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"I didn't mean—"

"Och, of course you did. And quite rightly, too. 'Tis natural enough for you to wonder. The truth is," he added lightly, bending to tighten the girth. "I've taken quite a fancy to Mistress Maeve. Every knight needs a lady to serve—it's the rule, ye ken, and I'm all for following the rules—so I've decided she'll be mine."

He knelt before the child. "My lady," he said gravely, holding out his laced fingers. "Your steed awaits."

Maeve smiled, two dimples appearing in her cheeks. "S-Star!" she said.

"Weel, his name is Germain—or at least it was—but I suppose—"

Maeve shook her head and touched Alistair's cheek. "Star," she said firmly.

Alistair's mouth twitched and Deirdre held her breath, certain he would burst out laughing. She had only meant to set the child at ease with her nonsense last evening, and now Maeve had somehow tangled Alistair with the enchanted knight of Deirdre's stories. But if he laughed at her now, Maeve would be devastated.

It was seldom that Maeve spoke to anyone save Deirdre. She was a very quiet child, existing in a world of her own imagination. Deirdre was well aware the Maxwells thought her simple. They made no attempt to understand her, and their unkind laughter had moved Maeve first to tears and then to stubborn silence.

But Alistair did not laugh. "That's Sir Star," he said to Maeve and the girl smiled brilliantly. "At your service."

Deirdre blinked back sudden tears as Maeve put her tiny foot into Alistair's waiting hands. It was a small thing he had done, but Maeve was staring at him as though he was in truth the shining knight straight out of legend. She asked so little, Deirdre thought. Just a bit of kindness. Brodie had never cared enough to show her even that.

"Will you ride, as well?" Alistair asked, turning to Deirdre.

"I can walk."

He took the reins and began to lead the horse down the path. "Come along, then. Let's walk."

The day was warm, with a brisk little breeze that kept them comfortable as they passed quietly along the sun-splashed path. They kept a good pace and the miles melted away beneath Deirdre's eager feet. Home, home, it grew closer with each step she took. She could almost hear the mewling gulls, feel the ocean breeze upon her face. Oh, she couldn't wait to show it all to Maeve. They would explore every one of the secret places she'd discovered as a child and Maeve would grow strong and well and happy in the salt sea air.

She thought of Ronan Fitzgerald then, so much a part of her own childhood, and her heart faltered. She had dreamed of him last night, a strange dream, very clear. He had stood beside her as she lay sleeping.

"I'll be there soon," he had said. "Don't worry, Dee. I'll find you."

Well, everyone had dreams, and far stranger ones than that! Yet a part of her feared that Ronan was indeed on his way to find her. And if he was, the fault was hers for letting her thoughts dwell on him so much the night Alistair had arrived at Cranston Keep. Ronan had always known when Deirdre was in trouble or had need of him.

Years ago, when she was still a child, Deirdre had fallen down the cellar stairs and sprained her ankle. Ronan had appeared moments later, saying he had a feeling something was amiss. And once, when she had walked out to a small island and been stranded by the tide, Ronan had led her father straight to her. Even Father had been impressed by that! And so had Deirdre. But then, she had never denied there was a special bond between them.

There was no one's company she preferred to Ronan's, no one she trusted more completely. If she could have loved him as he wanted, she would have done so. But she could not. And if Ronan had a bit more sense, he would have realized she was doing him a favor by refusing him. But though Ronan had many gifts, sense was the one thing he had always lacked.

In his last letter, Deirdre's father said Ronan was back from his travels, still unmarried, still pining over Deirdre. And when they met again, their friendship, so precious to her, would be shattered beyond mending. If he asked—and he would, she was sure of it—she would refuse, as kindly as she could, but very firmly. She had no intention of marrying anyone. Once had been quite enough.

No doubt Ronan would compose a new song lamenting Deirdre's cruelty, and when he sang it the most hardened warrior would weep into his ale. Oh, his pain was genuine, she thought with quick remorse, and she was sorry to have caused it. But she would have been a good deal sorrier had he not been so quick to turn his pain to verse and find a fitting melody!

Now she stole a glance at Alistair, walking along with an easy, loose-limbed stride. Somehow she could not imagine him wasting a moment in pining for a lady. No, it was far more likely that he would use that slow smile and deep soft voice to win her for his own.

Jennie and the others had giggled like girls in the kitchen the night that Alistair arrived at Cranston Keep, saying he knew a thousand tricks to woo a woman to his bed, joking about his prowess between the sheets.

"Now there's a man who knows how to pleasure a lass," one of them had said, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Pleasure? Deirdre had wondered with a shudder, even as the others burst into eager laughing questions. What possible pleasure could there ever be for a woman in that?

She glanced at Alistair again and a shiver, half fear and half excitement, started at the pit of her stomach and rippled slowly downward. What exactly did he do with a woman in his bed? It must—surely it must be something very different than Brodie had done with her. She studied his eyes, so cool and distant, and wondered how they would look at a woman lying in his arms. Her glance lingered on the sensual curve of his lips, the breadth of his shoulders, moved down to his hands, so strong, yet capable of gentleness, as well...

But whatever it was he did, she wouldn't be finding out. For Alistair Kirallen, who had bedded every lass from Aberdeen to Berwick—at least to hear Jennie tell it—now seemed content to have her as a friend and nothing more.

For which I should be on my knees, thanking all the gods, she reminded herself sharply. A friend was exactly what she needed now and this man's friendship most of all. And it was best that way, because of one thing she was certain. After Alistair had wooed the woman, taken her to bed and did whatever it was he did there, he would go on again. Alone. In the end Alistair would always walk alone.

She laid a hand on Maeve's small leg and smiled at her daughter. They were going home together. And once they were safe, she'd never trouble about any man again.

CHAPTER 14

He was awake.