“Inflamed,” she whispered.
“Aye, it looks bad,” MacAllister agreed. “But he has been through far worse.”
“What if the Dowager Avrie’s grandsons come back?” asked Aggie, from the hearth. Aggie had never been the sort of servant to speak only when spoken to.
“Surely they will not,” MacAllister replied, “if they ha’ already been here looking. They have no reason to believe you in league with me, have they?”
“None besides the fact that you once owned this property,” Jeannie said.
He looked at her, and his gaze skittered over her body, from her lips downward. “Still, that does not lead them to think you would protect me.” He corrected softly, “Or, us.” He turned his attention back to Danny. “By any road, we will be gone before you know it. Have you any herbs in the house? Yarrow or comfrey? This wound needs to be packed.”
Jeannie shook her head. “I have never needed to grow my own cures; there were plenty apothecaries in Dumfries.”
“This glen is my apothecary. I need to go out and search.”
Into that gray dawn? Jeannie glanced toward the door even as all her instincts rose in protest. “But…”
“Just for a wee while; I promise I will come back for him.”
“Is it safe?” she asked, without intention. Finnan MacAllister was not hers over whom to worry. And he could quite plainly look after himself.
“They may be watching the cottage,” Aggie added, proving she, too, felt protective.
“Just try and keep him quiet until I return.” Finnan moved to the door in that soundless way he had.
Let him go, Jeannie’s common sense told her, and pray he does not return. Better if he walked straight out of her life.
But he gave her a smile before he slipped out the door, and she felt its effect all through her body, down to her toes.
By heaven, what had come over her? She raised both hands to cheeks as flushed as Danny’s.
“Mistress, are you ill?” Aggie inquired.
“Yes. No. We find ourselves in a perilous situation, Aggie.”
“Yes, mistress. But we cannot turn our backs on them, can we? Not with this poor lad so sore hurt.”
Jeannie very much feared she would not be able to turn her back on Finnan MacAllister, not for any reason.
Chapter Eighteen
Finnan whispered a prayer as he cut the stalks of yarrow with his dirk—no prayer ever heard in any kirk, this, but one far older, that flowed from his heart. Long ago he had learned not to take anything without permission.
That was why Jeannie MacWherter would be begging for him before he took her.
And the ancient laws decreed he give thanks for all that came to him.
Oh, aye, he would thank her most generously after, just before he broke her heart.
By God, why could he not manage to chase the woman from his mind? Was she not just a woman like every other he had rowed in his arms, with two legs, two breasts, a mouth, and a well of heat into which he might pour himself? Only, she was not like every other woman—those lips of hers tasted wild and sweet, and his fingers craved the feel of her soft flesh.
He straightened from his place on the hillside and let his gaze find the new dawn. He had to go carefully, here. He would have her, just as she deserved. Yet he needed to remember this was not about pleasure, but retribution.
He might take his pleasure, as well.
That thought curled seductively through his mind. Aye, he might—over and over again, before she learned not to trifle with a highlander’s heart. The treacherous wench. The beautiful, irresistible she-demon.
Nay, but that was an exaggeration. Jeannie MacWherter might be a scheming little baggage, but she was a flesh-and-blood woman, no demon. He would leave her with a lesson before he chased her away out of his glen.
