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"I'm sorry Deirdre," Alyson said quietly. "What he did for you yesterday was a fine thing, but it changes nothing. Whatever happens with Maxwell today, Alistair will have to go."

"He can come with me, then," Deirdre said, her eyes flashing.

"That would be best," Alyson said with a tight smile.

"What of you?" Deirdre said impulsively, turning to Jemmy. "Do you think he ran away?"

"No," Jemmy said gently. "I think Alistair cares for you very much, my lady, far too much to run off and leave you to Maxwell. He'll be waiting for us at Kendrick's field, and I suggest we get ready to go and find him there."

Alistair reached the field with a quarter of an hour to spare. He dismounted and pushed back the mail coif, running one hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He had feared he would be late, yet he was the first to arrive. Smiling a little, he checked his horse's hooves and saddle, thinking back over the last few hours with satisfaction.

Straightening, he looked over the clearing, pacing the ground to check for holes and hillocks that might catch Germain unawares. When he reached the far side of the meadow he stopped, his eye caught by a splash of color against the darkness of the pines.

Approaching cautiously, he found a man lying huddled at the edge of the clearing. He dropped to his knees and turned the man over, staring in disbelief at Brodie's lifeless face.

The wind soughed through the high branches as Alistair glanced quickly about the field, knowing already that he was alone here with a dead man. With deepening shock he noticed the dagger protruding from between Brodie's shoulder blades, and stared in disbelief at the carved stag's head adorning the handle.

"How pretty," Deirdre had said that day in the courtyard, when she was cutting flowers. He had answered, "It was a gift from the laird."

Then he had handed it to her.

To Deirdre.

And now here it was again, stuck fast in Brodie Maxwell.

"Hold there! Alistair, what have ye done?"

Alistair looked up, seeing the Maxwells ride into the clearing as if in a dream. At that moment Jemmy rode in from the other side, his men behind him. Kinnon cantered his horse to Jemmy's and spoke urgently, gesturing toward Brodie's body, as the Maxwell men-at-arms surrounded Alistair.

Deirdre sat frozen on her horse, staring at Brodie's lifeless form. Why, Deirdre? Alistair wanted to shout. He had told her she would never go back to Brodie, had sworn to her—but she hadn't trusted him to do it.

But no, what was he thinking? Deirdre could not have done this. Even if she had, she would not have used his own dagger, then sat silent as he was taken. She loved him! Or no, he had been the one to say those words... A shattering wave of doubt seized him and he could not speak, neither to accuse nor deny.

Like a man in a dream, he watched Fitzgerald pull his steed close to Deirdre and encircle her with his arm.

"His lady's ta'en another mate-o,

So we may mak our dinner sweet-o."

How long would it take her? Alistair wondered. How long before she wed the Irishman?

Deirdre swayed in her saddle and Ronan was there, pulling his horse close to her, eyes blazing emerald in a face as pale as parchment.

"He didn't," Deirdre whispered. "He didn't do this."

"Sure, he did. 'Twas—'twas for you he did it, though, just remember that."

Alistair eyes were fastened on Deirdre, but he did not speak a word. Why does he look at me that way? Deirdre thought. As though it is my fault? Oh, dear St. Brighid, could Ronan be right? Had Alistair really done this thing? For her?

A rustle of leaves made Alistair look up. Right on time, he thought with an eerie detachment as the corbies took their places above his head.

"God's blood, Alistair," Kinnon Maxwell cried. "I never took ye for a backstabber!"

The Maxwell men began to move forward. "Let me have him, Kinnon," Jemmy said. "I'll get the truth from him."

"What truth? I can see the truth with my own eyes," Kinnon cried, pointing to his brother's body. "What more do I need? Alistair backstabbed him and he'll hang for it."

Alistair caught Jemmy's eye and shrugged, an infinitesimal movement of one shoulder. Ye canna help me now, he said silently. Don't even try.