He knew then this was no cowed maid. She must be full partners with her husband in this evil endeavor.
He closed his eyes on a rush of pain far fiercer than that which pulled at his shoulder. Pegged out and secured hand and foot to iron shackles driven between the stones of the floor, he believed he would die here in the place his father had loved, now gutted by fire and partly open to the sky. For Avrie and his men had dragged him not back to Avrie House, but to Dun Mhor.
Open sky soared above him, the sunlight in his eyes shifting to the west. He supposed it fitting that he should end up here, where his father had received his death wound, his blood flowing onto these same stones.
“Deirdre,” he said, only that, for his sorrow half choked him.
“Aye, Brother dearie?” She paced with deliberate steps beside his head and gazed down at him. Such hate flared in her eyes that for an instant he thought she meant to kick him, and he braced himself for the pain.
“Do you know me, Finnan? I confess I would not have recognized you. All those nasty scars and pictures on your skin. Whatever would Ma say? What would she think of her bonny boy now?”
“Or her daughter,” he grated.
“Ah, but in the end she cared far less for me than for you. She proved that, did she not, the night Da died? When she thought she could save but one of us, she ran to you.”
Again Finnan craned his neck, trying to see her face where she stood above him, a dark silhouette against the dying sun.
“She only came to me because she believed our enemies would slaughter me in order to gain control of the glen. ’Twas no preference.”
“But”—Deirdre’s voice, clear and strident, overrode his words—“they did not hurry to slaughter you, did they? Instead they came to my chamber, a troop of men, terrifying in the dark, and dragged me from my bed and away.”
Finnan narrowed his eyes against the glare and wondered what he heard in her voice besides anger. Hard to tell, with that brittle cruelty overlying all.
“We tried to find you as soon as Ma roused me, Deirdre. We both did.”
“I believe you, darling brother—truly I do. ’Tis what happened after that sticks in my craw. For what did you do when you failed to find me?” She bent toward him, leaned down, and her face swam into view. “You saved yourself. You buggered off away out of the glen and left me in their hands.” He saw it then, the bright desire for vengeance in her eyes. “’Tis for that, my dearest brother, you will now pay.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Well, Wife, and if you are done reuniting with your brother, I think we had best finish this.” Stuart Avrie walked slowly into the chamber, his expression guarded, and took up a place at Deirdre’s side. Aye, Finnan thought, and the man came armed for the job with sword and dirk thrust through his belt, both of which glittered in the dying light.
And so his life would end on a blade after all, following his wandering and fighting, all the battles and struggles. He once more raised his eyes to the sky. At least he would die in this place he loved more than his own existence.
He moved his gaze from that beloved sky to his sister’s face. Her hair shone in a halo of red, and that of the man beside her in gold.
“Ah, no, Husband. I have only begun to pay my beloved brother as he deserves.”
Pay as he deserves. Finnan heard an echo of his own words, his own sentiments, in hers. He had lost the past ten years of his life to the need for vengeance in one form or another. It seemed Deirdre had, as well. Aye, so, and they were far too alike.
That hard knowledge seemed to settle beneath his breastbone like a rock.
Deirdre stepped closer, reached out with one foot, and caressed Finnan’s cheek with her toe. Finnan could feel the waves of hate coming off her and knew this gesture for the precursor to pain. He stiffened in an effort to prepare himself but, again, the foot did not strike.
Instead, Deirdre slanted a look at her husband. “Surely you will not deny me my satisfaction? Have I ever denied you yours?”
Stuart Avrie stepped forward also. His arm snaked around Deirdre’s waist in a gesture of pure possession, and he drew her against his side. Finnan’s jaw clenched as he watched the man’s hand stroke her hip and move lower. For an instant he was sure he would vomit; somehow he choked back the sickness.
“Satisfaction,” Stuart echoed, “or revenge?”
Deirdre smiled, and again Finnan saw himself in her face. “They are one,” she purred.
Finnan closed his eyes because, suddenly, he did not want to behold that sharp avarice in a face so like his own. He had never denied himself that sort of satisfaction—not against Gregor Avrie, not against Jeannie MacWherter.
Jeannie. A vision of her swam into his mind: golden hair spilling down across her shoulders, bodice unfastened, and desire in those wide, blue eyes.
Desire…or was that love?
Nay, Jeannie had never really loved him, though he had invited that emotion in hopes he might wound her more deeply. It had been mere lust they shared. He doubted her capable of actual love.
