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"Why?"

Alistair jumped to his feet with a rattle of heavy chain and turned his back to Jemmy. "You said you'd leave if I told you," he said tightly, "and I have. Now get out."

Jemmy rose as well. "Listen, Alistair," he said rapidly, "I know you don't want to trust me, I understand that, but you must tell me the truth, you have to. How can I help you if you don't?"

"I've said all I mean to say."

Had he done it? Jemmy refused to believe it. Why, then, did he not deny it?

"What can I ever say to Malcolm?" Jemmy asked, using the sharpest weapon he could summon.

"I dinna care," Alistair said roughly. "Tell him what ye like. What difference will this make?"

"Aye, you've already broken his faith in you—and don't think I didn't see what that cost you. Now you'd have him believe you died a traitor, a coward and a murderer?"

Alistair did not turn, but Jemmy saw the sudden tensing of his shoulders.

"You are lying," Jemmy said with certainty. "But why?"

Alistair turned, a desperate light in his eyes. "Jemmy, if ye ever—I know we have not been friends, but we've known each other all our lives. For what was between us, I'm asking you to do this last thing for me. Don't ask any more questions. Just let Kinnon Maxwell have his way tomorrow. Believe me, this is—'tis what must be."

"You're asking too damn much," Jemmy said. "I am the one who must condemn you—an innocent man—and I will not do it."

Alistair sank back down on the bench and looked up at Jemmy, a hard smile touching his lips. "How can ye be sure it wasn't me? 'Tis no secret I wanted the man dead. Why believe anything I've said? It could have all been lies, did ye ever think of that? I always wanted Malcolm to follow your father. Maybe 'twas all a plot to force Calder into the open so I could take control."

"I considered that. But I don't think it was."

"What reason have ye to trust me? Your wound is healed, your men assembled—here's your chance to be shed of me. If I were in your place, I'd take it."

"No, you wouldn't."

Alistair looked up sharply. "Oh, Jemmy, ye canna know that. There have been times I wished—I wanted—"

"And plenty of times I wanted to wring your neck, as well," Jemmy admitted, sitting down beside him. "But if you had truly wished to kill me, you could have done it the day I found you. Or the night you came to my chamber. Or you could have let Calder do it for you. You had plenty of chances, but you didn't take them, did you?"

Alistair would not meet his eyes. He stared down at the filthy straw that covered floor, his face studiously blank.

"Do you really believe I will condemn you to a death you don't deserve?" Jemmy asked. "When all the while there's someone standing back, watching, waiting for me to hang you for his crime?"

Alistair turned to him. "Jemmy, don't—"

Jemmy stared at him in sudden understanding. "Or," he said slowly, "for her crime."

"No," Alistair said vehemently. "Ye have it wrong—"

"Do I? Who else would you protect?"

Alistair stood and paced the length of the chamber. "Deirdre had every reason to kill him. You don't know—ye canna begin to know all he did to her."

"Why are you so certain it was she?"

"The dagger." Alistair sighed. "I lent it to her and she never returned it."

Jemmy ran a hand across his face, all the events of the past days descending like a leaden weight upon his shoulders. Why did this have to happen now? It was too much, too soon after his father's death. But he had no choice but to see it through.

Frowning, he tried again to imagine what had taken place at Kendrick's Field that morning.

"She is very slight," he said. "I don't see how...and how did she convince him to meet her there?"