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"Star," Maeve mumbled sleepily. "Sir Star."

"That's right," Deirdre said, smiling a little, remembering her own mother telling her this story. "Sir Star is his master, and he is a wise knight, kind and very brave. Sometimes, when the moon is full and bright and there is none to mark his going, Sir Star slips down to earth to fight for those who have no champion. His sword is made from starlight and his cloak is woven from the mist...he can summon the mist at will, my love, bid it come or go as he pleases. He travels often under its disguise..."

Lost in her own story, Deirdre started as the door flew open. Maeve sat up and began to cry.

"Can ye no' shut the brat up?"

"Hush, Brodie," Deirdre said. "She's near asleep."

Brodie stood swaying by the door, his feet set wide apart and a scowl upon his face.

"Hush, ye say?" he demanded truculently.

"Here, Anice."

Deirdre pushed the child into the nurse's arms, tears stinging her eyes as she pulled the screaming baby's hands from around her neck.

"I'll quiet her," Brodie said, taking a step forward.

"Now, there's no need to upset yourself," Deirdre said, forcing herself to smile as she took her husband's hand in hers. "You must get to sleep and rest for the battle."

Brodie glared at her, then at the child crying in her nurse's arms. Deirdre held her breath, waiting to see what he would do next. From the moment of Maeve's birth he had shown no fondness for the girl but only rage that she had not been born a boy. But thus far he had been content to take his disappointment out on Deirdre.

Deirdre could bear what she must—she had chosen to wed him, after all, and would keep her part of the bargain. But on the day he lifted a hand to Maeve, Deirdre would kill him, even if she hanged.

"Well, keep her quiet," Brodie muttered.

"Anice will," Deirdre said, steering him through the door to their own chamber. "And now you must rest, Brodie. 'Tis very late. Are you not pleased with the muster?" she went on quickly. "They seem good men all..."

He allowed himself to be led to the great bed and fell backward upon it.

"My boots," he ordered.

"Aye, Brodie, I have them," Deirdre said, pulling the first one from his foot and turning her face away from the stench of his woolen hose. She'd made him countless pairs over the years, but he could seldom be convinced to change one for the next.

By the time she tossed the second boot aside he was snoring heavily. Deirdre breathed a quick prayer of relief.

She went to a small table set before the window and poured water from the pitcher. She washed her hands and unbraided her hair, combed it smooth and plaited it into a shining rope, then bound it tightly beneath the coif.

Brodie did not like for even a wisp of hair to show. He seemed to think the very sight of it might drive a man to lustful thoughts, which would perforce be Deirdre's fault. It made no sense to her, for surely a man was responsible for his own thoughts and actions, but she had learned not to argue with what in Brodie passed for reason.

The chamber was small but snug, warmed by the fire burning in the hearth. For a moment Deirdre remembered her own chamber in Donegal. She had always been cold there, for it had no hearth at all, and the fresh sea wind whistled through the chinks in the old stone walls. When it rained they went about placing buckets to catch the drips from the gaping roof. In the last two years before she left the drips had turned to steady streams and even when the rain stopped, the smell of mold had clung to every chamber.

Well, it must be mended now, she thought. Even if Father is a wee bit reckless with a coin, he is not completely without sense. At least part of Brodie's gold must have been put to good use.

She turned back to the table and washed her hands again, then held them up, still dripping. How ugly they were! Twenty years old and look at her, worn to nothing, with hands as rough and brittle as a crone's. Her lips curved in a mirthless smile as she remembered Ronan Fitzgerald singing praises to her milk-white hands. But that had been four years ago, in another life entirely.

"Ah, Ronan," she whispered sadly. "I do miss you!"

She could not remember a time when she had not loved Ronan, as well as any sister ever loved a brother. If only he could have been content with that! But he could not, and she could not give him what he wanted. Now she was alone in a strange land, cut off from everyone who cared for her, entirely dependent on a man who was touched with madness.

A hard bargain, she thought, staring at her sleeping husband, but she had made it for herself.

She ached for the old castle by the sea, to hear her father's laugh and see her sister Siobhan again. If only she had not been so hasty in her choice! Better she had jumped from the cliffs before doing what she'd done.

She wiped impatiently at her wet cheeks and patted her coif, making sure it sat straight upon her head, then walked back into the nursery.

At least one good thing has come out of the wreckage of my life, Deirdre thought, gazing down upon her sleeping child. Maeve's dark curls were spread out on the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her sleep-flushed cheek. Deirdre had never imagined herself capable of the fierce, protective love she felt for her daughter, a love that grew deeper with each passing day.