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"The laird said—"

"My grandfather is wrong! And he never meant for Uncle Jemmy to be hurt. Do you think they'll just let him walk away?" His eyes widened and he took one step back, shrugging Alistair's hands from his shoulders. "But ye know that already! You hate him, too, ye always have... I wanted you to come back!" he cried, wiping one sleeve across his eyes. "I prayed for it every day that ye were gone. But now—now I wish you'd stayed away!"

Alistair leaned against the wall as Malcolm ran off. He wasn't going to make this easy. But if losing the boy's trust was what it took to save him, then that was what would have to be. He only wished it didn't hurt so damn much.

The courtyard was full now, the servants hurrying about their work. Alistair let his gaze wander over the battlements, each stone so familiar. Up on the highest tower sat two shapes, dark against the sun-bright sky.

When he looked back at the courtyard it was gray and dim, the people no more than walking skeletons, clad in borrowed flesh. None of them were real. He wasn't real. He was but a living ghost and the corbies were waiting with endless patience to strip the dead flesh from his bones. He shuddered, gripped with horror. How could any man see what he was seeing and still go on, pretending that anything they said or did actually mattered? It was all vain, all hopeless...

And then Deirdre walked into the yard. She was bathed in light, shining like a brand in the empty darkness. Alistair's gaze fastened on her with desperate hunger. She mattered. She was real and true and beautiful beyond all words.

The grayness receded before her and the courtyard was just a courtyard again, filled with people who were hurrying about their business. For the first time he noticed Alyson was with Deirdre, an apron tied about her waist and a linen coif covering her hair. When Deirdre saw him she waved and smiled. Finn, just beside her, barked once in greeting.

Alistair pushed himself away from the wall and walked over. "Good morning," he said, bowing to the two ladies. Deirdre smiled brilliantly, but Alyson turned away without speaking. She knows about the council meeting, Alistair thought. Even if she doesn't know exactly what was said, she understands what's happening.

Damn them, he thought with weary anger, why don't they run? Why doesn't Jemmy take her out of here and go back to Spain?

But he knew the answer to that question. Jemmy was a Kirallen and had been given his full share of reckless pride, just as Malcolm had. Alistair sighed. He'd forgotten what weary work it was to keep Kirallens from cutting their own throats. And how dearly it could cost.

Deirdre was looking up at him, one hand shading her eyes against the light. How different she looked now from the woman he'd seen in Maxwell's hall! Like a gem covered in dust, she'd been, but now she blazed in sunlight. In her shining eyes he could see the man of honor she still believed him.

When she smiled at him he smiled in return. He couldn't help it. If he lay upon his deathbed, Deirdre's smile could not fail to call an answering response.

"Would ye care to join me for a ride?" he asked.

"Right now?" she said eagerly and he nodded, his heart twisting in his breast. How could he bear to part with her? Yet it must be done, and quickly. Calder had already found one weakness in him and hadn't hesitated to exploit it. Malcolm would be safe enough for now; Calder needed him. But Deirdre was a different story. He had to get her out of here before the game he had begun this morning turned deadly.

"Alyson, do you mind if I—" Deirdre began.

"Go along," Alyson said, not turning. "I can manage here."

"Do you think she was angry with me?" Deirdre asked as she and Alistair walked toward the stable. "She sounded very strange."

"A woman's moods." He shrugged. "She'll get over it soon enough."

Casting about for some other topic of conversation, his eye fell on a spray of wild roses hanging over the stone wall.

"For you, my lady," he said, breaking off a blossom and presenting it to Deirdre with a bow.

"Why thank you," she answered, dropping him a curtsey as she buried her nose in the fragrant spray. "Oh, just smell this!" she sighed. "Do you think Alyson would mind if I cut some?"

"I am sure she would not. Here," he added, drawing his dagger. "Use this."

She turned it in her hand, looking at the finely wrought stag's head set with chips of emeralds. "Such a pretty thing," she said. "I've often noticed it before."

"It was a gift from the laird," Alistair answered, his gaze moving to the mews, where a small, golden-haired boy was peering out at him from the door. He looked familiar, but Alistair could not quite place him. "There was a set—one for Ian, one for Jemmy, and this one for me."

"Sir Alistair!" the boy called. "Can ye spare a moment?"

Then he saw Deirdre and smiled. "Good morning, Lady Maxwell."

"Hello, Robin."

Robin Bowden, Alistair thought. Lady Kirallen's brother. Clare McLaran's son. My kinsman, even if a distant one. Whatever can he want with me?

"Sir Alistair," the boy said in a rush. "My grandmother, Emma McLaran, that is, sent ye a gift some time ago. It was—" he blushed painfully, "well, before she heard that ye were gone. I've been looking after it, but now that ye are back..."

"What did Emma send?" he asked.