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"Think nothing of it, lady."

Alistair's voice was as impersonal as if she had committed some trifling offense; trodden on his toe, perhaps, or neglected to pass him the salt. But his eyes were bright with the same pain she was feeling now, the same aching loss and emptiness.

She pulled on her gloves, smoothing each finger carefully, trying to match his outward composure.

"Will you be staying?" she asked politely.

"Nay."

"But—" she stopped, controlled herself, and went on calmly. "Where do you go from here?"

He shrugged. "Wherever the wind blows me, I suppose."

Only a man could afford to be so careless! So long as he had that bright sword to protect him, Alistair could come or go exactly as he pleased. But Deirdre had no such freedom. She was a woman, alone and unprotected, a dangerous thing to be in this time and place.

The Normans had succeeded in imposing their laws and customs in parts of Ireland, but they had never gained a firm foothold in Donegal. There Deirdre would have at least some standing under law. But she was not in Ireland now. She was in Scotland, a country that was not only indifferent to women, but positively hostile.

Here she had no rights but those her husband—or now, his father—might grant her. If she did not succeed in getting Maeve to Ireland, her daughter would grow to womanhood in this hateful place, forever the property of one man or another.

Love might be fine for songs and stories, Deirdre thought, but this was real life. Her life. And she alone would steer her course. Never again would any man have the slightest influence on her decisions. She would be cool and rational, and her choices would be based on reason, not the ebb and flow of her desire.

"God keep you, lady," Alistair said formally. He bowed, turned, and walked from the chapel.

She watched him go, blinking furiously against the weak and foolish tears that stung her eyes. Well, at least she was safe now from her own ridiculous fancies. Having found and lost Alistair Kirallen, no man would ever tempt her into folly again.

CHAPTER 1O

Maxwell made his announcement that night in the hall. Jennie, seated beside Deirdre, burst into noisy tears and flung her arms around her sister-in-law.

"Poor Dee," she wailed. "Poor lass. Go on, ye can cry, 'tis better if ye do—"

Deirdre closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Jennie was a nice lass, but she was a fool if she thought Deirdre would ever grieve for Brodie.

I'm sorry for you, Brodie, she thought. I am sorry I feel naught by joy that you are gone. May God have mercy on your soul, for I have none in me for you. And now I'm free!

"There, now, bear up," Jennie whispered, patting her hand.

Deirdre wanted to scream at her sister-in-law's innocent solicitude, to pull her hand free and shout out the truth to them all. Instead she bowed her head and managed a brave smile. Let them believe what they wanted to believe. She was going home.

"I have given some thought to your future, daughter."

Deirdre turned toward her father-in-law with surprise. The man had disapproved of her from the start, and his disapproval had taken the form of ignoring her entirely. When forced to speak to her, he never addressed her by name. "You," he would say when he wanted her attention. "You, pass me the porridge."

Never once had he called her daughter. Until now.

"Have you, my lord?" she said politely. "So have I."

He waved one plump hand, dismissing her thoughts upon the matter.

"Kinnon is in need of a wife," he said. "I've given ye to him."

Deirdre looked past Maxwell to his second son, seated on his other side. Kinnon was a small man with sandy thinning hair and a perpetually anxious expression. Now he caught her eye and smiled nervously.

"Thank you," Deirdre said crisply. "But I plan to return to my father's house as soon as possible."

Maxwell's small eyes narrowed above the pouches of flesh. "Ye'll do no such thing."

"Indeed I shall," Deirdre said with icy dignity. "My father insisted on the arrangement. In the event that I was widowed, I was to return home if such was my desire." With a good bit of gold, she thought, but did not quite dare add the words.