Had she, by God? And what had Aggie overheard Jeannie say? She had done her best to keep quiet even in the throes of intense pleasure, but the small cottage afforded little privacy.
Her face, too, flamed with heat. She crossed her arms over breasts still tender from the ministrations of Finnan MacAllister’s mouth.
“I went back to my bed,” Aggie said self-righteously, “not knowing what to think. I never heard you come out of your room till dawn.”
“But Finnan heard you snoring.” Finnan, holding her against his muscular body, all of him hard.
“That,” Aggie said with dignity, “was Danny.”
“Ah.” It seemed passion had fogged both their minds.
“Mistress, what were you thinking? I know you are a widow and have had a man before”—Aggie lowered her voice—“although you and Master Geordie never did share a room.”
“It is certainly none of your business, Aggie,” Jeannie said gently. But it was—the two of them had thrown their lot in together here, and she represented Aggie’s only security.
Aggie drew herself up. “Maybe not. But I worry for you, mistress. A man like that! All the other women he has had—it is wicked.”
“And…” Jeannie held Aggie’s gaze. “Can you blame me? Have you looked at him? I cannot help myself, Aggie. In truth, I cannot.”
For once in her life Aggie seemed at a loss for words. She turned back to the pot of porridge and stirred fiercely.
“It may well end in tears,” Jeannie admitted, “but until then…”
Until then she would be left wanting Finnan MacAllister.
****
Danny’s fever broke late in the afternoon, and he awoke clear-eyed and full of questions.
“Where is Laird Finnan?” he asked even as Aggie fussed over him, adjusting his blanket and sponging his brow. “There was a terrible fight—”
“There was,” Jeannie told him, and took the seat beside his cot. “He brought you here, and I patched him up before he left again.”
Aggie shot her a scandalized look but said nothing.
“He means to come and call for you tonight,” Jeannie went on.
“Unless the Avries catch him,” Danny moaned. “I should be wi’ him, standing at his back.”
It occurred to Jeannie that Danny, now clear-headed, might make a wonderful source of information about the man who wholly occupied her mind—and Finnan MacAllister did so occupy it.
“Bring a cup of that broth,” she bade Aggie, “and see can we get it inside our patient.”
Aggie bustled and obeyed; she still refused to meet Jeannie’s eyes.
“Tell me,” Jeannie urged when Danny had taken his first sip of broth, “of this quarrel between the Avries and Laird MacAllister.”
Danny considered her with an intelligent gaze. “Surely you know? The story is all over the glen.”
“We have had only bits and pieces of it. I would know the truth.”
“Aye, mistress, but you may not like the truth.”
“Try me.”
Again the lad measured her with his eyes before he spoke. “This glen has been MacAllister land since time out of mind. Laird MacAllister’s father’s father’s father reigned here, and Finnan is the last in a very long line. When I met him—” Abruptly, Danny’s gaze clouded. “When I met him he had been dispossessed, his father foully murdered by those who should have been loyal to him, and his sister either stolen away or murdered also.”
“Sister?” Jeannie could not help but exclaim.
