She would have done anything for him. He knew, without question, he had held Jeannie MacWherter in the palm of his hand, right where he wanted her.
Trouble was, she had held him, as well.
And he had made a fatal mistake, spilled his seed inside her where he did not want to leave it.
Och, but the heat and tightness of her after she had her mouth on him proved irresistible. He defied any man to do better.
At the thought of any other man claiming Jeannie, fierce desperation swamped him. Nay, nay, and nay.
His arms tightened around her instinctively, and he kissed the skin of her shoulder where his mouth had come to rest. By all that was holy, he already wanted her again.
She stirred against him and whispered, “Your arm—”
Aye, his arm. He had probably torn all the stitches, and cursed if he cared, though now as the urgency fled it hurt like a bastard.
“I am well enough,” he told her, a mere breath in the darkness. Did she know that he remained still inside her? The very thought had him hard again.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, and he shivered in response. He had not meant it to be this way. He wanted her in thrall to him, not the other way round.
He wanted to break her heart.
He reminded himself of that even as she brushed her lips across his brow in a gesture of such tenderness it made him catch his breath.
“I had best return to the loft.” Yet she lay where she was, and him still inside her.
He fought a brief inner battle and said, “No, stay where you are.”
“But Aggie—”
“I can hear her snoring. She will not wake before morn. And surely”—he lifted his head and traced her lips with his tongue—“I can keep you awake until then.”
“You should rest.”
“Do you suppose that likely if you go from this bed?”
“No.”
“Then stay with me and afford me what relief you can.”
In answer she captured his hand and carried it to her breast. He teased the nipple into a tight bud, which made him lengthen and harden further inside her.
“Jeannie,” he said hoarsely, “will you accept me again?”
She stretched and arched beneath him. “Only try and leave me, my Laird Finnan.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jeannie stood with the pale light of morning flooding in through the open door of the cottage and felt her heart break.
Finnan MacAllister had risen from her bed at the first hint of dawn while still Aggie slept, and donned his clothing with his back turned. Unable to guess the thoughts in his mind, Jeannie had scrambled up also, snagged her night rail from the floor where it lay in a heap, and crawled into it, her heart thumping all the while.
How could she persuade him to stay? She must persuade him.
But nothing she had said then or since turned his mind. She believed she spoke reason all the while she changed the bandages on his arm, when he bent over Danny who still slept fitfully, even when Aggie clattered down from the loft and gave her a shawl—and a shocked look—to cover her near nakedness.
It did not matter how she appeared; Finnan MacAllister would not stay.
“I’ll not endanger you,” he said decisively, even as he slung his bloodstained plaid over his shoulder and hefted his leather bag. “The Avries are bound to come looking. I will appreciate it if you keep Danny one more day.”
