The cottage lay peaceful and drowsy in the warm afternoon, bees humming among the heather farther up the hill, but Jeannie felt anything but peaceful inside. A day and a half it had been since Finnan MacAllister rode from her door, but she still had not been able to chase him from her mind.
She planted both hands in the small of her back and stretched, letting her eyes stray down the path he had taken away. Did she expect to see him returning? Her heart leaped at the very thought, and she forced herself to measure, instead, the deep hue of the sky and the white clouds sailing inland from the western sea.
Last night had been pure torture, a test of her endurance. How long had she tossed in her bed, trying to persuade herself to sleep? But every time she closed her eyes she saw him stripping the shirt from his body beside her hearth, laying those beautiful hands on Danny’s head, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
What was it about the man? Aside from that faultless body, of course, and the wicked light in his eyes. Jeannie narrowed her gaze against the glare of the sun and forced herself into an honest acknowledgement of the truth: she had never seen a man as attractive as Finnan MacAllister.
And she had seen all of him.
The memory of it even now made her blush, yet she let herself relive it again: the wonder of seeing him arise from the pool dripping with water, the long, reddish-brown hair slapping his back, the tattoos that covered his body, and those well-defined muscles. Tattoos everywhere, even…
“Mistress, are you all right?”
“Eh?” Jeannie opened her eyes and looked into Aggie’s concerned face. “Of course.”
“Only, you looked like you were in pain,” Aggie pointed out. “I will fetch us some water, shall I? You sit there a moment.”
Jeannie complied and perched on the stone wall that hedged the yard, making sure she chose a place from which she could still see the track.
He had said he would come to call. He had, right before he seared her cheek with that burning caress.
What did it mean? His letters, still folded away in her chest and covered with his forceful, black writing, had expressed his hatred. But they were written before he met her. Dare she hope he had truly changed his mind? She did not know, but if she held to honesty she had to admit she hoped it was true.
Did highland men, moreover strapping warriors who walked about carrying the evidence of past battles on their bodies, truly believe in the existence of visiting spirits, or had he made it up? If so, why? She, herself, gave the tale no credence. She would rather think of Geordie at peace, the demons that had spurred him laid to rest.
As for Finnan MacAllister…
“I hope he is all right.”
“Eh?” Jeannie started and nearly dropped the cup of cold water Aggie placed in her hand.
Aggie leaned against the wall, drank from her own cup, and said, “I have not been able to stop thinking of him.”
Jeannie stared. Had Aggie, too, been taken by the auburn-maned half-god-half-man? And who could blame her if she had?
“Only imagine,” Aggie fussed on, “losing an arm in battle, and him so young and handsome.”
Jeannie breathed again. Aggie spoke of Danny. Hastily, Jeannie reordered her thoughts. “Yes,” she murmured. She supposed Danny a winsome enough lad, with thick, brown hair and those wide, pain-filled gray-blue eyes. And she knew, better than anyone, how soft was Aggie’s heart.
“What if they were attacked again on the way home, and him burning up with fever? I wish they had stayed longer.”
So did Jeannie, if only so she might gaze on Finnan.
“And who could imagine the Dowager Avrie’s sons doing such a thing?” Aggie went on. “Attacking in broad daylight.”
“The two houses are at war,” Jeannie said. “We are best out of it.”
Aggie lowered her voice, even though no one but the bees could hear. “There is much hatred toward MacAllister among those at Avrie House. Dorcas says Laird MacAllister killed Master Avrie and so took the glen from him.”
“It was MacAllister’s first, to my understanding.”
“Wicked highlanders,” Aggie decided, “with their treachery and their back-stabbing.”
Jeannie had to remember that Finnan MacAllister was indeed a very wicked man. Wicked enough to strip the clothes from her body? To plunder her with that bright, dangerous gaze? To touch her everywhere with those lips that trailed flame?
Suddenly she was on fire, far beyond the effects of the warm day.
“Yes,” she murmured, “we are far better out of it.”
