Aggie shot her a look. “What will happen if the Avries take the glen back from MacAllister? Will we be asked to leave?”
“I hope not.” But disquiet stirred in Jeannie’s heart. How long had it been since she had felt secure? She could not even remember.
She pictured again the care with which Finnan MacAllister had tended Danny. What would it be like to have someone take care of her that way?
“I mean,” Aggie rattled on, “I am not entirely happy here. It is dull, and I do miss Dumfries. But I am not sure I would like to go back now. And I know I would not want to leave without learning what has happened to that brave lad.”
“I thought,” Jeannie said absently, letting her eyes wander to the trail again, “you were interested in the groom at Avrie House. What was his name?”
“Ronald. He is a fine-looking lad, as well, and with a bold pair of hands on him, but he is not a patch on young Danny.” Aggie sighed. “Do you think if I walked to Avrie House I could get some news?”
“You may not have to.” Jeannie’s eyes, still narrowed, had detected movement on the trail. Her heart leaped painfully in her chest. Had he come? Did he keep his promise so soon?
There—she saw a glint of light on harness; a mounted man. No, two. Had he brought Danny back with him? But surely the lad should be home in his bed.
“Oh, look!” Aggie said unnecessarily, for Jeannie’s attention was all on the approaching men. They slowed as they met the rise that fronted the cottage, and her heart plummeted. Strangers both, with fair hair that gleamed in the sun.
She unpropped herself from the wall even as they dismounted and approached the gate, which, as always, stood open. As alike as two hounds from the same litter they were, both tall and well built, with those shining caps of hair. They came armed, in leather, and in tartan that identified them.
The Dowager Avrie’s grandsons, it seemed, had come to call.
“Mistress,” said the taller of the two. “Good afternoon to you.” His eyes swept Jeannie in a comprehensive glance. From the distance she could not tell their color, but something in the look filled her with caution, though his tone sounded courteous.
“Good afternoon.”
“I am Stuart Avrie, and this is my brother, Trent. And you, as our grandmother the Dowager Avrie has told us, are Mistress MacWherter.” Stuart Avrie added deliberately, “MacAllister’s tenant.”
His voice changed at the speaking of the name MacAllister, from polite to dangerous, and hate twisted his handsome face. Beside him, his brother’s hand flew, as if by instinct, to the hilt of his sword.
More wicked highlanders and—if Finnan MacAllister could be believed—those willing to order an ambush. And breaking the law by wearing those swords, no less. Ah, well, and the highlands proved, indeed, as lawless and wild as her father had always claimed.
Gathering all her composure, she stepped forward. “You are mistaken, gentlemen. I am tenant to no one. My late husband owned this cottage free and clear.”
Stuart Avrie’s face darkened. “And him friend to MacAllister, we are led to understand.”
His brother gave Jeannie no chance to reply. Pushing forward, he asked, “Is he here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is he here—MacAllister?” He eyed the door of the cottage, which also stood open. “Are you sheltering him?”
Jeannie exchanged incredulous looks with Aggie and drew a breath. “I assure you not. I assume he is at his dwelling—Dun Mhor.”
“Nay,” said Trent Avrie, with steel in his voice. “For we burned Dun Mhor to the ground last night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Finnan MacAllister slipped out from the shelter of the trees and took a measuring look at the stars. Only a few hours until morning, and Danny slept peacefully behind him, under cover. They would make it safely through this night.
No moon sailed overhead, and that proved a benefit to a hunted man. Anger surged through him and soured his gut; it infuriated him that he should be chased like a hart on his own land. This place belonged to him both spiritually and by right, but he would stay hidden if he must.
The Avries would die. He savored that truth the way a man savors a draught of cold water after a long march. They would strangle on their own blood like their father before them, the treacherous bastards. But for the time being he had to play at ducking and waiting. He would strike when the moment arrived, not before.
He should have been more cautious withal—especially after that attack in broad daylight. He had let them harm Danny and attack his home. But he would have his own back; it was just a question of when.
And that meant his revenge upon Jeannie MacWherter would have to wait. Oh, aye, he would still extract what Geordie was due from her. Just not yet.
Upon the thought of her, he felt himself grow aroused. He remembered how she had looked when last he saw her standing in the morning light at the door of Rowan Cottage. He relived the moment he had placed his lips against the soft warmth of her cheek and known the intensity of the heat that flared. She would be that soft—and hot—everywhere beneath those clothes. He promised himself he would one day measure the weight of her naked breasts in his hands.
