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When he walked inside the frozen ache in her heart began to thaw and the tight muscles of her shoulders relax. The very air seemed different with him in the room. The fire gave more light, the candles burned more brightly. All at once the rain was falling sweetly outside the window, making the chamber a warm and homely shelter from the storm.

He stood before the hearth as Finn whined and nosed at his hand. "All right, lad," he said, stroking Finn's head. "That's enough, now. Down."

Finn flopped down at Alistair's feet and gave a snort of sheer contentment.

"That's a good fellow," Alistair said and reached down to give him a pat. Such a perfectly domestic scene, Deirdre thought. If only it could really be like this, if only it could last...

"I shouldn't have come," Alistair said, straightening. "'Tis late..."

"Is it my reputation you're worried for?" Deirdre asked lightly, pouring wine for them both. "Or yours?"

He accepted the wine and sipped, leaning back against the mantle with his own peculiar grace. "I have no reputation left to worry for."

She flushed, remembering his words to Brodie earlier in the hall, when he'd claimed to have taken her to his bed. "No more have I. After today, what was left of it is gone."

"I don't blame you for being angry," he said, his bright head bent as he gazed into the fire. "I'm sorry. But I could think of no other way to bring Brodie to the point."

"I know that. And I'm not angry, Alistair, not at you. I'm sorry if I sounded that way earlier. I don't want you to fight him! What if—"

He moved quickly across the few steps between them to touch his finger to her lips.

"No 'what ifs,'" he said. "We've been through that before. I knew what I was doing, Deirdre."

A gust of wind made the fire dance and flicker in the hearth. The chamber seemed to grow a little smaller as she stared into his eyes, and she was suddenly aware that she was clad only in her shift with a thin chamber robe thrown over her shoulders. As though following her thoughts, his gaze moved downward and she shivered, pulling the robe more closely around her throat.

"You're cold and it's late and I'm sorry I woke ye," Alistair said. "I'll go."

"Oh, don't go! Not yet," she said quickly. "I was wakeful anyway."

Alistair sat down on the bench and she sat beside him. They were quiet then, sipping at their wine, watching the fire.

"Deirdre," he said at last. "The laird is dead."

"I am sorry. Was it—?" She bit her lip, not knowing if he would want to speak of it.

"He didn't wake," Alistair said. "His breathing changed and then..." he held out his hands and stared at them. "It just stopped. They said—the physician and priest—it was a blessed release. And I suppose it was. But—"

His voice broke and he leaned his head in his hands, shading his eyes.

"You loved him."

Alistair nodded. "Always. He was more of a father to me than my own ever was."

Alistair had spoken of his mother once or twice, but Deirdre realized now that he had never once mentioned his father.

"Who was your father?" she asked.

"He name was Niall Gordon. He was one of Kirallen's knights."

"Gordon?" Deirdre said, surprised. "But you—" she broke off in confusion.

"He met my mother at a gathering," Alistair said, his eyes fixed on the floor between his feet. "She was fifteen then, a crofter's daughter, young enough to be dazzled by a knight's attentions and innocent enough to believe his lies. He left her with a ring and a promise he never meant to keep." Alistair looked up at her. "And with me."

There was a small silence during which Deirdre was very conscious of Alistair watching her, waiting for her reaction. She hesitated, trying to find the right words. She could hardly say it did not matter who his parents were, when it obviously mattered very much to him.

"At least she had you," Deirdre said at last. "A fine son. I'm sure that was—that you were a comfort to her."

"Hardly that," Alistair answered bitterly. "Her parents never forgave either of us for her disgrace."