Page 28

It was the man, he decided. The one she'd spoken of the first night they met, the one she'd left behind in Ireland. He wondered who the man was and if he was worth all this trouble. Well, he must be worth it to Deirdre. If it was a song or story he supposed he would admire the loyalty that drove her to this desperate act.

What kind of story was her tale, he wondered, drawing his sword and taking the whetstone from his pouch. One that ended happily with the lovers reunited? Or a sad one in which she was caught—or set upon by thieves or tinkers—or she and the child starved together in the forest—and the man she sought never even knew that she had tried?

How the devil did I get dragged into her story? he wondered irritably. She had made it clear—not once, but twice now—that she wanted nothing more to do with him. And that was fine with him. The very last thing he needed was to entangle himself with any woman, no matter how sweetly she fit into his arms. Let her save her kisses for the Irishman or, if her luck failed, for whatever man Maxwell decided should have her slim white hand in marriage. It was naught to him.

The branches up above his head fluttered without any breeze to stir them. They were back, he thought with weary dread. The damned corbies had found him once again.

God's blood, but he was tired of them. And he was sick to death of tales that ended badly. His own ending he knew and it wasn't a nice one. But what was nice about any death?

It all goes by so quickly, he thought, listening to the woman and the child breathing softly in their sleep. Nothing—not rank or gold or skill at arms—could save anyone in the end. Death would always win.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, loosening the dagger in his sheathe. He might as well use the time that he had left to see that Deirdre's story turned out a bit more happily than his own.

CHAPTER 13

The forest was coming alive around them as Alistair knelt by the mare, one hand running down her off foreleg.

"When did she begin to limp?" he asked, not looking up.

"Last night she was a little lame," Deirdre said, kneeling beside him and looking anxiously at the mare. "I checked, but there was no stone that I could see—"

"The muscle is strained. She canna carry ye."

Deirdre's hands clenched into fists but her voice was even when she said, "Then she'll have to find her own way home. She'll be all right until she does, there's plenty of grass and water."

Alistair looked up at her and she glanced away, not wanting to see the expression in his eyes. He'd made his opinion of her plans clear enough last night and she had no intention of arguing the matter further.

"If we must walk, we shall walk," she said firmly. "Come, Maeve, it's time we left."

Maeve obediently gave her mother her hand, looking up at her so trustingly that Deirdre's throat ached with sudden tears. Oh, God, what was she doing? What kind of mother was she to even think of risking Maeve's life this way? But what kind of life would Maeve have ahead of her at Cranston Keep? She straightened her shoulders and smiled encouragingly at her daughter.

"There will be no need for that," Alistair said as he pulled a currycomb from his saddlebag and began to groom his own horse. "Germain can carry you both."

"You'd give us your horse?" Deirdre asked, stunned by the generosity of the offer.

"Weel, no, not exactly. I need him, ye ken. I'm afraid you'll have to take the both of us."

"Take you?" Deirdre repeated weakly. "Take you where?"

"I've always wanted to see Annan."

His hands moved over the horse's back in quick, competent strokes. But then, everything about Alistair Kirallen screamed competence. From the moment she had stumbled upon him last night he had taken charge of everything, making sure they had enough to eat, giving Deirdre the first decent rest she'd had since old Maxwell made his announcement.

Twice during the night she'd woken with a start of fear to see Alistair sitting at the clearing's edge, a faint outline against the darkness of the forest, the drawn sword across his knees glittering coldly in the moonlight.

"Mam!" Maeve tugged on her hand, pulling Deirdre down to her. "It's him. Sir Star. Laird of the Mist, Mam. Ye said so."

"Oh, no, sweeting," Deirdre said, caught between tears and laughter. "'Tis only Sir Alistair Kirallen, as I told you—"

Maeve shook her head and her dark curls flew in wisps about her flushed cheeks. "Nay, Mam. Look at his sword!"

Of course his sword was bright, Deirdre thought. He'd had the entire night to sharpen it! And all because he'd stayed awake and watchful.

He would protect them. She was sure of that. But what did he expect in return? She felt badly even asking the question after all his kindness, and yet it must be asked. She was not about to enter into any bargain she did not fully understand. Not again.

"It is very kind of you," she said firmly, "but I don't see why you would take such a risk. We'll have to go through Kirallen's lands and you know that isn't safe for you—"

"'Tis no' so great a risk as all that," he answered, swinging the saddle from the branch onto the horse's back. "I know the paths they ride and others, too." He rested his arms on the saddle and looked at her, his gray eyes very steady. "I'm doing it because I want to. There's no more to it than that. You needn't fear I'll ask for something in return."