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"I'm sure he means to," Alistair agreed. "But 'tis half a day's walk to Ravenspur from where we sit. By the time he gets there and finds someone to listen to his tale, we'll be long gone."

The sound of his voice, so calm, so unconcerned, loosened the tight knot of worry in Deirdre's stomach. Alistair had realized the danger already. For all he might claim to live from one moment to the next, apparently he was quite capable of thinking ahead.

There was no denying that she and Maeve would never have made it this far without him, Deirdre thought. And in return he had received exactly what he asked: nothing. Except, of course, her unwanted advice, delivered with the rough side of her tongue. And her offer to come to Tullyleah, which he had apparently rejected out of hand.

"Alistair," she said contritely. "I haven't even thanked you for everything you have done for us."

He smiled, head bent as he tested the edge of his dagger. "No need for thanks, Deirdre."

They sat in silence for a time, as the rain lashed against the roof and the wind gusted down the chimney. Alistair put his dagger down carefully and dropped the whetstone beside it. Then he turned and looked straight into her eyes.

"A man gets weary of traveling alone."

Oh, Jennie had been wrong, Deirdre thought. Alistair Kirallen was not the sort of man who would trick a woman to his bed. No, he was very honest about it. He wanted her, right now, tonight, and made no attempt to hide behind pretty words or empty promises. It was all there in his eyes; his loneliness, his need, all there for her to see, offered with shattering directness that stole her breath away. And yet he made it easy to refuse; she only had to glance the other way and make some remark about the lateness of the hour, the need to rest....

She felt the blush rise up her neck and flood her face but still she could not look away. Did not want to look away. A log cracked in the fire and fell apart in a shower of bright sparks; the wind gusted against the shutters, rattling them in their frames. Slowly she reached out one shaking hand to brush the tangled hair from his brow.

This would not be forever, she thought. He was not the sort of man to commit himself beyond a single night. But for this night he wanted her. He needed her. And, she realized with a shock of violent longing, she needed him, as well.

A shiver ran through her body as he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. When his mouth moved lazily across her palm, a surge of unbearable anticipation rushed through her, sent her spinning into a place of shimmering light and warmth.

Right or wrong ceased to matter. They were distant concepts that held no meaning for her now. He was the one. She had known it from the first. Her choice had been made already, long ago in some other place, and she no longer had the will to fight it.

Alistair closed his eyes as Deirdre's fingers brushed his face. It had been so long, too long since he had lost himself in a woman's arms. And this chance might never come again. Tonight she was alone and frightened, completely at his mercy. It would be so easy to take advantage of her momentary weakness. But it wouldn't be like that, not really. He would see that she did not regret it.

She slid easily into his arms, her body flowing against his, and her mouth was soft and sweet. He kissed her slowly, sensing her uncertainty, knowing instinctively that she had never experienced anything like this before. And come to that, he thought, surprised, neither had he. Though what the difference was, he could not say.

When he parted her lips she dug her fingers into his shoulders and arched against him, so wantonly inviting that he was tempted to lie her down on the floor and take her then and there. But as his hand moved up her waist to cup her breast, she pulled back, eyes wide open and every muscle tensed.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she answered, giving him a false, bright smile. "I'm sorry."

She pressed herself against him again, but it was not the same. Her body was stiff, and though she tipped her head back, inviting his kiss, her eyes were dark and frightened.

Brodie, he thought, and a surge of violent anger tore through him. He had used her badly—blind, stupid bastard that he was. If the man wasn't dead already, Alistair would gladly have murdered him at that moment. But Brodie was dead. The question now was how to banish his memory forever and undo the damage he had done.

"It's all right," he whispered, cradling her against him. "There's nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all..."

He held her then, as the fire dwindled and the shadows grew, until he felt the tension leave her. Then he pushed the coif back from her hair and deftly unwound the long black braid. Her hair was cool, sliding between his fingers, around his wrists, and it smelled faintly of some wildflower. He buried his face in its darkness and felt her heart pounding against his chest. Like a little bird, he thought, his throat aching with wild tenderness. So beautiful. So right.

Moving slowly, careful not to frighten her, he eased her down beneath him and looked into her eyes. She gazed up at him, still a little hesitant, but curious, as well, trusting him to make it all come right between them. And he knew that he could do just that. There was nothing he wanted more than to give her all the joy that she had missed, and in giving, find something more than pleasure.

She drew him down and he went, his mouth closing over hers. This time her lips parted eagerly beneath his. One night, he thought, deepening the kiss. That was all that he could hope for. Tomorrow she would see, as he already did, that there could be no more than that. Deirdre MacLochlann Maxwell, daughter of the kings of Aileach and monarchs of Eire, was not meant for the likes of him. If he had any sense, he would stop this right now.

When he broke the kiss she sighed, her lips warm against his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. Her leg bent, slid up his thigh, and his resolved wavered, then crumbled into dust. He ran his hand slowly up the slim line of her waist, tracing the curve of her breast, feeling her nipple harden. A searing flame of desire shot through him as she moaned softly, her leg tightening on his. Tomorrow be damned, he thought. Tonight she would be his.

But when she drew back a little, her lips parted and her eyes glowing, he knew one night would never be enough. No, not one night or two—even a dozen would not begin to teach him all he longed to know. It would take many nights, and many days as well to know her fully. Days spent loving her, talking with her, listening to her laugh, watching each expression as it passed across her face.

He wanted to know everything about her—what touch would make her shiver with delight, the games she had played as a child, what she believed would happen after death... One night could never answer all his questions. With Deirdre it would take a lifetime.

But he didn't have a lifetime. And even if he did have years before him, what difference would it make? There was nothing he could offer her save disgrace, dishonor, and the bare existence of a gypsy tinker.

He could still have the one night, he thought, smoothing the hair back from her face, kissing her brow, her eyes, the sweet curve of her cheek. One night of joy. One night that would surely break his heart. For in the morning they would both know he had taken advantage of her loneliness to win a single night of pleasure. In her eyes—and in his—he would be no better than Brodie, taking what he wanted with no thought of what was best for her. He would lose her trust, her friendship, the chance to simply be near her and sometimes make her smile.

He could not bear to lose her. Not now, not yet. She was so brave and beautiful, so very much alive, the only brightness on the dark path he was traveling. With an effort that seemed to tear him in two he sat up and took his arms from around her.

"I'm sorry, Deirdre. I—oh, Christ, I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly. "'Tis very late and we both are tired. Too tired to be thinking clearly."