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CHAPTER 27

Deirdre crouched low in the saddle, the horse's mane mingling with the hair whipping back from her face. When they reached a low hedge she urged the horse forward, laughing as they cleared it in one mighty leap and the animal surged up the hill. She pulled up, breathless, at the top as Alistair's mount thundered up the slope.

"Whisht, woman, ye ride like the wind itself," he said, halting beside her. His cheeks were flushed, his hair in disarray, and he looked far younger than his thirty years.

She laughed again, the wildness of the ride still humming through her blood, and patted her horse's steaming neck.

Alistair dismounted and put his hands about her waist, swinging her easily from the saddle. "Well, lass, ye look a proper hoyden," he said, sounding so like Deirdre's old nurse that she slipped back into childhood and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Say what you like, sir, I won and you lost and that's the end of it!"

"Quite full of ourselves, aren't we? Well, truth is truth and ye did win. What will ye have of me?"

A kiss. For a moment she almost thought she'd said the words aloud and the blush that still plagued her, despite her twenty years, swept from the neck of her gown to the roots of her windblown hair.

He laughed and caught her from behind as she turned away. "How now, miss, cat caught your tongue? Take your time and think of a proper forfeit..."

They stood together, looking back over the purple moor toward the dark lines of Ravenspur against the sky.

"Ah, 'tis beautiful," she whispered. A light breeze ruffled the long grass about her knees and she leaned against the solid strength of Alistair's broad chest, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.

I'll never forget this moment, not ever, she thought. Not the scent of heather or the sunlight on the moor, the hawk swooping through the sky or the jingle of the horses' bridles. I'll be remembering it all when the last breath leaves my body.

For she knew, with a certainty too deep for words, that Alistair was about to speak. And when she thought of what her own answer would be, her heart filled with a joy too deep for laughter. It was right, so right. Let them say what they would, she knew Alistair was a good man in his heart. No matter what might happen here, they would see it through together.

Beautiful, indeed, Alistair thought, though it wasn't the view before him that he meant. His eyes were fixed upon the spot where Deirdre's neck met her shoulder, a spot so sweet, so vulnerable, that it seemed made for kissing.

He'd bend and put his lips there—just there, where the skin was so white and soft. Then he would move slowly upward. He wouldn't hurry, oh no, he'd take his time about it. She would lean back further, her eyes falling shut, and he would feel the weight of her against him. He would move his hands, now clasped loosely about her waist, and cup her breasts.

He knew exactly how they would feel, soft and full, fitting perfectly to his palm. Then he would trace the outline of her perfect ear with the very tip of his tongue. And when she was shivering in his arms, he would whisper, "Stay with me forever, Deirdre, marry me, for my life is nothing if you're not here to share it."

He saw each movement with crystal clarity, and he knew what her response would be. She would say yes.

She would say yes because she wanted him, he had seen that in her eyes that night in the woodsman's hut. And if wanting and loving were two very different things, surely one could grow from the other. He would happily spend the rest of his life seeing she never regretted her decision. If only things were different.

He straightened and let his arms fall from her waist.

"Aye, 'tis beautiful to me," he said. "'Tis my home, the place where I belong. I see that now. I hope ye will remember it—and me—kindly when you are gone."

"When—when I am gone?" she faltered.

"When you are home again, in Ireland."

If this was the price he had to pay, seeing the hurt spring to her eyes as she turned to face him, then he would pay it. Best she go in anger than in pity—for go she would, and soon, he'd see to that.

"I'm afraid I canna leave here after all," he said. "But I will arrange an escort and ye can go tomorrow. Will ye miss it here?" he added, then cursed his reckless tongue. Deirdre had a way of coaxing words from his mouth that he never meant to say.

"Will I miss it? You mean the moor, the burns, the heather? Is that what you are asking? If I'll pine for Scotland when I'm gone?"

"Aye," he said inflexibly.

"I'll miss the heather and I'll miss the moor. But I won't miss Scotland," she cried. Her cheeks were red and her eyes flashing, wisps of dark hair flying behind her in the breeze. She had never looked so beautiful as she did now in her anger, against the backdrop of the azure sky.

"Oh, no, I won't miss Scotland one bit. I'll be glad to leave, glad to see the back of this wretched country, and when I reach home I won't forget it. No, I'll be sure to remember it every single day so I can give thanks that it's behind me!"

She stopped, breathing hard, hands fisted on her hips.

"There's no need to shout," Alistair said mildly. "I hear ye. So, I imagine, does everyone from here to Ravenspur."