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Jemmy did not understand. How could he? He had no idea what it was to live in constant fear, to guard every word and action and have it never be enough. If anyone laid hands on Jemmy as Brodie had done her, Jemmy would fight back. It was his right—the right of every man. He would never be expected to suffer such insult, not only without retaliation, but without complaint. To do so would mark him as a coward.

Why should a woman's dignity leave her no recourse but silence? Why must it be assumed that if her husband chose to hurt her, some measure of the fault was hers? How long was a woman expected to appease her tormenter before she fought back?

"Oh, yes, my lord," Deirdre said simply. "I could do it. And if you were in my place, you would do the same."

Still Jemmy did not understand. But Alyson did. Deirdre could see it in her eyes. Whether from experience or imagination, Alyson knew what it was to be the victim of an evil man. God send this gentle lady would never feel the rage that had been building inside Deirdre for four long years.

"Sure, there's no use in talking of this now," Ronan said uncomfortably. "There's always the chance that Sir Alistair might win."

"Thank you," Alistair said dryly. "I intend to."

Jemmy stared from Deirdre to his wife. Whatever he saw on Alyson's face made him change his mind abruptly.

"All right," he said. "If it will put your mind at rest, Lady Maxwell, we'll find a place for Maeve."

"Thank you—" Deirdre began.

"How?" Ronan interrupted. "You say the roads are watched."

"The road to Annan is watched," Malcolm put in. "But not the others. Let me take her, Uncle Jemmy. We'll go to—to Dunforth!"

Jemmy smiled at his nephew. "Aye. To Dunforth. Take her to Master Johnston—or no, best keep him out of this. Take her to Tavis, the shepherd. Tell him—" he frowned, considering. "Tell him she is under my protection. That should be enough."

"Yes!" Alyson said. "Oh, Jemmy, that's the perfect plan. Malcolm, how clever of you to think of Dunforth!"

The boy blushed. "I ken Uncle Jemmy has friends there."

"And I doubt Maxwell will be watching that road," Jemmy added, giving his lady a quick smile.

"Then you, Ronan, will take her to my father," Deirdre said. "Brodie will be angry," she added, "But he will not go to war over her."

Not if he has me. She did not speak the words aloud, but from the way Alistair stiffened, she had no doubt he heard them just the same.

"If it makes ye feel better, then send Maeve off to Dunforth," Alistair said. "But you are upsetting yourself for naught."

He meant that. He thought he would win. But Deirdre's life thus far had given her no reason to hope for such a happy outcome. By tomorrow evening, Alistair could well be dead. Never again would he walk into a room and set Deirdre's heart to leaping. Never again would he make Maeve laugh with his tales of giants and dragons. And never, never in this life would Deirdre know the joy of waking in his arms.

He would die, she thought with sudden certainty. Had he not seen it long ago? Oh, this was not like any pain she had ever felt before. It was cold and bitter and far too deep for tears.

"For naught? Perhaps. But 'tis well to be prepared."

Deirdre heard her own voice with disbelief. It was so distant, so terribly detached, as if the outcome of tomorrow's contest meant nothing to her beyond Maeve's safety. Alistair turned quickly, but not before she had seen the expression in his eyes.

No, wait, she wanted to cry, I didn't mean it, not like that! But even as she stood, frozen to her place, he walked from the room without a backward glance.

CHAPTER 33

Ronan leaned against the stone wall overlooking the moat, chin propped in his hand. The day had cleared, but he did not lift his head to see sunlight and shadow chasing each other across the hills. From time to time he sighed, his shoulders drooping sadly.

Now there is a lovesick young fool if ever I saw one, Calder thought, watching from the shadow of a tree. He'd been making inquiries about the Irishman all morning and was satisfied with what he'd learned. A bard, young Fitzgerald claimed to be, with a harp bequeathed by his grandfather, a lordling of the Sidhe. He had dreamed that Lady Maxwell was in danger and so had come hot-foot from Ireland to rescue her.

A fine story to impress the serving wenches, Calder thought with some amusement, though from all accounts Fitzgerald was immune to their charms, a cause of great lamentation in the kitchens.

And a lot of good his fidelity would do him. Alistair meant to have the woman and was prepared to slay the dragon Brodie Maxwell for her sake. And where did that leave young Ronan? Out in the cold, angry, bitter, with a head full of romantic drivel.

In short, he was the perfect tool.

"So here ye are."