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Jemmy started and looked down at him. "Get on with what?" he said, sounding as annoyed as Alistair felt himself. "Oh, I see, you think—" He grinned suddenly, looking so like Ian that Alistair felt the breath catch in his throat. "Ah, Alistair, I could almost say I missed you. I should have known you'd be snapping orders right up to the end."

He leaned back in the saddle and laughed, then winced a little, his hand going back to his shoulder. "So, you have it all planned out? Well, go on then, what is it to be? Should I string you up on yonder oak? Or did you have something else in mind?"

Alistair stared up at him in confusion. Jemmy had been a solemn child who returned from his travels a grim and brooding man. In all the weeks they'd spent together the year before, Alistair had seldom seen him even smile, let alone laugh as free and easy as he'd done just now. He's picked a strange time to develop a sense of humor, Alistair thought sourly. Especially one so like Ian's had been. For a moment it could have been Jemmy's brother sitting there, laughing at Alistair as he'd often done before.

"Or," Jemmy said, his dark eyes narrowing. "Did you hope I would come down so you could cut me into pieces?"

Alistair picked up his sword and flung it into the woods, followed by his dagger. After a moment he pulled the knife from his boot and tossed it after them, then held out his hands.

"I dinna know what game you're playing," he said stiffly. "But I trust ye are satisfied the now."

Jemmy nodded. "Aye, I am." He toyed with the reins, then added quietly, "Even so, I'm afraid I'd be no match for you today. But it doesn't matter, because I have no intention of fighting you. I haven't really been looking for the Maxwell lady these past days. I've been looking for you."

"Why?"

Jemmy slumped in his saddle, looking suddenly exhausted. "My father is dying."

Of all the things Alistair had thought that Jemmy might say, this was the last, and the news hit him like a blow. In that moment he forgot the anger that had been between him and the laird and thought only of the thousand kindnesses his foster father had shown him.

He remembered the laird's face when he pronounced the sentence of banishment, the tears that had stood in the old man's eyes as he bid Alistair farewell.

"I have to see him," he said.

"He wants to see you, too. Go on, then, and get your things."

CHAPTER 19

Riding the path to Ravenspur felt very odd to Alistair, strange and yet familiar. His eyes moved over each well-remembered landmark with the joy of finding something precious he had believed was lost for good. Every turn of the road, each stream and tree and field held a hundred memories—some good, some bad, but all a part of him. Leaving here, he had left most of himself behind. To see it all again, even once, was a rare and unexpected gift.

And then with a suddenness that took his breath away, there was Ravenspur itself, rising from the moor. There was no pretension of grace about its grim towers and tumbled battlements, no artistry in its design. On the very doorstep of the enemy, it was only strength that mattered. Ravenspur was what it was, a border fortress, the finest of its kind, no more and certainly no less.

The horse stopped, but Alistair made no attempt to urge him forward. He simply sat and stared, seeing himself reflected in the stark lines of his home. Yet he was different now—or was he? Suddenly he wasn't sure. In his own uncertainty the building before him was as foreboding as the black tower of his vision.

Jemmy reined in beside him.

"Ugly pile of stone, isn't it?" he asked lightly.

Alistair looked sharply at his kinsman, remembering that Jemmy had said the same thing on his own return to Ravenspur. He remembered, too, the contempt with which he had greeted his foster brother's words that day. Now he saw that Jemmy was the only one who could possibly understand what he was feeling now.

Jemmy had been exiled from Ravenspur as well—by his own choice, aye, but then, the same could be said of Alistair himself. And the pain of exile had been no less for that. What had driven Jemmy to make that choice? he wondered suddenly. What had he felt when first seeing his home after so long an absence?

Well, at least Alistair had the answer to that question. Now, too late, he understood exactly what Jemmy had felt that day. And it was beyond words.

"Hideous," he said roughly, to hide the sudden tremor in his voice. "But 'tis still there, isn't it?"

"Aye." Jemmy sighed. "It always is."

Their eyes met and at the same moment they laughed. Alistair hadn't meant for that to happen, and from the way Jemmy frowned and spurred his horse forward, he guessed his kinsman hadn't expected it, either.

They continued toward the manor without speaking, and as the silence grew between them, Alistair found himself wanting to break it, though he wasn't sure exactly what he needed to say. Perhaps he had been hard on Jemmy when he first came home from Spain, but had events not proved him right?

Never once had Jemmy listened to Alistair's warnings, never once had he admitted that Alistair was right to suspect Darnley's motives and he himself had been wrong. Even when Alistair had succeeded in exposing Darnley's treachery—and who had thanked him for it? No one!—Jemmy had gone on, headstrong, willful, insisting young Haddon Darnley be fostered at Ravenspur to ensure the peace. All of them, including Darnley himself, had bowed beneath Jemmy's implacable will. All but Alistair. The laird, forced to choose, had sided with his son. And Alistair was sent away.

So why did he still feel he owed Jemmy an apology?

It was because of the woman. Alistair could justify his every action—save for his treatment of Darnley's baseborn daughter, Alyson. She had been sent to marry Jemmy, all the while pretending to be her half sister Lady Maude, a part of Darnley's plan to destroy the Kirallen clan. On the face of it, she had been as guilty as her father, but she had been driven into the plan against her will. Jemmy had come to love her, in the end had married her—and always, deep in Alistair's heart, had lurked a sneaking admiration for that decision. Alyson was a fine lass, lovely, brave and loyal, and though Darnley was her father, her mother had been Clare McLaran, the kindest lady who ever lived.

He wondered if the clan had accepted her and suspected they had not. He was quite sure the laird had not forgiven Jemmy for defying his will and taking Alyson to wife.