“Aila!” Finn’s heart stopped when at the end of the long tunnel in a circle of light he saw her with the barrel of a blunderbuss inches from her face. It spiraled into a chaotic rhythm when her arm came around and caught the black silhouette between them on the side of the head with a handful of iron chain.
He wasn’t about to wait and see if the blow were sufficient to free her from danger. Sprinting forward he drove his shoulder into the man’s back the moment the tunnel was thrown into darkness when the candle hit the floor. Through the door which slammed back under their weight and not stopping until he’d pushed the blackguard to the ground. Finn heard a groan, then a growl as canine paws scaled his back as though he were Ben Nevis.
Rab.
Snarling, snapping. Pained human howls met Finn’s ears. Satisfying. Not satisfying enough. Light grew behind him as Finn flipped the villainous wretch over, barely registering his identity before he pounded a fist into the man’s face. Again and again, with the fury and worry of the past few hours behind every blow. Blood flew, the arms flailing in defense and the groans of protest subsided. Even Rab gave up his attack to lick his chops with satisfaction and punctuate it with a bored yawn.
“I think ye got him, my friend.” Ian clapped him on the back.
“Finn?”
Another hand, this one soft and tender, entreated him, and he obeyed the sweet snare of Aila’s voice. He climbed to his feet and drew her into his arms, reveling in the warm press of her body down the length of his. His lass was brave and strong, no matter what she thought to the contrary. “Losh, lass, I thought he was going to kill ye.”
“He dinnae.”
“Who is that?”
They both turned without parting to look where Tris pointed. Derne. Eyes wide, face slack. Drenched in blood from the neck down.
“Derne, the duke’s steward,” Ian told the others.
“If he was behind it all along, who is this guy?” Brontë asked.
“This is Mr. Boyce’s son. He’s the one who poisoned the millstone. Derne was little more than a dog-killing bastard,” Aila told them, turning to her friend. “By the way, I’m supposed to tell ye, ye’re right. Dodging bullets is nae fun. Especially when dodging disnae work.”
Brontë’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh my God, what happened?”
“I’ll tell ye later.” Aila slipped out of Finn’s embrace and dropped down to gather Rab in her arms and lavish her love upon him. Smoothing her hands over his head and ears, she looked into his eyes and praised him. “Ye’re such a good lad, Rabbie. Ye saved me, dinnae ye? Aye, ye did.”
Finn refused to consider that it was jealousy that gripped him. He had no reason to be jealous of a dog when she’d confessed her love. To him.
That didn’t stop him. “Ye give all the credit to the beastie?”
She grinned up at him. “Och, ye’re a good lad, too, Finn.”
Never let it be said he couldn’t laugh at himself. Lightness filled his heart….
And as quickly froze to ice.
Battered and bleeding, but with the power of rage still burning in his eyes, Elliot raised the blunderbuss off the floor, the angle of the barrel wavered at Aila’s back—
“Nay!”
Finn dove forward between the two as a blast echoed through the small room. Fire cleaved his side like a bayonet propelled by a Redcoat. What a memory. Undimmed by time. Pain was the least of his concerns. Rolling on his side, he reached for Aila. “Lass? Are ye unhurt?”
“Are ye mad!” she screamed at him, losing every last drop of the tantalizing composure her sweet brogue normally carried. “What were ye thinking?”
“I was thinking there was nae chance in hell I was going to lose the woman I love.”
Chapter 39
The woman I love.
“Are ye certain ye dinnae want me to take ye to see a doctor?” she pressed for the third — or was it the twelfth? — time. The musket ball had entered through the fleshy muscle above Finn’s hipbone. Had it passed all the way through it might have hit her still. Ian had found it — Finn refusing the duke’s surgeon, as well — partially exposed on the opposite side. Even Aila, quaking from head to toe with worry, would have been able to retrieve it.
“I’ll have nae quack prodding at me.”
“They’re nae quacks where I’m from. They’re highly educated professionals.” He shot her a dark, pained glare and she ceased arguing with him. “Fine, but if there’s even the slightest infection, I’m no’ giving ye a say in the matter.”
