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Jemmy held out his cup again for Alistair to fill.

"How was it, then?" he asked casually.

"Good." Alistair turned the flagon in his hands, staring into its depths, then laughed shortly. "Terrible."

"Ah."

"He seemed glad that I was there."

"I think he was holding on until he saw you. I know he regretted what happened between you last year. It was another of the things he held to my account. Not without reason," Jemmy added judiciously, taking a small swallow. "I forced his hand that day and he never truly forgave me for it. He still thinks if I had married Maude you would have given up and accepted the way things were."

"He was wrong," Alistair said flatly. "Nothing would have made me give up. Except, of course, what did happen."

"It isn't easy to carry on a war when one side leaves the country," Jemmy said mildly. "I don't suppose even you can manage it."

"Not for lack of trying," Alistair admitted. "I followed Darnley as far as London and made sure he knew of it. He kept a guard around him day and night, but still, he was always looking over his shoulder. I suppose I might have gone to France..."

"Why didn't you?"

Alistair hesitated, then said, "My purse was stolen. Down at the docks, while I tried to find the ship the bastard had booked passage on."

Jemmy maintained a tactful silence, his face studiously blank.

"Oh, go ahead, laugh if ye want. God knows Ian would have laughed his fool head off if he could have seen me."

"No, I don't think he would. I think he would have told you to give it up and get on with your life."

"Well, I had no choice but to give it up. For now."

"Maybe Darnley's dead already," Jemmy mused, a smile curving his pale lips. "God knows I hope he is. Rotting somewhere on a French battlefield."

"He's not. I'd ken if he was dead."

Jemmy raised a brow. "The Sight? Ian always said you had it."

"And ye never did believe it."

Jemmy shrugged, then muttered a curse as the movement disturbed his shoulder. "Well, here's your chance to prove me wrong. Go on then, Alistair, tell me the future. Isn't that why you came here tonight?"

Alistair felt a surge of admiration. Here Jemmy lay, wounded, helpless, surrounded by enemies at every turn. Even his own father was against him now. Yet when he lifted the cup to his lips, his hand was steady, and his dark eyes held no trace of fear.

"We'll get to that," Alistair said. "But first I wanted to talk about Ian."

"Ian?" Jemmy sighed. "Let's have it, then. I was a bad brother to him when I left and a worse one when I came back again. Now he walks the halls of Ravenspur, crying out for vengeance."

Alistair shuddered, for Jemmy was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit.

"Ian never blamed you for leaving," he said abruptly.

Jemmy stopped, the cup halfway to his lips. "I thought he was furious."

"Well, he wasn't. The rest of us were, but never him. He—" Alistair swallowed hard. "He was proud of you for doin' so well. And he used to read your letters over and over."

"He might have answered one."

"Ah, ye knew him, Jemmy. Never picked up a pen if he could help himself. But he always enjoyed your news. All he cared about was that you were happy."

There, he'd said it. He felt better now, lighter, as though a burden had fallen from his shoulders.