****
“I have to thank you, Mistress MacWherter. My inestimable brother will be glad to see you.”
Deirdre Avrie spoke the words in a purr that carried the bite of an adder. She lounged, all confidence, in one of the chairs pushed back from the table of what had once been the dining hall of Dun Mhor. This room appeared only partially gutted by the fire that had heavily damaged the other chambers Jeannie had seen. Part of the ceiling lay open to the sky, and the delicate sunlight filtered in.
It lent a reddish halo to Deirdre’s hair and swirled dust motes before Jeannie’s eyes. Stuart Avrie, who held Jeannie captive, had both her arms pinned hard behind her back. So far he had not spoken. Was he in shock over what had just happened outside?
Jeannie’s mind stuttered over it: Danny had fought valiantly and was now wounded, he, Jeannie, and Aggie all prisoners. Their rescue plan lay in shreds.
She sagged in Stuart’s grasp and almost fell down. Without pity, he hauled her up again.
Deirdre leaned toward Jeannie; the smile she had employed outside once more twisted her features. “Do you not wish to know why I should thank you, Mistress MacWherter?”
Jeannie shook her head, too sick to speak.
“But I will tell you anyway: I have not been able to break my brother, not all this night past.”
Jeannie’s throat closed abruptly even as her stomach heaved. Terrible images flooded her mind and paralyzed her tongue.
“But now you have presented the weapon I need. The question is, how best to use you? Tell me, have you slept with him? Have you had him in your bed?”
Jeannie’s throat spasmed, and Deirdre laughed. “You need not answer, I can see it in your eyes. I suppose he thinks he owns you, like everything else in this place. Interesting.”
Somehow Jeannie fought through the terror and sickness to say, “He does not care for me. It is as you said outside—he cares only for himself.”
“Oh, there can be no question he does no’ love you. You have that right—he loves no one but the grand Finnan MacAllister. But he will fight to preserve whatever he believes belongs to him.”
Jeannie spoke again through wooden lips. “That night—so long ago, when your father died—Finnan did not want to leave you. He agonized over it.”
Deirdre laughed again, a shrill sound. “Stuart, husband mine, only hear her defend him!”
Stuart grunted in response. Jeannie could feel emotions streaming from him, though she could not identify them.
“He had years—years—in which he might have tried to rescue me, though after the first few I would have refused to leave this new family of mine. Fine and fierce they are, and know how to hate.”
“Let Danny and Aggie go,” Jeannie urged. “They are of little value to you. I will persuade Finnan. Only let me see him.”
“Oh, you shall see him, right enough. And we just may let your two companions go. What do you say, Husband? The man is sore injured, after all, and the maid useless. We might show some mercy.”
Stuart grunted again, and Deirdre said, “Mistress MacWherter, I might even let you go, once you have served your purpose. But that all depends, does it not, on whether my brother is willing to sacrifice himself for you?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Finnan stirred painfully in his bonds when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Geordie had left him at some point during the night, when Deirdre returned with her blade, but Finnan sensed he had not retreated far and would be there when Finnan released his hold on this life and slipped into the next.
And what would follow then? Would the two of them—he and Geordie—inhabit some warriors’ afterlife consisting of endless battles and wandering? Would there be no peace?
Peace, the trout had whispered in his ear, back in the pool. Aye, but he had chosen revenge. If he could do it all over again…
Ah, and what would he do different? Refuse to avenge his father? Find a way to rescue his sister? Call off his campaign of revenge against Jeannie MacWherter?
Jeannie.A bright image of her flowed into his mind, and his poor heart bounded. If only he might see her one more time.
But he knew he would be granted no such miracle. The stone floor stretched cold at his back, and the bright sky yawned above, mocking him. He had prayed to that sky all night, each time Deirdre employed her blade, driven by the pain not in his flesh but his heart.
And now, when he heard those footsteps, he lacked the strength to lift his head. How much more could his sister hurt him?
The door of his prison, singed and half burned away, swung open upon three figures: Stuart Avrie, Deirdre, and—
