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She smiled and lay back against the pillows, holding out her arms. His eyes locked with hers, he unfastened his cloak and let it fall to the floor, then kicked off his boots and pulled the velvet tunic over his head. Still tangled in its folds, he grinned, feeling her hands tugging impatiently at the fastenings of his trews.

When he slipped naked into bed beside her, she turned to him, her warmth enfolding him as he took her in his arms. He kissed her long and deeply, feeling her heart pounding against his chest in rhythm with his own. But that was only right. She was a part of him now—or had she always been? He did not know, nor did it matter, for she was his and he was hers...and tomorrow all the world would know it.

He drew back and stroked the hair from her brow, seeing his own wondering joy reflected in the depths of her sapphire eyes.

"Oh, Alistair, I'm so happy...I never thought to feel like this. Tell me it is real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Say I am not dreaming."

"Oh, no, lady, this is my dream, not yours!" She laughed and he bent to her again, his lips just brushing hers. "And a verra pleasant one it's turning out to be."

CHAPTER 42

"Ronan, you would try the patience of a saint!" Alyson said, exasperated. "The start of winter is no time to be setting off. Stay at least until the spring!"

"I thank you, but no," he answered firmly, fumbling with his pack. He muttered an impatient curse, glaring down at his all-but useless left hand.

Alyson stood in the doorway of his chamber, watching him struggle with the ordinary task of tying a single knot. Though she longed to do it for him, she did not offer any help.

He managed it at last and picked up the piece of wood he carried always now, squeezing his weak fingers around it.

But getting stronger, Alyson reminded herself. Ten days ago he could not move his hand at all.

"Do you have the letter for Sir Robert?" she asked, and he patted his pack.

"I do."

"He will be glad to meet you," she said, smiling a little. "Remind him to sing you the ballad he made when he last visited us. I think you will be amused."

"I look forward to it."

He spoke politely, but she knew it was a lie. Ronan did not look forward to anything these days. But at least he had made it through Deirdre's wedding, even managing to smile as he kissed her cheek and shook Alistair's hand. That he had been dead drunk when he did it was known only to Alyson and Jemmy, who had devoted himself—quite against Alyson's wishes—to keeping Ronan well fortified with wine throughout the day.

Alyson had expected Ronan to sleep the clock around, given all he had drunk the day before. But he had been up at dawn, a bit pale but still quite determined to begone.

"Come in, lady," he said now. "You make me jumpy hovering in the doorway! No, don't try to lift that," he added sharply, taking the pack from her hand. "Sit down here—you should have a care for the babe."

"The babe will do quite well," she answered, though she did as he bade her, sinking down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "If not for you, it would be dead, and its mother with it."

He gave a half-shrug and looked uncomfortable, as he always did when she tried to thank him for what he had done for her that terrible day outside the chapel.

"'Tis a long way to London," she said. "Do you have enough for food and lodging?"

"I can still sing, lady," Ronan answered with a shrug. "And soon I will play again, as well."

She bit her lip and looked down at his harp. "Aye. But," she added tactfully, "it may be some time before you're healed enough for that."

If ever. But if Ronan heard the words she could not speak, he ignored them. That was a possibility he refused absolutely to consider.

"Oh, Ronan, won't you stay a bit longer," she pleaded. "Give yourself a chance to mend!"

He shouldered his pack and picked up the harp. "Nay, lady, I cannot." His head bent, he ran his fingers across the strings, producing a plaintive little air.

"I need time. I am happy for Dee." He glanced at Alyson and smiled wryly. "At least I'm trying to be. But 'twill be a good bit easier when there is some distance between us." He stared down at the harp, then burst out bitterly, "I feel enough of a fool as it is. All those years—loving her—and it was all a waste, for nothing!"

Alyson clenched her hands together, wondering what to say. At last she decided no words of hers could make things worse—or better—for him. She might as well tell him what she really thought.

"Love is never wasted. Think, Ronan, it was your love for Deirdre that helped her survive all those years with Brodie Maxwell. Was that a waste?"

"Well, no, if you put it like that—"