“Miss,” Aggie hissed from the hearth, and thrust a cloth into her hands. Jeannie experienced yet another flashback to Dumfries. Aggie had been terrified of spiders, and after the death of Jeannie’s father, before the two women were tossed from his quarters, the job of removing them had fallen to Jeannie. Aggie would sidle up to her just so and hand her the dusting cloth, careful not to get too near.
Jeannie urged herself to think of Finnan MacAllister as nothing more than a great, ugly spider with which she must deal.
Impossible. The man moved with smooth, fluid grace and, well, quite honestly, was much too handsome.
“Here, Laird MacAllister.” She offered the cloth, which he ignored.
Instead, all dripping leather, wool, and hair, he stepped to the hearth, where he said, “Do you call this a fire? ’Tis a poor and pitiful excuse.”
“We have had trouble coaxing the chimney to draw,” Jeannie said a bit defensively. Also, it being August, she hated to waste fuel, of which she had precious little, though she would not admit that to him.
“There is naught wrong with the flue. I had this cottage gone over for Geordie’s sake.”
“Well”—Jeannie shifted from one foot to the other—“it will not draw.”
“That is because of the rain. The wet, heavy air damps the fire down.” Even as he spoke he plied the iron poker, showing skill he might employ with a sword, and the fire leaped up wild and bright. He tossed on more fuel, and Jeannie bit back a protest. Time enough to worry about future shortages after he left.
“There now.” He straightened and regarded her with satisfaction. “No sense you sitting here cold in your own room.”
Jeannie scowled. She found it difficult to accept this changed attitude he professed. Every instinct screamed danger, even as she offered him the cloth once more.
“As I say, Laird MacAllister, I did not expect to find you at my door.”
Busy using the cloth, he did not answer. She watched him rub his face, dab at his arms and those long, muscular legs, and swab his neck. When he took the toweling to his hair, her fingers began to itch. She wondered how it would feel to plunge them into that thick, wavy mane.
“Well, but ’tis the truth I told you,” he said in that lilting voice. “No sooner did we part yesterday than I began to regret my harsh attitude. And then I had my own visitor during the night.”
“Visitor?” Jeannie echoed, and cocked her head. What was it to her whom he entertained?
But he leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Aye, Mistress MacWherter, and it was none other than the ghost of your husband.”
Chapter Six
From the hearth came a crash as the maid dropped the tray and all its contents. At least, Finnan thought, one of the women in this house had bought his tale. His eyes moved to Jeannie and measured her reaction; would she swallow it also? An intelligent if deceitful woman, she might be far harder to fool than an empty-headed servant.
He heard her draw a sharp breath and saw annoyance flood her eyes. With him, or the maid? No doubt, he thought, she rode her servant hard.
But when she turned to the lass, she sounded patient and gentle. “Here, Aggie, pick that up best you may.”
“But I’ve broken the teapot!” the maid wailed. “And it came with us all the way from Dumfries, wrapped in your petticoat.”
“Nothing to be done about it now. Find two more cups.”
“There are no more cups!” The maid cried, clearly overset.
“Find whatever you can and pour straight from the kettle.”
Finnan heard a sob, and the girl began to gather the crockery. Jeannie, her expression indecipherable, straightened and turned back to him. “My apologies, Laird MacAllister. It seems tea will take a few moments. Will you not sit?”
There were but three seats, a narrow bench and two stools. Finnan took one of the latter, avoiding the bench that had her gown draped over it. She gathered the garment up carefully and laid it aside before seating herself in the flickering light from the candle.
Ah, and how blue her eyes looked in that golden light. He could see why poor Geordie had thought her the bonniest thing he had ever seen.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I seem to have startled your maid.”
“You make an incredible assertion, Laird MacAllister. A ghost?”
“Not just any ghost, but that of Geordie. What did he tell you of our friendship?”
