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Robin stepped out of the door and extended his arm. A hooded falcon sat upon it. "She is a rare beauty, is she no'? Will ye come see her?"

Alistair hesitated, torn between his pleasure in the gift and his need to speak to Deirdre.

"Go on," Deirdre said, dropping a handful of blossoms at her feet and reaching to cut another spray.

Alistair stepped into the soft dimness of the mews as Robin deftly unhooded the falcon. The boy handed him a feather and he gently stroked the bird's breast, whistling softly as the falcon regarded him with baleful yellow eyes.

"Do ye have the care of her?" Alistair asked.

"I do," Robin said, drawing himself up proudly. "She eats from my hand now. I think she's ready to fly to the creance."

"Well done!" Alistair said, impressed that such a slight young boy could have persuaded this fierce animal to trust him.

"Ye should take her out soon," Robin said seriously. "Now that she's yours, she must learn to know ye."

Alistair looked at the bird, then glanced out the doorway toward Deirdre. She was busily cutting flowers, Finn sitting just beside her.

My hawk, he thought. My hound. And my lady fair.

It was happening, just as it had been foretold. Everything was in place now. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He stared unbelieving into the bright fresh day, every muscle in his body clenched. Then he started, frowning, as Calder walked toward Deirdre, a false smile on his face.

"Good day to ye, Lady Maxwell," Calder said.

Deirdre looked up, her hands full of flowers. "Sir Calder," she said coolly.

"Ye are as lovely as the morning," Calder said, seeming not to notice her tone. "Would ye no' say so, Alistair?"

"Aye." Alistair bit off the word, watching Calder narrowly as he took Deirdre's arm. "Come along, my lady, we have things to do. Good day, Calder."

"And to the two of ye, as well," Calder said genially. "'Tis a fine day, is it no'? Best enjoy it while ye can, for I fear a storm is coming."

Deirdre began to gather up the sprays of blossom at her feet. "I want to get these into water."

"Leave them," Alistair snapped. Seeing her start of surprise at his abrupt change of mood, he deliberately lightened his voice. "If we're going to ride, we best get started."

"But—" Deirdre took one look at his face and obviously decided this was not the time to argue. "Robin!" she called. "Can you see that these are taken to my chamber?"

"Of course, my lady," he answered brightly. "I'd be glad to."

As the boy bent to gather the fragrant blossoms, Deirdre took Alistair's arm and slanted him a smile from beneath her lashes. "He's a fine lad, isn't he? Maeve was quite taken with him."

"Aye," Alistair answered absently. "He's very much like his mother. She was—"

"What was she?" Deirdre asked curiously.

"My first love, I suppose," he said with a smile and a shrug. "I was ten and she was a very grand sixteen, and I used to follow her about like a puppy. She was very kind to me. She'd known my mother a bit—they were distant kin."

"Your mother was a McLaran?"

"Aye. She died when I was six."

"And your—"

"What say we race to yonder oak?" Alistair said quickly, before she could start asking questions about his father. He had no desire to even think about the man, much less tell the whole squalid tale to Deirdre.

Deirdre looked at him as if she would say more, then let the matter drop and tossed her head. "Fine, sir. But when I win, I shall name the forfeit."