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He was almost resigned to it, save for one thing. It was all well and good to be Deirdre's protector, but what he wanted was to make good the vows they had exchanged today.

He closed his eyes and saw her in the garden, felt her hand, so rough, so small, within his own. He smiled, remembering the way her eyes had lit as she described her childhood in Donegal. She'd been happy there and would be again one day. But once she had reached home, he feared that he would lose her.

Deirdre would be back in her own place, among her own people, the ancient nobility of Ireland. Alistair had forgotten the unbreakable rules of rank and station, but now that he was back at Ravenspur, he could not forget them any longer.

He would have no time with Deirdre in Donegal. If he was lucky, he might see her from a distance now and then, perhaps even exchange a word or two. But even if he accepted the place her father, from charity and duty, must offer, he would be nothing, the lowest of MacLochlann's knights. While Deirdre would be restored to her rightful place as daughter of the house.

And of course the suitors—with that young Fitzgerald at their head—would soon arrive to pay her court.

You don't have to lose her, a voice whispered in his mind. If you but do as the laird asked, you could keep her with you. Every day you would be with her; every night... He shifted on the narrow mattress. Just the thought of the nights he would spend with Deirdre roused him with swift urgency.

He couldn't do it, though...or could he? If Jemmy could be persuaded to go back to Spain, then he, himself, would have everything to offer Deirdre. They would have children...black-haired, gray-eyed sons and daughters... And Malcolm would be with him every day, learning the way of ruling. When the time came, Alistair would step back and see Malcolm just where he belonged, in Ian's place.

Would it be so wrong? So very wrong to do as the laird commanded? Jemmy had his lady...she was a brave lass, too, and bonny, and loved him well. Why should Jemmy have everything? He had run off to please himself, but Alistair had spent his life in service to the clan. It wasn't fair that Jemmy should take it all and leave him nothing...

His thoughts dissolved into hazy images of the future as he drifted off to sleep. There he found the dream waiting for him once again.

It began just as it always did with Ian and Alistair walking down the forest path, discovering the tinker's boys tormenting Jemmy. Ian cut his brother free and he and Alistair were fighting them, outnumbered five to two. But then they moved to stand back to back and there was no fear, only the joy of battle running taut and bright between them. Then the tinker's boy's were running off with Ian after them, calling back over his shoulder for Alistair to look after Jemmy.

"Ian, wait!" Alistair cried, just as he always did. He sprinted after Ian, who was disappearing around a turn, knowing it was hopeless but helpless to stop himself from trying. "Wait, don't go, it's a trap!"

But this time the dream was different. This time when he rounded the bend, Ian was waiting for him.

Alistair bolted upright on his bed, heart pounding furiously. The room was in darkness now, twilight barely lighting the casement. With a shaking hand he lit a candle and stared into the flame, his eyes glittering coldly in the flickering light.

All his hesitation was gone, all his questions answered. Come morning, he knew what he must do.

CHAPTER 25

"Well, Alistair, what is it to be? Are ye in or out?"

Calder's voice echoed hollowly from the cold stone walls of the council chamber. The knight's brawny arms rested on the long table before him as he regarded Alistair with stony eyes. The six men around him sat so quietly that Alistair could hear the faint sound of birdsong through the narrow windows. Outside there was sunshine, open air, while what remained of the council was huddled in chill darkness. Like rats, Alistair thought. Like traitors.

He repressed a shiver and took his accustomed seat just beside the laird's empty place. Of course that chair was empty; the laird was dying and Jemmy had not been invited to this particular meeting of his council. It felt good to sit here again, Alistair thought. It felt right.

He drew a deep breath and met Calder's gaze.

"I'm in."

Calder's eyes flickered, though a moment later he smiled broadly. I surprised him, Alistair thought. He expected I'd refuse. And for all his smile, he's not the least bit pleased.

"Well, that's fine," Calder said. "Isn't it, lads?"

"Oh, aye," they agreed quickly. "Just fine."

Alistair glanced around the table. Four of those seated there were new men like Calder himself, barely known to Alistair. The other two had sat on Kirallen's council for years without ever saying more than 'yea' or 'nay.'

"Where is Sinclair?" he asked. "And Gregor and Logan?"

"Sinclair is dead," Calder answered. "Gregor is away just now and Logan—well, Logan couldna make it here today."

It was more likely that Logan did not even know the council met today. He was the laird's man, always had been, and would never stand for Calder's arrogant assumption of power.

How had this happened? Alistair wondered. How could the laird have given Calder, a knight with no ties of blood to the Kirallens, so much power? Well, it didn't matter how it had happened. The fact remained that Calder was in charge here. But that would change. In time.

"The laird gave me his blessing last night," Alistair said. "Jemmy's out and I am in. Until Malcolm comes of age."

Calder smiled slyly. "Right. So that's the tale, is it? Well, I hear the old man won't wake again, so who's to say? Now, 'tis time the boy learned what's to come when the laird is dead. He's waiting just outside."