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"This is no homecoming. The laird sent for me and I came. There's no more to it than that. And might I remind your ladyship," he added ironically, "that you have troubles aplenty of your own without putting your nose into mine."

"Forgive me," she said stiffly. "You are right, of course. You tend to your own affairs—no matter how sorry a job you make of it," she added beneath her breath.

She accepted a slice of venison from a kneeling squire, though after the meal she and Maeve had shared earlier, she wasn't really hungry. Alistair is right, she thought. Who am I to tell him what to do? Soon—tomorrow, perhaps—Maeve and I will be gone. Now that Alistair had been summoned back by the laird himself, it seemed unlikely he would want to leave again.

Would Alyson convince her husband to let her and Maeve go free? Or would he turn them over to the Maxwells? With everything here at sixes and sevens, she could hardly blame him if he did just that. The last thing he needed was trouble with a neighbor. And even if he did let them go, how long would it be before the Maxwells found them again?

I'll see what happens tomorrow, she thought, then almost smiled, thinking she was beginning to sound like Alistair. Or at least the way he used to sound. Tonight he was a very different man from her carefree companion of the forest. He was home now, back in the place where he belonged. And she did not.

She kept her gaze fixed on her trencher as she cut the meat into tiny pieces and bit by bit became aware of the flow of conversation going on around her.

"...should have been there, Alistair," Malcolm was saying. "The McLarans had such a feast! Emma kept Robin there, but he should be back again any day now..."

"...no, Bryce, not like that," Alyson said patiently to the squire. "You must kneel and hold it so—yes, that's it..."

"Well, there's no tellin', is there?" one knight was saying to another at the table just to Deirdre's side. "But ye know that Calder said 'tis only a matter of time—and now that Alistair is back, I see he spoke true. 'Twill be young Malcolm for sure..."

"...they say the pair of them ran off together and the Maxwell is sore angry," a woman's shrill voice exclaimed. A second woman answered, too low for Deirdre to catch the words, though whatever she said caused a burst of laughter. "Aye, he's too canny to be caught by the likes of her! Now he's back again, he'll be looking a good deal higher than that whey-faced strumpet!"

"Deirdre."

She looked up, her face burning, to meet Alistair's eyes.

"I'm sorry. For what I said before and—" he nodded towards the ladies seated down the table. "—and for that, as well."

"No need to be sorry for that," she said clearly. "They're naught but silly women clacking their silly tongues."

Alistair grinned and squeezed her hand. "That's right, lass."

As simply as that, it was there again between them, exactly as it had been that night in the woodsman's hut. She turned her hand in his, their fingers twined, and suddenly it was true, the women didn't matter. Let them say what they wanted, it made no difference, none at all, because Alistair was holding her hand and smiling into her eyes.

"I must to see the laird," he said. "He sent for me and—and I must see him once again. But once that's done, we're off to Donegal."

"Oh, Alistair," she cried. "Do you mean it? But I thought—"

He cocked a brow. "I gave my word I'd see ye home. Did ye imagine I would break it?"

Before she could answer, Malcolm spoke to him and he released her hand. But Deirdre felt the warm glow of his touch even after he had gone to wait upon the laird and she lay wakeful in her bed, wondering what was to happen on the morrow.

Even as she wondered, she touched her hand to her lips and smiled in the darkness.

CHAPTER 22

"All right," Jemmy Kirallen said. "They are an hour out of Ravenspur. What do we tell them?"

Alistair, Deirdre, and Alyson sat beside him in the hall. It was empty now and the weak morning sun barely lit the tumbled rushes and stacked trestles, all that remained of last night's gaiety.

"An hour?" Deirdre said, dismayed. "How could they get here so soon?"

"Someone sent word," Alistair said, then struck his fist upon the table. "Damn him!"

"I won't ask who it was," Jemmy said. "It doesn't matter now. The question is, what do you want me to say, my lady?"

"I—oh, my lord, the last thing I want is to bring trouble between you and the Maxwells. But—but I do want to go home again. And it was agreed that I might do so."

Jemmy shifted in his seat and Deirdre wondered if he always looked like this, so gaunt and pale, or if it was the strain of waiting upon his dying father.

"Go on," he said.