Why did he not come? He had said he would. Two nights since they had lain together, and both endless.
Her cheeks grew warm just thinking of what had passed between them there in the dark, all she had done and permitted him to do. It almost seemed like some wild dream, but the next morning at first light she had walked back to the rowan copse and found her drawers lying there abandoned, like cobwebs on the grass. He had taken them off her, slid them down her legs with those strong, clever fingers, and she had offered herself to him as a willing sacrifice.
How could she have done such a thing?
How could she live if she did not have him again?
Other evidence had marked her body that next morning, as well, signs she could not deny. Tenderness in places never before touched by any man. None of that kept her from wanting him.
The thread broke again as her fingers jerked, and she swore still more woefully. She laid the spindle aside as a bad bet, got up, and walked down the path.
Warm air poured over her skin like water. The glen was beautiful in this weather, but she could not imagine surviving here in winter. Lest it be in Finnan MacAllister’s arms.
What was the matter with her? Why could she think of nothing but him? But she remembered his hand sliding slowly up her leg, and her knees trembled beneath her.
Aggie had been gone most the afternoon. Surely she must come soon. They had agreed she should go for a gossip with her friends in the kitchen at Avrie House; Aggie seemed almost as hungry as Jeannie for news.
Upon that thought she caught movement along the path, and her heart leaped sickeningly, but it was only Aggie after all. She came with a hurried step, and when she drew near enough Jeannie saw the tension in her face.
“I wondered when you might come,” Jeannie greeted her.
Out of breath, Aggie said, “I hurried back. Dorcas and Marie kept me long and had much to say. This chase is all they want to talk about.”
“Come, sit and tell me over a cup of tea.”
It did not seem strange for Jeannie to swing the kettle over the fire and serve her maid, even less so when Aggie drew a handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it.
“They plied me with cakes in plenty, mistress. I saved you some.”
The frosted dainties thus revealed looked a treat, but Jeannie set them aside, too hungry for news. “What did you learn?”
Aggie drew a deep breath and blew it out again. “Well, the Avries have not yet taken their quarry, but not for lack of trying. Dorcas says her masters have had men up and down the glen day and night—even in that filthy rain we had—but they have failed to catch him.”
Jeannie shivered. What if a troop of Avrie household guard had come upon her and MacAllister in the rowan copse? The pure humiliation of it heated her cheeks again.
“Where could the laird and Danny be?” she asked. “They have not returned here.”
Aggie widened her eyes. “That is the question on everyone’s lips. They do not call Master MacAllister ‘laird,’ of course. They refuse to acknowledge him as that. They have many other names for him, some I dare not repeat.”
Jeannie said nothing, watching the emotions flicker across Aggie’s face.
“And the things they say of him!” Aggie made a quick gesture, the sign against evil.
“Like what?”
“That he is not only a man and murderer of men but possessed of magic, as well. They say he uses the dark arts to conceal himself about the glen and performs pagan rites—even sacrifices—to protect himself.”
Jeannie remembered Finnan MacAllister leaning over the injured Danny and whispering a prayer—or had it been an invocation? She said, “Who knows what goes on in this uncivilized place? Yet how long can he and the lad hide themselves? They will have to go to ground eventually.”
“Not at Dun Mhor. The Avries have men keeping watch over the ruins. If the laird and Danny set one foot there, they are snared.”
Despair flooded Jeannie’s heart. “But how can such a thing end?”
“In death, I fear,” Aggie pronounced, her usually benign expression hard and tight. “You mark my words, mistress, for they mean to slay the laird if they find him—and no hero’s death, but by blood and by flame.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as he heard approaching horses, Finnan MacAllister swung down from the tree in which he perched and alighted on the path. The long twilight had just descended, that time when shadows competed with the half-light of gloaming and men’s nerves stretched tight. A perfect time for a surprise attack.
