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She turned with an incoherent sound of rage and put her foot in the horse's stirrup, then turned to him, eyes blazing.

"I should thank you for all you've done for me, and what thanks are due I give you. Now it's finished. Leave me be, Alistair Kirallen!" she cried, her voice breaking. "Just let me alone! For I never, ever want to speak to you again."

Without giving him a chance to answer, she jumped on her horse and galloped back to Ravenspur.

The stableyard was empty now, for which Deirdre was thankful as she vainly tried to smooth her hair and compose herself before walking into the manor.

Alistair rode into the yard behind her. She watched from the corner of her eye as he took her horse and his own back to the stable. Let him go, she thought. Let him stay far, far away from me.

She stopped at the well and drew a bucket, taking the ladle from its hook and drinking deeply before splashing her burning face, her eyes lingering on the stable door. She was using a corner of her coif to dry her cheeks when she stopped, every nerve in her body thrilling as though someone had passed a practiced hand across her heartstrings.

Slowly the coif drifted to the ground as she covered her mouth with her hand to still her cry of shock. Slowly she turned, already knowing what she'd see, and found herself looking straight into Ronan Fitzgerald's eyes.

Her heart stopped, then resumed with a lurch, and she touched the well behind her, thinking this must be a dream. But no, it was no dream, for though she had imagined meeting him a thousand times, her dreams had never taken into account the four years that had gone by.

Dark hair streamed over his shoulders, framing a face both known and unfamiliar. It was a face that four years had changed, stripping away the last softness of his boyhood, digging deep hollows beneath his high sharp cheekbones, emphasizing the elfin slant of his emerald eyes. Different, yes, but still the same, still Ronan, with his patched green cloak—it couldn't, surely it couldn't be the same one—and his high dusty boots, looking tired, looking weary to the bone, for of course he'd hurried to her, just as she had known he would.

"D-Dee?"

His voice, warm and smooth as new cream, the voice that had never faltered in the longest and most complicated lays, stumbled a little over her name. He started to say something more, then stopped, his eyes pleading with her now, and just the thought of Ronan pleading—Ronan, whose arrogance was as much a part of him as the harp slung across his shoulder—broke through the shock that held her frozen to her place. She stumbled forward, he took a step to meet her, and then she was laughing and crying against his chest as he caught her close and held her as if he'd never let her go.

"Dee, I thought I'd never find you," he said. "Since Beltane I've been dreaming of you—lost—and so I made for Cranston Keep—they said you were gone but wouldn't tell me where—"

"I know, Ronan. I knew you were coming. Why didn't you get here sooner?" she cried, then laid her head against his shoulder and burst into tears.

A moment later, warned by some instinct, she raised her head and saw Alistair walk out the stable door. He stopped and took in the two of them with one assessing glance. His face went very still.

"Ye must be Fitzgerald."

His voice was flat, expressionless, and Ronan nodded briefly.

"And might I be askin' who you are?"

Their eyes locked, emerald and silver, in a flash of instant and mutual dislike. Then Alistair's glance flicked down to Deirdre and he was once again the terrifying stranger she had glimpsed before, his lips curling in a smile that chilled her to the heart.

"Well, Deirdre? Why don't ye tell the man who I am?"

"Ronan Fitzgerald, this is Sir Alistair Kirallen," she said, stepping away from Ronan and nervously brushing back her tangled hair. "He is—well, Ronan, he is—"

And while she hesitated, wondering how to possibly explain, Alistair turned and walked away.

CHAPTER 28

"I'm sorry, Alistair, but he canna be seeing anyone just now."

Donal moved to stand directly before the doorway of Jemmy's chamber, a drawn sword in his hand.

"Look here, lad, I need to speak with him—"

"Sorry," Donal said. "Not now. Do ye no' ken the hour?"

"Of course I do," Alistair answered tightly, glancing up and down the deserted torchlit hall.

"Then just take yourself off and if he wants to see ye, he'll send."

"Will ye no' at least tell him—"

"Who is it?" Jemmy called from behind the door.