“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.”
Chapter Seven
Jeannie looked up from the kale bed where she once more knelt, and sweated, beneath a clear, northern sky. Yesterday’s torrential rain had flown as if it had never existed. The glen drowsed in a haze of peace so seemingly complete it felt obscene for so much disquiet to possess Jeannie’s heart.
