“But you had your own quest that led you through every hardship and back here again—you were well caught in the fight for this place. How could I call you away?”
“Because you are my friend, my brother.”
Now Geordie smiled. “Aye,” he said softly, “aye. Is it not a strange thing, Finn? We traveled so long together, yet we stayed so different. For you always thirsted after revenge, and I after love.”
“Jeannie,” Finnan said, and the emotions inside him tangled impossibly: regret, aye, and desire even now. “I paid her right well, Geordie, for what she did to you.”
Again Geordie shook his head. “Aye, you waged a right war against her, did you not? But Finn, lad, ’twas all for naught, for she did nothing to me. Have you no’ been listening? I did it all to myself: I it was who put the rise and set of the sun on how she felt for me, when she could not choose how to feel. I let her decide my worthiness—when all the while ’twas a decision I made back at Culloden that weighed on me. How many good men died because of us, Finn? When I tried to sleep, they would walk through my mind. Even the drink did not chase them, no matter how much I took.”
Realization speared through Finnan like a bolt of pain. “It was never about Jeannie, then. ’Twas about Culloden. But we made up for what we did that day. In the end, our hearts remained highland, and true.”
“Is that what you told yourself? Well, but, Finn, that did not bring back the men we slew at the outset. ’Twas they who haunted me. Sometimes they would sit down next to me in the tavern as I sit with you now, and speak of their wives and children.”
“We were mercenaries, Geordie. Hired swords!”
“Aye, and turned coat—twice.” Geordie leaned still closer. Finnan could see the flecks of brown in his eyes and follow the curl of the grouse tattooed on his cheek. “Listen to the trout, lad. Choose peace. Choose Jeannie.”
“No time.” Finnan swallowed hard. “I am going to die.”
“Ah, and where is the Finnan I know? When have you ever thought it too late for anything? How many times, lad, did you keep me going on a march with the promise of a dram or a rest at the end of some ill-fated campaign? Aye, and now you truly have something for which to live.”
“What is that? Deirdre means to kill me. My own wee sister, Geordie!”
“Aye, for she has chosen hate. There is another path for you, Finn. Listen to me, lad, if ever you have done. I wanted Jeannie to love me, aye. What man would not? But ’tis you she loves.”
Finnan closed his eyes on a terrible rush of pain. “Loved. No more, Geordie. I ha’ destroyed all that, if ever it was true.”
“If you think so, then you do not know the woman she is. Her heart may be hard won—the gods know I could not claim it. But once won, ’tis bestowed for good and all. She loves you, Finn. She loves you yet. And you love her. You need to admit it.”
“I have lost everyone I loved. My da and my mother. You. And now Deirdre. ’Tis safer not to love.”
“Safer, aye, maybe. But I can tell you, for I know—in the end ’tis the one thing that matters and worth the fight, if ever anything was.” Geordie gave Finnan the smile that had, for so many long and weary miles, traveled at his side. “I promise you, ’tis the one thing that can save you now.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Morning light broke over the glen in a delicate wave of radiance. What a morning, Jeannie MacWherter thought, to decide the outcome of her life. For after the agony of the night just past, it seemed apparent her future rested all on one question.
Did Finnan MacAllister still live?
It did not matter so much if he never saw her for the woman she was, that she might never kiss him again, or even that they would not be together at any time during that future. Her heart could continue to beat so long as Finnan lived somewhere in this world.
What difference if this scheme on which they embarked proved entirely mad? What, if she must sacrifice her own life? She knew she would trade her existence for his.
Because fight it as she might, she loved him.
Very well, then, she told the mystical, bright morning. Have it your way. I am a fool of a woman. I love the man who hates me.
Yes, and she found some small comfort in admitting it.
“Come ye out!” Danny shouted at the empty, singed doorway of Dun Mhor. “Or she dies!”
The Dowager Avrie jerked in Jeannie’s hands. There had been considerable discussion among the three of them—Danny, Aggie and Jeannie—as to how they must play out this gamble. A one-armed man could not hold a woman, even a frail, old woman, prisoner and keep a dirk at her throat. And yes, the Dowager Avrie was frail; Jeannie could feel the woman’s bones beneath her clothing, fragile as those of a bird. For Jeannie did service as captor while Danny employed his dirk.
She could not feel the Dowager breathing; it crossed her mind the woman might yet pass away in her hands and cost them their sole chance to bargain.
Jeannie heard fear in Danny’s voice, and a corresponding kick of terror tore through her gut. Aggie, standing at Jeannie’s back, went armed with a knife stolen from the kitchen of Avrie House, where they had snatched the Dowager at dawn. Jeannie dared not so much as glance at her.
People began spewing from the blackened doorway of Dun Mhor. The scene seemed to shimmer in the clear morning light: first came two men at arms, then a confusing knot of other figures, two with heads of glossy dark gold. Another had a flaming auburn mane.
