Before he could decide, her gaze dropped; he felt her curiosity as she examined the tattoos that twined over his skin.
“Each of these has a story,” he told her softly, and gestured to himself. As did each scar, truth be known. “This one here?” He touched the picture of a blade over his heart. “I got it after surviving my first battle. “This”—a swirling pattern on his upper arm—“after I saw the magic that lies in the other world. This”—he touched the twined hound high on his shoulder—“you will recognize, for Geordie and I had them together, and it signifies our oath of loyalty to one another.”
She said nothing, and he gave her another smile, this one crooked. “But you saw all of me at the pool, did you not, mistress?”
Her eyes, blue as the sky on a day in May, came up slowly to meet his. Would she step away? Move closer? Invite him in?
“There is much talk of you, Laird MacAllister. They call you a very wicked man.”
“Who says this of me? My enemies? And would you take the word of the sort of men who could order the slaying of an unarmed lad?” He stepped still closer; now barely a breath separated them. “Or are you a woman to make up your own mind?”
Unexpectedly, wry light flashed in her eyes. “They say you have beguiled every woman in the glen. Given such powers of persuasion, I am not sure it is wise to trust my instincts.”
“I can assure you quite honestly, I ha’ not beguiled every woman in the glen.” Not yet. “And what do your instincts tell you, Jeannie MacWherter?”
“That you are as dangerous as standing on a precipice over rushing waters.” Yet she did not move away, and he saw the fabric of her bodice quicken with her heartbeat. Aye, there would be passion in her—searing hot—when he at last stripped her naked and took her, even as she desired.
He raised a hand slowly toward her hair. Gentleness, he knew, often accomplished what demand could not, especially when a woman had not yet made up her mind.
But he was not prepared for the sensation when his fingers met the softness of those yellow curls. This made the first time he had touched her, and the sweetness of it pierced him, speared through him with power that rocked him back on his heels.
It felt like sticking his hand in a fire and then wanting to keep it there.
And oh, but her hair, soft as thistledown, invited his fingers in deeper. He wanted to comb them through those yellow tresses, loosen the curls one by one to fall about her shoulders. He might, aye, be a wicked man, but Jeannie MacWherter posed a rampant danger to him.
Her hand came up and captured his, still in her hair. For an instant they stood so, fingers and gazes linked, while Finnan found himself suddenly fighting for breath. Then she drew his hand from her hair and stepped away.
He felt the loss of contact like a physical blow, like an icy blast at the coming of winter. It hit him so hard he could not speak.
And Jeannie? She stood for a moment with her back to him before she spoke in a strained voice. “How long will it be, Laird MacAllister, before you can move Danny?”
“Overnight, at least.” He struggled to gather his thoughts, to keep his mind focused on his objective. “I apologize again, mistress, for the inconvenience to you.”
She turned and faced him once more. “And how are Aggie and I to keep him safe from these enemies you insist abound here in the glen?”
“Well, mistress, I shall just have to stay here the night to guard him—and you.”
****
Jeannie fought determinedly to calm her emotions and her mind. She considered herself first and foremost a practical woman. Even her marriage to Geordie MacWherter had been a purely practical matter. She usually did her best to keep her affairs and her life in order. But there was that about this man that knocked the very breath from her body and chased all power to reason from her head.
Maybe it was the way he looked at her with those intent, russet-colored eyes. That look said he knew things about her—it made her pulse speed up, caused her blood to race, made her suspect he knew even the thoughts in her mind.
By heaven, she hoped not, for they were scandalous, and they shocked her to her soul.
And when he had touched her hair, but the lightest brush of his fingers, she had felt it right through her like the blow from a weapon.
Oh, no, she could not deny Finnan MacAllister was a most dangerous and quite wicked man. And now he threatened—promised—to stay beneath her roof the night. By all that was holy, could she survive?
She had never been the sort of woman to succumb to a man’s charms. In fact, she had always told herself a man’s character mattered far more than his appearance. She’d kept her heart carefully unentangled till Geordie came along, and she had not fallen for him.
Now, terrifyingly, she could feel herself falling, precisely as if the ground beneath her feet had turned to water. What to do about it? She could not demand he leave, with his young groom hurt near to death.
That Finnan MacAllister cared about the lad she could not doubt. What a strength it must be to have such a man care to such an extent.
She took another deliberate step away from him, turned toward the cupboard, and pretended to search for the makings of a supper. It did not help; she could still feel him standing there beside the fire, gazing at her.
“You should be safe this night,” he told her softly, the words bathed in that highland lilt that sounded so like a song. “The Avries will not bring violence to your door. You are on good terms with them, are you not?”
