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"Oh."

Just the one word, but it was enough to pierce him to the heart, and when he saw the tears shining in her eyes it took all his strength not to reach for her again. Instead he said deliberately, "You never told me about the man you left behind in Ireland."

"Who?" she said, obviously bewildered. "What man?"

"There is a man, is there no'? Someone waiting for you?"

"Oh! Well, I suppose..."

"What is his name?" Alistair insisted, some devil prompting him to hear what could only cause him pain.

"Ronan," she said, her voice choked.

"Ah. And what sort of man is Ronan?"

"He—he is a Fitzgerald—at least, his father was. His mother was an O'Donnell."

A Fitzgerald. Of course. Even if it was a Norman name, not quite so noble as Deirdre's, the Fitzgeralds were a powerful force in Ireland these days. The old nobility and the new, he thought. A good and proper union for them both.

Deirdre began to braid her hair, pulling it with quick, vicious jerks that looked as though they hurt. He wanted to grab her hands and still them against his lips. Instead he bent to the fire.

"Really?" he said, surprised to hear his voice come out so calmly. "And have ye known this Ronan long?"

"All my life. We were betrothed—a cradle match—and he was fostered with us when we were children. After King Edward outlawed marriages between his Norman lords and the Irish, the match was broken. But he still visits Tullyleah—my father wrote that he was there just last spring—and we are still...friends."

"I am sure they will all be pleased to have ye back," Alistair said evenly. "Sleep now. We'll start at dawn."

As she went back to her place beside Maeve, he threw a stick into the fire and watched the cinders leap. Friends, indeed! He saw the whole thing now, the two young lovers torn apart, Deirdre's forced marriage to Brodie Maxwell. But they were not helpless children any more. And if young Ronan Fitzgerald—noble, wealthy, in every way a fitting match for Deirdre—did not still want her, the man must be either a eunuch or a fool.

But Alistair himself was neither. He ached for her—literally, he thought, shifting uncomfortably on the hard-packed earthen floor. And he would just have to keep on aching, for Deirdre MacLochlann Maxwell was far out of his reach. She was meant for a man of wealth and rank, not the bastard offspring of a crofter's daughter and the smooth-tongued, lying knight who had so basely used her, then refused to even acknowledge his own son.

At least I haven't repeated his mistakes, Alistair thought. There had been no virgins for him, no rings or empty promises. He had made damned sure that any woman who shared his bed understood exactly what he offered. If any of them had ever come to him and claimed him as father to her child, Alistair would have welcomed the bairn with joy and given it his name. But that was when he had a name that meant something. If he and Deirdre had begotten a child here tonight, she would have no choice but to pass it off as Brodie's get. It would never have even have known who its father was.

He had done the right thing. The only thing. But when he picked up a stick and broke it across his knee, he took grim pleasure in imagining it was Ronan Fitzgerald's neck he snapped.

CHAPTER 17

The rain stopped mid-morning, though the sun still hid behind heavy clouds and the wind blew cold and damp. They trudged along in silence until they halted for their noontime meal. Maeve seemed tired, Deirdre thought. She hoped the child wasn't coming down with a chill. If only the rain would hold off long enough to make a fire tonight...and they could find some dry ground to sleep on...

Hold on, Maeve, she thought. We're going to make it. We're going home.

"In Donegal," she began, then stopped, rigid with fear, as an enormous shaggy shape burst through the undergrowth.

Alistair was on his feet in an instant, drawn sword in his hand.

"No!" Maeve cried. "Doggy!"

She threw herself before the dog, who began to wriggle with excitement, his enormous tongue lashing the child's face until Maeve fell laughing to the ground.

"Doggy!" she cried, burying her hands in its springing pelt. "My doggy."

"No, Maeve, he's not yours," Deirdre said. "He belongs to the man who gave us shelter last night."

Maeve made a face. "Mean man. Kicked the doggy."

She put her arms around the dog's neck and kissed its muzzle. "Mine."

The dog flopped onto the ground and turned over on its back, long legs sprawling awkwardly this way and that.