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She sighed. "I did."

"Then you know why I have come."

"Yes. Sit down," she said indifferently.

He perched on the edge of the mattress beside her. "No matter which way it goes tomorrow, you will not go back to Brodie Maxwell. If we leave while they are fighting—"

Deirdre shook her head. "Brodie will expect me to be there. And I want to be there. I must see it for myself."

"And if Sir Alistair wins? Will you leave with me then?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "It depends on what Alistair wants."

Ronan jumped to his feet and began to pace the small chamber. "Listen, Dee, this has gone far enough. You were meant for me, you know that just as I do. My grandfather had no right to interfere—"

"He was acting under orders from his king," Deirdre reminded him.

"Edward!" Ronan spat the name. "He is not my king! His edicts and decrees have naught to do with us. I was too young to fight my grandfather then, but now I am a man. I will have you!"

"No, Ronan, you will not," Deirdre said as gently as she could. "My answer has not changed."

"So if Brodie wins, you mean to be Deirdre of the Sorrows, is that it? Dragged back by your husband as a prisoner! And will you cast yourself upon the rocks as she did? Well, I won't have it. You are coming with me if I have to kill Brodie Maxwell myself."

Deirdre glanced at him, taking in the bright flush on his cheeks, the dangerous glitter in his eyes. It was all too easy to dismiss Ronan as a mere musician, but his slender form concealed an iron strength that had not been earned by practice on the harp. No, John Fitzgerald's grandson had spent many an hour in the tiltyard, training with sword and lance. As little as Ronan liked the exercise, Deirdre remembered now that he excelled at both.

But Brodie was twice his weight and had ten years more experience. Ronan would never stand a chance against him.

"You must promise me you will not fight," she ordered sharply. "If you want to help me, then take Maeve home."

"I'll take the both of you, whether Brodie Maxwell wins or loses. And then, Dee, we will be married."

His calm insistence snapped the last thread of Deirdre's patience. "How many times must I tell you no?" she flared. "I am sorry, Ronan, I do care for you, but I will not marry you. I have finished with marriage altogether."

"Oh, have you?" he shot back. "And if Sir Alistair was to ask for your hand, would you give him the same answer?"

Deirdre looked away.

"But he has not asked, has he?" Ronan demanded. "No, and he will not. He wants you—I think he's made that plain enough. He wants to use you as his whore! You! Good God, Deirdre, have you forgotten who you are?"

"How dare you?" Deirdre cried, jumping to her feet.

"You're too good for this sort of thing!" he cried, gesturing toward the bed. "Too good for him—"

"This sort of thing? Can you not even bring yourself to say the words? When a man and woman love each other, 'tis right and natural that they should want to lie together."

Ronan jerked back as though she had struck him, with a sound of horrified disgust. "What has happened to you?" he cried. "Listen to yourself! It's him—Sir Alistair—he has bewitched you—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Deirdre said, holding her temper with an effort. "Alistair needs no magic to win my heart."

"You say that—mayhap you even believe it—"

"Because it is the truth!" With a tongue made reckless by anger, she went on, "You say you love me, and I know you believe it, but you don't know the meaning of the word. It's all a dream to you, a fantasy—"

"It isn't!" he shouted. "I love you, Dee, and that's no dream, that's reality! I love you far too much to stand by and watch you debase yourself this way. He is no better than an animal and he would drag you right down with him. Why can't you see that?"

"Oh, I see!" she shouted back furiously. "I see you understand nothing about me at all. You don't want me, Ronan, not as I really am. You want a plaster statue to put on a shelf and make pretty songs to! That's all I am, all I've ever been to you. But I want—I need more!"

"You want him," Ronan spat. "The traitor! Do you not know what they say of him? He has murder in his heart, that one, and will stop at nothing to get exactly what he wants."