Soon? Not soon enough.
He flicked his gaze northward in the direction of her cottage—Geordie’s cottage, he corrected himself. Jeannie was but a parasite, like a flea, that currently infested the place. A stunningly attractive flea in which he ached to bury himself.
Could he destroy her by making her want him—more, by making her love him as Geordie had loved her? Cold-hearted wench. He wanted that heart in his hands, right along with those breasts.
But first he must settle Avrie’s accursed spawn.
Hard to imagine now that for centuries past men by the name of Avrie had served his family loyally and well. MacAllister lairds had relied upon them in battle and friendship both, until one Avrie clansman got ideas too big for himself.
Finnan acknowledged he was presently at a disadvantage, his home heavily damaged, though certainly rebuildable—it had come under attack on numerous occasions over the past centuries and yet stood strong—the last of his family’s retainers chased off for fear of their safety. He and Danny driven to the hills… He saw all that as temporary. He and Danny, with Geordie, had been in much more difficult places.
He let his eyes trace the outlines of Orion, who hung above the glen. He remembered lying on a hillside far north of here, once. It had been after he and Geordie withdrew their swords from the service of a chief who refused to pay them. Before Culloden, that was. He had been sore hurting then, suffering one of the many injuries he had carried during his life. But Orion had seemed to point him homeward.
Now the warrior whispered that Finnan should turn his attention north, to Jeannie’s door. Could he not hide there as well as elsewhere? Might he not kill two birds with the one stone?
There, in the darkness, he smiled.
****
Jeannie drew the shawl close about her shoulders and edged nearer the dying fire. August it was still, but who would know it, with the way the chill arrived with the setting sun here in these hills? Of course, the light did linger long in the sky, but now velvet dark hung outside the cottage, and the cold crept in.
She should be in her bed. Aggie slept soundly up in the loft, but Jeannie had arisen from her own cot, her thoughts far too full to afford any rest.
Those men today—Stuart and Trent Avrie—had they truly burned Finnan MacAllister’s home? Did they hunt him like a fox on his own land? Did such things really occur here in the highlands?
What would they do if they caught him? Murder him in cold blood? A shiver traced its way up her spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly dark. She did believe they might, given the look in Stuart Avrie’s cold eyes.
She remembered the man’s parting words to her: “I urge you, Mistress MacWherter, to band together with us in our effort to capture this blackguard. No one is safe with him at large in the glen.”
She should have asked. She should have demanded to know how they meant to resolve this situation, a circumstance that could never have evolved in Dumfries, where people tended to call the constables and only took matters into their own hands after too much whisky.
Need she remind herself she was no longer in Dumfries? This place, wild and lawless, seemed beyond the bounds of civilization.
She had been too stunned to ask the brothers Avrie anything. For an instant she had been sure they would push their way inside the cottage and search for MacAllister. But they had ridden away leaving her upset and, if she were honest, frightened.
She did not wish to be caught in the middle of some highland squabble. She would leave if she could; she had nowhere else to go.
The night seemed far too quiet, so much so she could catch the flutter of Aggie’s breath from the loft, and even the crackle of the dying fire sounded loud. She contemplated throwing on more fuel, just for the comfort of it, but she did not know how they would ever garner enough fuel for…
What was that?
Her head came up as her ears caught a new sound outside the door. A brush of movement? Another chill chased her spine, this one pure, superstitious terror. Anything could be out there.
She did not believe in the existence of Geordie’s ghost. She did not.
A soft knock sounded.
Jeannie, on her feet in an instant, froze where she stood, thinking of the wild stories Aggie had brought home from Avrie House of banshees, witches, boogies, all haunting the glen. Of course she did not believe in those things either, but she would be mad to open that door.
She eyed the bar that held it shut. Would that hold against a spirit? Against the ghost of Geordie MacWherter?
The knock sounded again, a bit louder this time.
“Who is there?”
If a deep, gravelly voice answered, she would shame herself on the spot. How might a ghost sound?
“It is I, Mistress MacWherter. ’Tis Finnan MacAllister.”
