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"Why not, Deirdre?" he asked directly.

"Because he must know by now that Maxwell is looking for us. And I don't mean to be found. I'm going home and Maeve with me."

She put one hand on the child's dark head. "They won't keep her," she said with quiet vehemence. "I will not let them. And I won't stay there myself. He can say what he likes, but I'll not marry at his bidding. I am going home and no one, not the Maxwell himself, will stop me."

"Ah, I see," Alistair said. He frowned, picking at the fish. "'Tis a long way to Donegal."

She shrugged. "The journey has been made before."

"Not by a lone woman and a child with the Maxwells hunting them."

"Have you seen them?" Deirdre asked anxiously.

"All day I've heard men passing through the wood."

She paled and the strained look returned to her face. "We should go on, then."

"What, at night? Don't be ridiculous," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "Stay here where you're safe. You need to rest. And your horse—"

"The horse!" She sat up straight.

Alistair sighed. "I'll get it."

He found the mare tethered loosely just off the path and swore softly as he considered that any one of Maxwell's men could have seen her there. For that matter, his fire could draw them still.

He led the stumbling horse to the patch of grass beside the burn, hobbled her beside his own, and stamped the fire out.

"Deirdre," he said, sitting down beside her. "I understand you wish to return home, but ye canna just run off into the wood with no idea where you're going."

"I can do what I must."

Her voice was calm and very, very certain. She straightened her shoulders and looked at him coolly, as if he was a rather dim-witted servitor with no conception of royal duties.

"Perhaps ye can," Alistair said grudgingly. "But what of the child? Is it fair to drag her from her home and—"

"Fair? Aye, 'tis fair, Alistair Kirallen. Else she'll live all her life a prisoner at Cranston Keep. I will not have it," she said, as though issuing orders from a throne. "Not for her nor for myself. But that is not your worry."

"D'ye think I'll leave ye to wander until ye starve or Maxwell's men take ye?"

"Neither of those things will happen." She waved a hand, dismissing his words with an arrogance that astounded him, given her complete lack of resources. "Tomorrow or the next day we will be out of Maxwell's demesne. Without his men to trouble us, we can keep to the path and make good time. I thank you for the meal and fire," she added graciously. "But from here on in we shall be fine."

She meant it. Every foolish word that came from her lips was spoken with complete conviction. She was lost in the forest, without food, without a plan, without the slightest idea of what she was facing. Yet for all that, he had been dismissed. She did not want his help.

"Fine?" he snapped. "That I doubt. Maxwell will never give up until he finds ye. Best go back and seek his mercy now."

"I beg no man's pardon when I am in the right," she answered proudly. "My father had Brodie's word that I would be free to return home if I was widowed—and I should have the gold to do it. It was the one thing Father insisted upon and Brodie gave in at the last. But now old Maxwell denies it, damn his lying tongue! I will not go back there—they cannot make me—"

"All right," Alistair said quickly, hearing the tremor in her voice. "If ye won't go, ye won't."

"That's right," she sniffed. "I shan't. Nor will Maeve. We are going home, the two of us together. I have enough for our passage once we reach Annan."

"Then ye best get some sleep," he said, thoroughly exasperated. "'Tis a long way ye have to travel."

Stubborn, foolish female, he thought as he wrapped himself in his cloak and flung himself upon the earth. But about one thing she was right: it was none of his concern.

He twisted on the hard ground, trying to get comfortable. There was really no need for him to worry. Even if she insisted on traveling on, it would all come to naught. Maxwell would likely have her back again before she came to any harm. It seemed a pity that the old man was so quick to break the bargain his son had made, but that was typical of Maxwell. He was a tight-fisted bastard, always had been. Age had only made him worse.

Deirdre didn't stand a chance against him, Alistair thought, giving up the attempt to sleep and sitting up. Not one woman all alone, burdened with a helpless child. The whole plan—if such a wild, ill-judged venture could be dignified by such a name—was absurd. But brave, he admitted reluctantly. He'd have to give her full marks for courage. She must want to get home very badly.