just bet she would. Scrambling in her mind, she was, wondering how the game she played with Geordie had gone wrong. She had not guessed Geordie sent letters to anyone. Finnan had to convince her he’d been mistaken, that his anger against her had flown.

Carefully, he said, “Does it matter now? I have come here to apologize. Geordie and I were used to defending one another and guarding each other’s back. And there was something in him that tended to make me feel protective.” Too true, that. “We each vowed to come whenever the other called.”

She gave him a cool look. “As I said, it is a pity you did not come to him in Dumfries when he stood in dire need of a friend.”

“I did not know. His letters did not call on me for help.” Geordie had been lost, aye, and clearly miserable, as evidenced by his presence in the lowlands, of all places. The past haunted him even as it did Finnan. But never once had he requested Finnan’s presence. “He had only to call on me,” he said simply, “and I would have been there.”

Indeed, he had very nearly gone anyway, when Geordie wrote to say he meant to wed the woman he had met. But he had been engrossed in his own battle here, trying to regain his birthright.

“As it was,” she went on, not quite calmly, “he had only my father for companion. They formed a…a curious relationship. In fact, that is how Geordie and I met.”

“Aye.” Geordie had described that as well . I helped the old gentleman home on more than one occasion, where I met his daughter. A precious flower she is, blooming in this cold, gray place . “Your father, a scholar—Angus Robertson.”

She inclined her head. “A once-practical, learned man, with a scientific mind, who taught his daughter not to believe in ghosts.”

“Ah, well.” Finnan treated her to his best smile. “You are in the highlands now, where ‘scientific’ principles tend to fly out the window. There exist in this glen many things you cannot hope to comprehend—fairies, boogies, a sea horse in the burn, and the spirits of ancient warriors. This is no’ the lowlands, you ken.”

“Nevertheless, Laird MacAllister, until a boogie man comes walking up the glen to my door, I will not believe in spirits.”

A boogie man had come walking up the glen to her door, Finnan reflected, did she but know it, one set to seduce her.

He wanted to ask how long it had taken her to persuade Geordie to kiss her, he who had believed so completely in true love. Had Geordie been lost at the first look from those blue eyes? How long would it take Finnan to persuade her to kiss him?

He fair ached for it, the touch of that soft mouth on his, ached for revenge, that was.

The maid cleared her throat and then sidled in between them, moving the way a man might in the presence of a wildcat. She carried a mug of what Finnan could only assume was tea in either hand. He longed for something stronger.

“Thank you, Aggie. Are there any scones left?”

“I will bring some.” Aggie’s voice made only a whisper. She placed a mug at Finnan’s elbow and handed the other to her mistress before turning away to the shelves beside the fire.

“So.” Finnan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level, even though the lass could still hear every word. “You do not want to know what Geordie said to me?”

“I do not.”

“Even though I walked all this way through that torrent just to tell you? And even though ’tis to your benefit?”

“I thought you walked all that way to apologize.”

“That too.”

“Do you often expect sane, rational women to sit and discuss the conversations of ghosts?”

“Not ‘ghosts’—just the one.” He took a sip of tea, which scalded his tongue.

“Very well, then, Laird MacAllister, I will play at your game. What did the ghost of my husband say?”

He shot her a sharp look. Did she recognize this for a game, a trap?

The maid pushed in between them again, with a plate that held three meager scones. “I am that sorry, miss. It is all we had.”

“Thank you, Aggie. Leave us, please.”

The girl handed her mistress the scones and fled up into the loft. Finnan eyed the plate and raised his gaze to Jeannie’s face. He had to admit, nothing here seemed as he’d expected. Where was evidence of this woman’s greed? She must have taken Geordie for all he had.

He took another sip of tea, more cautiously this time. The stuff tasted like dishwater. He set the mug aside.

“I understand you do no’ believe me,” he said with what he hoped was engaging earnestness. “And I am a rational, practical man, so I do assure you. But I have been a soldier a long while.”

“A mercenary,” she interposed, speaking the words with some distaste. What did she expect? He had left home at sixteen, forced to make his way, and met Geordie soon after. The two of them had earned their fortune in the world—survived. How dared she judge the means?

“A mercenary, aye, and a soldier. Geordie and I stood at Culloden.”

“So Geordie did say. He used to get into fights over it, at the ale house. The first time, a crowd set on him, and he got the worst of it. My father made his acquaintance when he gave Geordie some rough assistance in the alley, after.”

Finnan scowled. “Why should Geordie get into fights over it?”

She hesitated. “He refused to state on which side of the conflict he had fought.”

Ah, and there lay the heart of the matter. And the accursed lowlanders had ridden Geordie hard for it, had they? Aye, Finnan should have been there, as ever, to stand at Geordie’s side.

“I am sure,” he said softly, “he owed your father a debt of gratitude.” Finnan meant nothing of the kind. “And I know how grateful he was for your presence in his life.”

“Then perhaps you will explain to me, Laird MacAllister, why you have turned on me? Why try to chase me from the glen?” She leaned forward on her bench, her gaze fixed on him. “Just what did Geordie’s letters say? I think you must tell me.”

“He spoke of your marriage. It was not all he had hoped.”

Color flared in her cheeks. Hastily, she set her own mug aside and drew a breath. “What concern is that of yours, Laird MacAllister?”

“Everything to do with Geordie MacWherter concerned me, all danger or perceived danger.”

“You consider me to have been a danger?” Again, her beautiful eyes widened. “Me? I would like to know how.”

“There was that in Geordie’s letters that led me to believe you had taken advantage of him.”

“Was there?” She looked completely taken aback. Aye, a fine actress.

He held her gaze with his. “I stood to defend even Geordie’s heart.” Or avenge it.

The color in her cheeks flared still brighter. “You know nothing of the relationship that existed between me and my husband. It is not unusual that people should marry for convenience.”

“Convenience?” It had been nothing of the kind. Geordie had adored her from the tips of her toes to that crown of golden hair. Finnan slid forward to the edge of his seat. “Did you not love him?”

The expression in her eyes changed, transformed from embarrassed affront to something far colder. She gripped the edge of her bench so tight her fingers turned white. “Laird MacAllister, you may indeed own this glen—every stick and stone, as you say—by whatever means you have stolen it. But you do not own me and have no right to the contents of my heart.”

What heart? It was obviously as cold as her gaze had become. Aye, and he saw the truth now beneath the pretty picture she sought to present.

He said, hoping to catch her unawares, “Geordie wishes me to look after you. It is what he came to tell me last night. You see, he loves you still and wants for you to remain in the glen.”