He allowed himself another, small smile. By faith, he was indeed a wicked man.
“And,” she wondered, “what does that expression mean? An instant ago you looked ready to throttle me.”
Could she read him so well? “I think only of your safety, Jeannie, and that you should not linger here and so risk yourself.”
“At this moment,” she confessed, “I care little for risk.” She leaned up and whispered against his lips, “I want to stay.”
“Then best to ask me prettily,” he bade her.
And she did.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“My son is dead.” The Dowager Avrie spoke the words in a stark, level voice that nevertheless betrayed her pain. “Have you any idea how that feels? As a woman—a widow who has lost her husband—you should.”
Jeannie carefully set down her tea cup and looked at her hostess uncertainly. The old woman must have been beautiful once. Her white hair, piled atop her head, still showed a few threads of red, and her blue eyes remained bright. But her skin had become pale and translucent as old paper, and the severity of her expression chased from her any real attractiveness. Upright as an iron rod in her chair, she betrayed no hint of actual compassion toward her guest.
Jeannie struggled to decide how to respond. A messenger had brought the invitation—or should it more rightfully be called a summons?—this morning, that the Dowager Avrie wished to entertain Jeannie MacWherter for tea. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Jeannie had come.
Now she strove to compose herself and said, “I am so sorry for your bereavement, Lady Avrie.”
“My son Gregor was a good man, an extraordinary man, one in a thousand. He did not deserve to be foully murdered.”
And what of Finnan MacAllister’s father? Jeannie wondered as she strove to keep her own face expressionless. Had he deserved to be cut down, his family shattered and his son driven out, all to satisfy another man’s greed? Revenge, as she knew, was an old game in the highlands—tit for tat, cow for cow, head for head, even woman for woman. But the situation in the glen now went far past tit for tat.
“Fortunately,” the Dowager continued with a touch of savage pride, “my grandsons have returned to set things right.”
And what of this woman’s daughter-in-law, Jeannie wondered, the mother of those sons? A woman did not achieve the title of Dowager Lady unless there existed a Lady Avrie. But Jeannie saw no evidence of her here or anywhere.
“Forgive me,” she said, investing her voice with a full measure of curiosity. “What has this to do with me?”
The Dowager Avrie swept her with a cold stare. “This monster my grandsons hunt was friend to your late husband, was he not? A close friend. ’Tis why you are in possession of Rowan Cottage.”
“Well, yes.”
The Dowager’s chin lifted a notch. “I brought you here to request your cooperation—woman to woman—and your assurance that you will do nothing to aid this vile murderer, despite that relationship.”
Alarm raced through Jeannie like liquid fire. How was she to convince this old woman with the sharp eyes of a blatant lie? For she knew to her soul she would do anything to protect Finnan—throw herself to a pack of wolves, if necessary.
Back in Dumfries, she had learned to lie. Once an honest, truthful girl, she had been forced to grow into a duplicitous woman who assured her father his acquaintances from the tavern had not called for him and, indeed, that establishment was closed today. Surely she could deceive one old woman?
“I do assure you, Lady Avrie, though my husband was associated with Finnan MacAllister years ago, that was long before my husband and I met. I have absolutely no acquaintance with the man.”His tongue, sliding over her flesh, his fingers invading her, his body claiming hers in an act of flagrant completeness…“Your grandsons have already impressed upon me how dangerous he is. I want only to keep out of what sounds a dangerous situation.”
“It is most important you offer him no succor, give him no aid of any kind. My grandsons have him well trapped and are watching his every move, tightening their net around him.”
Jeannie’s heart began to struggle in her breast. Was it so? Did they, then, know that she and Finnan had been together? Did this old woman play at a game of her own? Jeannie would not put it past her.
Danny had left her cottage early this morning, slipped out into the mist to join his master, and much recovered. Had his departure been observed?
“And,” she asked, knowing she should not, “what will your sons do with this villain once they catch him?” It should be of no concern to her; she would do much better demonstrating indifference. But to save her life she could not manage that.
The Dowager Avrie’s eyes gleamed. “He shall be treated as he deserves.”
Jeannie trembled and strove mightily to conceal it. “You will call the magistrates? Cause him to stand trial?”
The Dowager gave a thin smile. “That is not the way things are done here in the highlands. We make our own justice.”
“So you mean to kill him.” Jeannie had no idea now what showed in her face. With panic beating at her, she scarcely cared.
