Page 22

Deirdre had spent the fortnight past surrounded by people, all of them with heads bent in prayer. She wondered how many were praying that Brodie might return in good health, and how many, like herself, were besieging God with heartfelt petitions that he would not come back at all.

As the priest hurried through the mass, Deirdre tried to order her jumbled thoughts into coherent prayer. It was wrong, she knew, to be praying that Brodie might be dead. Yet it would be a lie to ask for anything else.

"Dear St. Brighid," she pleaded silently, "You know what is in my heart. All I ask is the strength to bear God's will."

And that was the best that she could do. Brodie's God was a stern and fearsome stranger, but St. Brighid would understand. She would know that Deirdre was suspended on the edge of hope and fear, so tightly strung that she would shatter at a touch.

The three men who had witnessed Brodie's fall all agreed there was little hope he had survived it. As the days passed, the household began to change "little hope" to "no hope at all," but Deirdre did not dare believe it. In her dreams Brodie came back again, skin livid, eyes blank and empty, water weed tangled in his dripping hair. And his anger had been terrible.

Brodie could still return. Any moment now, he could walk into the hall and obliterate her every hope of freedom. She would not—she could not start believing herself a widow, for if it came to naught, she would run mad.

As she left the chapel, a man was waiting by the nave, hood drawn far across his face. But even before Deirdre saw his face, she knew him. Thank you, St. Brighid, she thought with a dizzying wave of relief. All will be well, everything will be all right now that Alistair is here.

She stopped short, hardly noticing the others passing by her, glad she had a moment to compose herself before she spoke to him. He might have news, she told herself sternly. It was for that she felt the gladsome leaping of her pulse.

As the others passed, she drew a bit aside. Alistair waited until they were alone before he spoke.

"I've come from Maxwell," he said. "He has called off the search."

"Called off?" Deirdre repeated, not daring to believe that the words meant what they seemed to mean.

"Aye. He's given up on finding Brodie's body. He will be naming Kinnon as his heir."

What would Kinnon think of that? she wondered numbly. Would he be glad or sorry? Kinnon was always so secretive that it was impossible to guess. He would have to marry now, she thought, and wondered who he would choose...

Then her thoughts stopped with a jerk. What difference did it make to her what happened here now? She was free. I can go home, she thought, the blood draining from her face as the reality hit her. Home to Ireland, to Donegal, her family, where she and Maeve would be safe.

"Lady—" Alistair said, concerned, putting strong hands on her shoulders as she swayed. "Are ye all right? Come, sit down, I know this must be a shock—"

A shock? Deirdre felt the wild laughter rising to her throat and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Alistair drew her close and she leaned her head against his shoulder, part of her mind noting that they fit together perfectly, just as she had known they would. He held her as her body shook with helpless laughter that quickly changed to tears.

"Lady—Deirdre—God's blood, I'm so sorry. I should not have told ye like this—"

"Oh, yes," she gasped. "Better you—better here—than before them all—"

His cloak was rough against her cheek and he smelled of woodsmoke and clean fresh air. When he bent to her, murmuring comforting words in his deep soft voice, his hair brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, and after a time she grew calmer.

"There," she said at last, drawing a hitching breath and giving him the best smile she could manage. "It's all right. I'll be fine now."

"Will you?"

She looked into his eyes and saw he was still worried, still blaming himself for her outburst. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'm glad you did."

She realized that his arms were still clasped around her waist and knew she should step back. Instead she lifted her face to his and closed her eyes.

"Deirdre," he said roughly. "I must go—and—and you—"

His breath was warm against her lips. They were so close she could feel his heart racing as wildly as her own. She lifted herself, felt her mouth brush his, and then with a muffled groan he pulled her more tightly into his arms and kissed her.

It was very different from the brush of mouth on mouth that he had given her on Beltane Eve. This was no dream, but very real, a shattering burst of sensation that flooded her with heat. His beard was rough against her cheek, his lips firm and supple as they parted hers. She wound her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with desperate need.

When he drew back at last, Deirdre sighed, nestled close in the safety of his arms, his lips moving against her brow, her neck. How perfect, she thought drowsily. How right. Can this really be happening to me?

Stop, a voice said in her mind. It was a cold voice, very clear, entirely without emotion. Here you are on the brink of freedom, and what are you doing? Behaving like some witless wanton, throwing yourself at this man—a banished man, an outcast—who can bring you nothing but unhappiness and disgrace! What kind of mother could so soon forget her daughter's future?

She pulled away abruptly. "I am sorry," she heard the cold voice say. "I was—upset."