Page 107

Snow was coming, Alistair thought as he walked across the courtyard. Not tonight, but soon. He stopped outside the tower door, a cold wind snapping at the edges of his cloak. The sounds of merriment still drifted from the hall, drunken voices bawling out the words of a particularly bawd song.

He smiled and went lightly up the winding steps. By the time he reached the top, there was no need to knock, for Finn had already alerted Deirdre to his arrival.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, standing back to let him in. "I thought you'd still be down there."

"The noise was making my head ache."

"Just the noise?" she asked, lifting one dark brow.

"And the wine, as well," he admitted. He wasn't drunk, but he was not exactly sober, either, and now that his head had cleared a bit, he realized he was feeling very fine, indeed.

And why should he not? Today Jemmy had been proclaimed laird of the Kirallen clan, and every man among them had sworn their oath to him.

It had been a fine day altogether, Alistair thought. But tomorrow would be finer still.

"Why are you no' abed, lass?" he asked, pinching Deirdre's cheek. "You'll want to be fresh and rested for your wedding day!"

"I was," she answered. "Until you woke me."

"Did I?" He took a step forward and held out his arms. "God's blood, ye are beautiful tonight," he murmured against her hair. "Just like a flower, all soft and rosy with sleep—"

She skipped back. "Tomorrow is our wedding night. You must wait."

"I am not sure I can...oh, fine, then," he said as she laughed and slapped his hand. "I suppose one more night won't kill me. Though it feels as though it might."

When she smiled, the effect more dizzying than the wine he'd drunk. "But I didna come here to woo ye—or not only for that. I wanted to bring ye this."

As she took the parcel from his hand, Alistair was riveted by the way her hair spilled over her shoulders, cascading in a dark stream across the gentle swell of her breasts.

"What is it?" she said curiously, turning the flat package in her hands.

He dragged his gaze to her face. "Open it and see."

She sat down on the bed and untied the string, pulling forth a bundle of yellowed parchments. Frowning, she tipped them toward the candle's light and read the cramped writing. Her dark brows lifted and her lips parted in astonishment.

"Who sent this?"

"Kinnon Maxwell. A wedding gift of sorts."

"Blood money is more like it," Deirdre said, folding the parchment with a grimace and tossing it aside. "Does Kinnon think this will make up for what he did?"

"Ah, but Kinnon says he has done nothing!" Alistair said, his eyes moving over the rumpled bed with longing. "Claims he knew naught of what happened here, that it was a plan Calder and some renegade Maxwells brewed. Says he was shocked to hear of it."

Deirdre gave a delicate snort. "He expects us to believe that? Why, he was there with Calder when they carried you off! Ronan said—"

"Ronan said there was a man in Maxwell plaid who might—not was, Deirdre, but might—have been Kinnon." Alistair shrugged. "And I canna say myself what happened that day."

"You still don't remember any of it?"

Alistair frowned as he tried again to recall the events of that strange and terrible day three weeks ago. "Bits and pieces," he said at last. "Naught that makes much sense."

He sat down on the bed beside her and reached for her thick braid, feeling the glossy hair slide between his fingers. He brought it up and set it to his lips.

"Kinnon sent Jemmy a fine destrier, as well," he said, "A gift to the new laird, his 'trusted friend and ally.'"

"He has more nerve than I gave him credit for!" Deirdre said, whipping her braid from between his fingers. "Jemmy did not take it, did he?"

"Aye, he did."