Page 44 of Laird of the Mist

"Aye. My lady," Alistair said, bowing in Alyson's direction. "I—" he stopped, confused, with no idea of what he had meant to say. But she was bending over Jemmy and didn't seem to notice.

He slipped from the chamber and leaned against the wall, praying for the strength to face his next ordeal. After a moment he pushed himself upright and started toward the laird's chamber.

CHAPTER 2O

Deirdre woke with a start and looked around, her heart beating hard and quick. Something was wrong. Where was she? Where was Maeve? She breathed again when she found the child curled beside her, dark ringlets plastered damply to her cheeks and one thumb tucked between her lips. The fever had broken, Deirdre realized, touching one hand gently to her child's head.

She sat up, pushing the tangled hair back from her face. Finn looked up questioningly from his place beside the bed, then yawned and laid his head down on his paws. Yes, she remembered now, they were in the tower room, where Lady Alyson had brought them. She and Maeve were safe here—at least for the time. But where was Alistair?

Lady Alyson had not been able to tell her that, for neither Alistair nor Jemmy Kirallen had returned by the time Deirdre lay down beside Maeve. She'd had no intention of sleeping until she learned what happened out there on the road when she rode off and left Alistair to face his kinsman all alone. Apparently she had been unable to hold her exhaustion at bay.

The sun was westering, she saw, going to the narrow window. Late afternoon sunlight washed the cobblestones with rich gold light and a scullion walked whistling to the kitchen carrying two pails. It had been hours, then. They must be back by this time. Or had the corbies caught up to Alistair at last? Did he lie there on the deserted stretch of road as they went about their work?

"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,

And I'll pike out his bonny gray een;

Wi ae lock o his golden hair-o

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare-o."

Deirdre paced the small chamber, ten paces and turn, ten and turn again, but the hateful melody still jangled through her mind until she thought she would go mad. She wished she could cry, if only to ease the terrible pressure building inside her. But this pain went beyond tears. So she walked ten paces, turned and walked, round and round as the tune went round inside her head. When the door opened, she whirled to see Lady Alyson step inside.

Deirdre studied her through dry and burning eyes, taking in the rich blue gown, the veil flowing over the lustrous dark red braids, the rings shining on her slender hands. She knew she should feel nothing but gratitude towards this lady who had taken her and Maeve, fugitives that they were, into her own home. But in that moment Deirdre hated her with all her heart.

There she stood, this Englishwoman—rich, cherished, with her shining jewels and her fine manor and her bonny husband, the man who'd said so carelessly, "Take them to my lady's bower." With a woman's ear, Deirdre had heard much in that simple statement. The way he said, "my lady," with such possessive pride, the implication that his lady could be trusted absolutely. It all told Deirdre that on top of everything else this lady had, she held her husband's heart, as well.

"You're awake," Lady Alyson said with a friendly, somewhat anxious smile. "Good. How does the bairn?"

"The fever broke, just as you said it would," Deirdre answered stiffly. "I think she will be well when she wakes."

"Aye, and hungry," Lady Alyson said practically. "I'll have something sent up and a bath for you, as well."

"Thank you."

"Do you have need of anything else?"

"Nothing."