“But”—Jeannie struggled with it—“Dun Mhor was put to flame.”
“Damaged, but not burnt down,” said Danny, bringing to mind what Finnan had told Jeannie. “Most of it still stands, if gutted. That place will be full of meaning to them—the seat of MacAllister power. They must hold him there.”
“Alive?” Jeannie turned her eyes on Aggie. “Did Dorcas know that?”
Aggie shrugged and shook her head.
“Aye, well,” Danny breathed, “we must go there, see—”
“Wait.” An idea, or the ghost of one, whispered into Jeannie’s mind. “We cannot go running off will-he, nil-he. We need something with which to bargain.”
Danny lifted his empty hand. “What?”
“Have you a weapon?”
“Just my dirk. But—”
Jeannie asked Aggie, “How many guards remain at Avrie House?” Please God they had all gone with their vile masters to Dun Mhor.
“I saw only one at the front of the house and a pair on horseback riding away northward. Why?”
“Because, as I see it, we have only one bargaining chip—and she is there, below.”
****
“Well, my friend—you have got yourself into a real bind this time, right enough.”
Every muscle in Finnan’s body leaped painfully when he heard the voice so close beside him, and he opened his eyes wide in disbelief. How much time had passed since Deirdre left him? Not as long as it seemed. The agony of his flesh stretched the time; the agony in his mind obliterated it. Now, surely, madness nibbled at him, for this presence could not be as it seemed.
He turned his head on a sickening rush of mingled horror and gladness and looked at the man who sat on the floor at his shoulder.
“Geordie MacWherter—big as life and twice as ugly.” Did he really actually speak the words? His lips moved, but he did not think any sound came.
But Geordie heard. He directed a sorrowful look at Finnan from those hazel eyes and shook his head ruefully. “Look at you, just—pinned to the stones and awaiting death. We ha’ been in many a hard place in our time, lad, but none, I am thinking, as bad as this.”
“You may be right.” Finnan’s heart lurched again as he admitted it. “But how come you here? You are—”
“Dead, aye, right enough.” Geordie gave Finnan another look. Finnan had forgotten how expressive Geordie’s hazel gaze could be, or that his friend could speak many sentences with but a glance. “But should you be so surprised to see me? Did you no’ tell my wee wife you had spoken with my shade?” Geordie spread his broad hands, palms upward. “Well, now ’tis true.”
“I am that glad to see you, despite everything.”
“And I, you. You became a habit with me, Finnan, lad, like wearing an old coat through the sunshine and rain. But you ken the thoughts in your head have power. Think them hard enough, and they will come true. ’Tis why I am here, because you made it so. You maun be careful what you think.”
“I ken that fine.”
“Aye, to be sure, you have always been like a wizard, mumbling those prayers and believing in the magic everywhere.” Geordie leaned closer and widened his eyes. “The magic is true, lad. But it must be invoked with a grateful heart. And hate kills it, sure. The trout told you that.”
So it had.
Finnan’s lips twisted in an ironic snarl. “A bit late for me now, Geordie, do you not think? Wounded—bested—I do not have long.”
“Bested? When ha’ we ever been bested?”
Finnan gave his friend a grave look. “When you were in Dumfries, it seems. Why did you not call on me? I would have come.”
“Would you?”
“I hope you know it!”
