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Deirdre sat up and rubbed her eyes with shaking hands. She summoned a smile for her daughter and kissed Maeve's dark curls.

"Feeling better, sweeting? I'll find you something to eat, then."

She remembered the men below and jumped guiltily to her feet, realizing dawn was almost upon them. Brodie would be up soon, and judging by all he'd had to drink last night, his temper would be foul.

"Stay here, love," she ordered Maeve. "Quietly now, just as quiet as a mouse, until I come back."

"Aye, Mam," Maeve said, her eyes moving toward the doorway of the chamber where Brodie slept. She put a finger to her lips and nodded solemnly.

She'll be safe enough, Deirdre told herself, so long as she keeps out of Brodie's way. Aye, today she will be safe, and perhaps tomorrow, but what will become of Maeve when she grows to womanhood? She'll be married off at her father's will, and I'll have no say at all.

What if Maeve is given to a man like Brodie?

I have to save her, Deirdre thought wildly. I'll send her to my father—only for a visit—I can say 'tis for her health. If Father writes and says she died, perhaps Brodie won't question overmuch... Despair washed over her as she realized Brodie would never allow such a visit, not even if Maeve's very life depended on it.

Unless, perhaps, Deirdre could provide him with the son he craved. Then he might grant her this small thing.

"Deirdre! Damn your eyes, ye lazy bitch, where the devil are ye?"

She started at the sound of Brodie's voice, her dream-terror vivid in her mind. She remembered the rest of her dream and a hard smile touched her lips. She was twenty years old, no child now, and the time had come to accept things as they were.

There is no help for me, she thought, straightening her shoulders. But 'tis not too late for Maeve. No matter what I have to do, I will see she gets to Donegal. And once she is gone, I will see she never comes back here again.

"I'm coming, Brodie," she called.

"Mousie," Maeve said, diving under the coverlet.

"That's right," Deirdre said. "That's my good little mousie. Stay here and if you're very quiet, I'll bring you a bit of cheese."

CHAPTER 8

"Damn the man!" Ross Maxwell swore beneath his breath. "He is a fool—"

"Quiet," Alistair snapped, crouching against the outcropping of rock that shielded the two men from the fighting. "We have our orders. Now wait for his signal."

The field below was filled with shouting men and the clash of weapons echoed up the hillside.

"Pitching stones down on the Johnsons!" Ross turned his head and spat into the river raging far below. "Like as not we'll crush our own men and horses along with theirs."

"Aye, we might," Alistair agreed. "But it's his battle, his command. Look sharp, lad—"

Ross whirled, sword in hand, to face the two Johnson men who came around the bend, slipping on loose stone. Alistair sighed and held his own weapon ready. Apparently Johnson had come up with the same plan as Brodie Maxwell. Which just went to show that the two men were well matched—in idiocy if nothing else.

Ross engaged the first of the Johnsons, leaving Alistair the second. Good God, he was nothing but a child! Which was probably why he had been sent up here instead of taking part in the battle below.

And that showed that Johnson at least had a bit more sense than Brodie, who was wasting two good fighting men on a fool's errand.

Ross and the first man were slipping down the slope, their blows falling wildly in all directions. Alistair sighed again and looked at the frightened boy before him. Fifteen? Sixteen? His cheeks were downy with his first growth of beard, but the eyes above were those of a terrified child.

"Raise your sword, lad," Alistair said on an exasperated breath. "Don't just stand there like a sheep to the slaughter."

The boy lifted the heavy weapon and stood ready. "That's right," Alistair said, feinting slowly to test the boy's mettle. He had no intention of killing the child, but on the other hand, he did not mean to be so careless that the boy killed him.

He felt as if he were back at home, lessoning one of the young men in the yard. Back and forth they went until the boy began to gasp and pant with weariness. Then Alistair disarmed him with one turn of his wrist.

The boy sank to his knees and closed his eyes.

And now what? Alistair wondered. Let the boy go and he'd be bitterly shamed. No doubt he'd be armed again in no time, ready to redeem his honor by engaging the next man he saw in battle. Like as not he'd be dead by nightfall.