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"I know of no such arrangement," Maxwell said. "And I've already decided the matter. Ye should be grateful Kinnon will have ye," he added nastily. "'Tisn't every man who'd agree to take a dried up bag o' bones to wife."

Deirdre let the insult pass, instead seizing on the lie he'd told so casually. He did know about the arrangement between Brodie and her father. It was one reason he had been against the marriage from the start, saying Brodie had been swindled. It wasn't for any love of her that he wanted to keep her close, but to get out of paying the widow's rights she had been promised.

"I am going home," she said firmly. "And my daughter with me."

"The lassie is a Maxwell," the old man said shrewdly. "I am the one to say whether she comes or goes. I suppose I canna stop ye from running back to Ireland, if such be your desire. But I will never give ye leave to take—ah—to take my granddaughter out o' Scotland."

He doesn't even know her name, Deirdre thought furiously. Maeve is nothing but a pawn to him. He knows I would never leave my child behind.

"So that's settled, daughter," he said. "Ye'll wed Kinnon and we'll say no more about it."

Deirdre bent her head. It wasn't difficult to summon a few tears, not when she could have cast herself on the floor and wailed in rage at the ruin of her plan. Maxwell's lips curved in a satisfied smile as the tears trailed down her cheeks.

Settled, is it? she thought, allowing a tiny sob escape her lips. We'll see about that, you horrid old toad. Beneath downcast lashes, her eyes gleamed with new determination as she plotted her escape.

CHAPTER 11

Alistair added a few sticks to the fire, then leaned his back against an oak and stretched his feet toward the blaze. The rabbit he had snared was browning nicely and its scent was carried on a crisp autumn breeze, mingling pleasantly with the scents of woodsmoke and damp leaves. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the evening: the splash of water over stone, the trilling of the birds among the trees, the crackle of the flame and the small hissing sound the rabbit's fat made as it dripped into the fire.

They came seldom, these moments of contentment, rare and precious gifts. Fergus said this state was what all men strove for, which was something of a joke as the essence of contentment was the very lack of striving. It could not be bought with gold nor won by force of arms. The only way to find it was to stop looking altogether.

It was very strange, he thought. When he left Deirdre Maxwell in the chapel, he had ridden forth in the blackest despair. But for the past two days he had felt curiously empty. He had meant to travel much farther before stopping, for he was a bit too close to Kirallen's border for his comfort. But something about this small sunlit clearing had called to him and he had given into the temptation to idle away an afternoon. Why not, after all? The day was warm and he had nowhere particular to go. But the afternoon had turned to night and still he lingered, and now another day had passed.

He turned the rabbit on its spit. At least the corbies had vanished from his life. For that, he was grateful. That Deirdre Maxwell had vanished just as surely, he did not want to think about, for he resented every moment she occupied his thoughts. Waking, he could keep her at bay, but at night she persisted in invading his dreams.

She came to him as he slept, crowned by a shining nimbus of glowing stars, moving with the regal bearing of a queen. Her hair was loose and flowing as it had been beside the pool, her mouth soft and welcoming beneath his as it had been that evening in the chapel...and in the dream things went much farther than a kiss...

He muttered a curse and turned the rabbit again, forcing his thoughts back to the present. Tonight he would eat and he would sleep, well and deeply—God grant without dreams—and tomorrow he would see what happened next.

It amused him that he, who had always planned his life—and Ian's, too, as well as Ian's men—down to the smallest detail, was now content to let tomorrow unfold before him. It would be good or bad, but worrying wouldn't change that. Fergus would say that good and bad were an illusion; the day would simply be what it was. It was he who put his judgment on it.

He walked to the edge of the clearing, then through a small belt of trees and looked down into the sweep of the valley below. The afternoon was drawing on and a chill mist crept up from the river, shrouding the bottom of the valley. Sunlight caught the edges of the vapor, turning it to a glittering web.

He perched on a rock and drew one knee up, clasping his arms around it. He was waiting, he realized, but for what? For some sense of purpose to magically appear? For the death the corbies seemed to promise? Or was he simply waiting for the mist to rise? He had a sudden image of himself upon the rock as the mist enfolded him, muffling all sight and sound. When it cleared, the rock would be empty.

He smiled and rested his chin upon his knee. There was no hurry. Sooner or later, something would happen. He would wait.

Deirdre paused on the edges of the forest, every muscle tensed as she peered back through the trees. Damn this fog! She could not see above ten yards. But then, she thought, the Maxwells could not see her, either.

"Mam—"

"Hush," Deirdre ordered sternly.

When Maeve's chin quivered and her eyes filled with tears, Deirdre was stricken with remorse.

"I'm sorry, love," she said, catching her child in her arms. "You've been a good lass, very good. Just be brave a little longer, all right? Can you do that? Soon we will stop and rest."

"Aye, Mam," Maeve said, her head drooping.

Deirdre listened hard. No hoofbeats. No hounds baying. No horn winding through the forest. They were safe—for now. But tomorrow the hunt would start again.

A wave of weariness hit her, but she straightened her back and lifted Maeve to the saddle, leading the mare carefully through the wood. When she caught the scent of roasting meat she stopped. Maxwell's men? She did not know, but she could take no chances. Moving slowly, wincing at every crackle of twig beneath the horse's hooves, she turned to her left, preparing to go around them.

Half an hour later Deirdre knew she was lost. The sun was hidden, and without it to guide her, she feared she had turned around and was going back the way she had come.

Stop, she thought, leaning wearily against an oak. Think a bit. Don't go off in a mad rush, for that will gain you nothing. She looked around carefully, seeing that over to the right, the trees thinned.

"This way," she said to Maeve, heading for the edge of the treeline and passing through it. A moment later she stopped in her tracks, hands white-knuckled on the reins.