She shook her head. “I cannot quite say. I know Stuart rues each my brother has slain—but ’twould not take much to overpower Finnan now. The only way I see out of it is for my vile husband to die and his brother with him.”
“And,” Jeannie asked, greatly daring, “would you help Finnan accomplish even that?”
“Of course,” Deirdre said without hesitation. “But just as I would love to see Finnan, ’tis impossible. I am naught but another weapon in my husband’s hands.”
“There must be a way. If I arrange a meeting—” But that would mean seeing Finnan MacAllister again, and Jeannie did not know if her heart—her soul—could withstand it.
Light flared in Deidre’s eyes. “I would be most grateful if you could arrange a meeting place—here perhaps, or somewhere else in the glen.”
“If I did, would you be able to slip away once more?”
Deirdre shook her head again. “I hope so, but I cannot promise. I am watched.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “And I would not wish to bring more harm down upon him.”
“We will need to be very careful then.”
“Aye. When you ha’ arranged something, send word to Avrie House by your little maid. I will do my best to get away.”
Deirdre made to rise then, hesitated, and gave Jeannie another searching glance. “Do you love him, my brother?”
Not something Jeannie wanted to contemplate. She knew she still cared far too much, but surely her softer, more tender feelings had all been killed the moment he stalked from her bedroom. She examined the shreds of her heart and honesty caused her to say, “Yes.”
“You are a good woman.”
Your brother does not think so. Those words nearly crept from Jeannie also, but she held them back. Aggie was right about this woman—something in her repelled confidences: the iron she had developed, no doubt, in order to endure her life.
No matter. So long as she helped Finnan, all might still come right for him.
And, quite clearly, Jeannie was past saving.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Let us go back to Rowan Cottage, Master Finnan,” Danny begged. “These wounds of yours need tending, far more care than I can manage here.”
Desperate, sore, and near run to exhaustion, Finnan MacAllister shook his head. Not that, not Rowan Cottage—he could never return. There existed no refuge anywhere for him now.
For he had burnt that bridge, had he not? Sent it up in howling flames. He remembered again how still Jeannie had lain when he delivered his killing blow—indeed, like a woman slain—how her naked limbs, the sweet curves of the body he had just loved shone dim white in the quiet of her bedroom, unmoving.
She might at least have given him the satisfaction of some reaction—anger, grief. He—Geordie—deserved that. Instead he could not get over the notion that he had left her killed.
And he wanted to go back. Oh aye, he did—he told himself he wanted to see how she fared, savor the pain in her eyes, feel her hatred. For surely she hated him now as only a spurned woman could hate. Trouble was he did not quite believe that was all he wanted.
He had grown accustomed to Jeannie MacWherter during his campaign to destroy her, to the look in those wide blue eyes, the way intelligence or rueful laughter lit them. He had grown used to the warmth of her flesh and the taste of her lips. He told himself he ached for those, nothing more.
Yet ache he did.
Were he honest, he would admit nothing had gone right since he broke Jeannie’s heart. He’d had an unfortunate encounter with Trent Avrie’s men in which he took a deep wound to his shoulder that hampered him yet. He had barely escaped with his life and had not been able to stop and rest since. Harried continually, he and Danny had been all up and down the glen.
At least Danny seemed to have conquered his fever, Finnan reflected, and regained strength even as Finnan lost his. He had to admit it: he could not recall when he had been lower in body or spirit.
“Never mind. Just pack the wound with that yarrow,” he told Danny now, brusquely.
They had paused high on a slope at the north end of the glen. From here Finnan could watch for signs of pursuit. Yet he knew they could not remain up among the boulders long—it would be too easy to be spotted in turn.
Somehow he would have to find the strength to move on.
He grunted in pain as Danny began to pack his shoulder, the lad’s hand moving as gently as possible. He dragged his thoughts away from Rowan Cottage once again.
“We should move south, Master Finnan,” Danny said, precisely as if he had heard Finnan’s thoughts. “I am that sure Aggie and her mistress would not mind helping us again.”
