Aggie bent to pull a weed, but her tongue, once unhinged, seemed to defy restraint. “They say he’s slaughtered two score men or more.”
That, Jeannie might be willing to believe. Her husband, Geordie, had once been Finnan MacAllister’s brother-at-arms. They had served together, so Geordie confided, when they first took up their swords as mercenaries. When in his cups—which happened frequently—Geordie spoke of old battles and his friend Finnan’s ferocity in a fight. None could best him, and few stood before him. Even by Geordie’s account, and Geordie had virtually worshipped the man, Finnan had few scruples beyond survival.
“They say,” Aggie went on with relish, “his sword is enchanted. The one time he was nearly beheaded occurred only because that blade fell from his hand.”
Yes, and on that occasion Geordie had been there to save Finnan’s life. Jeannie, still balanced on her heels, looked about this place she had, in only four short months, come to love—hers through a bequest made to her now-deceased husband in gratitude for that very moment.
Finnan MacAllister, so Geordie had said, never forgot his friends. Nor his enemies.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill traced its way up Jeannie’s spine. She had in all honesty not loved her husband, but he had offered her protection when she desperately needed it. Geordie MacWherter had been a drunkard, a wild Highlander, a former mercenary living a ruined life. But he’d had a gentle heart. And this refuge he had left her remained all she had in the world.
She thrust her trowel into the thin, rocky earth and rooted up a stubborn weed. Funny how weeds were all that wanted to grow here. Gorse, bracken, and heather, along with a hundred other specimens she could not name, thrived without care, while her poor vegetables struggled.
Ah, but the weeds belonged here; her transplants did not. Just as, perhaps, she did not.
“I want you to promise you will not go to Avrie House and gossip with those two vipers,” she said firmly. Aggie had promised before and what good had that done? “The Dowager Avrie is very ill, and I would not have her upset by idle chatter.”
“She’s dying,” Aggie said with no perceptible decrease in enjoyment. “Not expected to last the winter. And anyway, there’s no one else with whom I can visit save the women in Avrie’s kitchen. I swear, miss, I will go mad here in this Highland prison.”
“Prison? How can you say so? Just look at that view.”
“But these nasty, tiny flies bite all the time. The more I sweat, the more they bite. The weather is abominable—”
“Not today.”
“Not today, no. But how many times have we been caught out in one of those storms that blow up without warning?”
More times than Jeannie could count. The rain swooped in from the sea beyond the hills, and she had frequently been drenched to the skin. This was a strange, wild place, but beautiful also.
“I know it is not easy.” She reached out and covered Aggie’s hand with her own. “And I cannot express how grateful I am that you agreed to accompany me.”
Aggie’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Where else would I be? We’ve been together since we were both children and your dear, sainted father was kind enough to take me in.”
Jeannie’s dear, sainted father, who had determinedly drunk his way through all they owned, leaving her penniless.
She squeezed Aggie’s fingers warmly. “This is an adjustment for us. It’s lonely, and the nights are long.” Enough, sometimes, to spur a woman to madness. “But spreading gossip among our neighbors will not help.”
With a rush of earnest righteousness, Aggie said, “Very well, then, I will not spread gossip. But say I may still go to Avrie House, miss.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
Aggie’s cheeks grew pink, and her eyes gleamed. “Have you seen Lady Avrie’s groom, miss?”
“I have not.”
“Young he is, and not ill-favored.” Again, Aggie lowered her voice. “And you know, miss, a girl might live in this wilderness without many things, but not the attentions of a man.”
Chapter Two
Finnan MacAllister floated just below the surface of the pool, communing with a trout. The water—still cool even on this warm August day—lapped about his naked body, and his submerged ears were privy to all sorts of gurgles and ripples he told himself made up the fish’s language. His hair floated out around his head in a mop of reddish brown, and his eyes, wide open, stared up through the water at the achingly blue sky.
If he kept very still, the trout in this pool would come to him and impart their knowledge, whisper it right in his ear perhaps. God knew he was in need of some wisdom. For the past ten years, ever since taking up his sword in defiance of a broken heart, his existence had gone from bad to worse. Everything he had done had come back in some way upon him.
Now that lowland bitch had set foot here in his glen. Worse, she’d taken up residence in the haven he had meant for Geordie. Ire spiked in his breast and chased away the ease his time in the water earned him. The grasping she-devil had broken his best friend’s heart, and Finnan meant to exact revenge—just as soon as he discovered what would hurt her most.
The cool, silken body of a trout brushed his cheek, and he held his breath, lungs bursting. When he had been a lad in this glen, he’d been able to stay under water for the count of two hundred. These days he had lost the art, but if the trout meant to whisper to him, he would damn sure exert himself.
The trout, not just a fish but a creature of mystery and magic, carried great wisdom, according to the old tales by which Finnan lived. One way to acquire that wisdom was to kill and eat it, or threaten to eat it, for in such an instance the trout often bargained for mercy.
