She looked into his face and was caught by the light that simmered in his eyes—bright, wicked light. She knew in that moment what filled his mind, and it was not his wounded arm.
Heat raced up her body and engulfed her face. She turned from that look and asked Aggie sharply, “Is that water hot yet?”
“Almost, mistress.”
“Bring me bandages—tear up the last of that sheet. And fetch a cloth to hang over that window.” She wanted no one peering in from the dark upon this well lit tableau.
Finnan spoke as Aggie hurried to obey. “I do not wish to endanger you.”
“You are here now,” she answered shortly. “Do you think you have been dripping blood on the ground all the way here?”
“I hope not. They will track me like hounds. ’Tis why I must leave. Be a merciful angel and wrap that, but then I will away.”
“This needs more than wrapping. Do you want to end up like him?” She gestured at Danny. “How easy would you make it for them?”
“’Tis not your battle,” he said again.
Jeannie did not argue it further. She accepted the cloths Aggie fetched and did her best to stanch the wound. But just touching Finnan, even in so rudimentary a manner, started up a steady hum of desire. She bit her lip and did her best to avoid his gaze.
What was she to do with these feelings, with the impulse even now to lean down and cover his mouth with hers?
Aggie brought the basin of hot water, and Jeannie set about cleaning the wound while Finnan sat quietly beneath her touch, as if he felt no pain. The man might be made of granite for all the reaction he showed.
“How did you get this?” she asked when the worst of it lay exposed.
“Sword,” he told her shortly, and his breath hissed between his teeth—perhaps not so unmoved by pain after all.
“It will not stop bleeding and needs to be stitched,” she told him firmly.
“Will you do it?”
She did look up and meet his gaze then. It looked feral and dangerous, and she faltered. “Me?” Before he could answer, she told Aggie, “Run get the needle and thread…again.”
“We had best not make a habit of this,” Finnan said with a touch of humor, when Aggie went into the other room.
Jeannie wanted to make a habit of him. Should she mind in what condition he came to her door, so long as he came?
She thought of all her fancies these past nights, of the two of them lying together performing shocking and exquisite acts upon one another. Her cheeks heated further.
“Have you a flask?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Nay, why?”
“My father, who was widely read, used to say whisky—any liquor, really—could be used to purify a wound. This looks ragged and very dirty.”
“Blood will wash it out.”
“As it did for Danny?” She looked up once more and caught him peering down the front of her night rail. Ah well, nothing she could do about that now, and he saw nothing he had not already held in his hands.
But he said, “You are very beautiful, Jeannie MacWherter. I suppose a thousand men have told you so.”
Only one, and Finnan did not want to hear about him.
“You are a wicked man,” she told him. “Cannot even a mortal wound dissuade you?”
“This is no’ mortal—just an inconvenience.” He dropped his voice for her ears alone. “You are all I have been able to think about. The taste of you, how warm you were when I—”
“Here, mistress.”
