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"What is it?" Alyson asked. "What is wrong?"

"'Tis Alistair," he answered on a groan. "He is gone."

"Gone? Nay, Jemmy, he's in confinement—until the trial—"

"There will be no trial." He dropped his head back on his arms. "I let him go. Indeed, I almost pushed him out the door! And now he has...just...disappeared and young Fitzgerald with him. I've had men searching the grounds all night. There is no trace of either of them."

"But how could you have let him go?" Alyson cried, then cast a guilty glance at the laird's still form. "Why?" she said in a whisper.

"Oh, sweeting, 'tis a long, long story..."

Alyson sat back on her heels and reached for his hand. "Then you had best come to bed and tell me all about it," she said, forcing herself to smile reassuringly as he took her hand. "We'll sort it out together."

Alistair stopped at the foot of the tower stairs and leaned weakly against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. A mistake, he realized as he staggered, nearly falling. But when he opened his eyes he still saw two dim stairways stretching into darkness. Keeping one hand on the wall, he started up, concentrating on placing one foot before the other.

He knew dimly that he should find Jemmy, tell him something, but he had no idea what it was. The only coherent thought in his mind was that he needed Deirdre. Everything would be all right if he could only find her. What exactly was wrong, he could not remember, and he could not spare the energy to try. Whatever it was, Deirdre would sort it out. He could trust her, he knew that now, though he had no idea why he'd ever doubted her. Memory began and ended in this stairway. He had always been here, putting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself upward with each step.

Through the pounding of his head he heard a distant clanking sound, but it took some time before he understood it was his sword bumping up each step as it trailed from his hand. He wondered hazily why he had drawn his sword, but there was no answer to that question. He could only imagine he'd had a reason at the time.

Up above a dog was barking. Finn, he thought, so relieved that he had to stop and lean heavily against the wall. He had begun to wonder if he was even in the right part of the manor, but now he knew he was. Finn was here. That meant Deirdre was here, as well. She would open the door any moment now, and he could fall into her arms and rest.

"Quiet, Finn!"

Deirdre's voice was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He forced himself to take another step, and from a great distance he heard his sword clatter down the steps behind him. But that was all right. He didn't need it now. Three more steps would bring him to the landing, and from there it was but two paces to the door.

He reached the top of the steps and stood swaying. "Deirdre!" he shouted with all his strength, but the word came out as a hoarse whisper, inaudible over the clamor Finn was making now. Alistair staggered forward and opened his mouth to try again, but before he could utter a word a hand was clamped hard across his mouth and he was pulled half off his feet.

"Finn, be quiet!" Deirdre called. "What is all this about?"

The door opened a little way, but Alistair was pinned against the wall, his shouts muffled by the hand across his mouth. Through a small crack he could see Deirdre standing just inside, a candle in her hand. Her hair was tangled around her tearstained face and she barely glanced down the stairway before turning back.

"What is wrong with you?" she scolded the dog. "There's nothing out there. Lie down, Finn. Quiet!"

Alistair twisted frantically, trying to call out, to kick the man behind him, and then suddenly he stilled. Deirdre could not help him now. If she was to even guess that he was here, it would bring her into danger. Bright spots danced before his eyes and he fought against them, holding onto consciousness with every ounce of his failing strength.

The door closed and she was gone. Finn flung his body against the wood, his paws scrabbling vainly as he howled.

"Ye led us quite a chase, but now we have ye," a voice said in Alistair's ear, and an agonizing pain pierced his skull.

Calder, Alistair thought, and for a single fleeting moment, before the darkness closed around him, he remembered everything.

"Finn, quiet!" Deirdre ordered, her voice rough with tears. "Lie down and be still."

The dog whined and pawed frantically at the door, then threw back his head and howled. But there was no one out there, Deirdre had seen that for herself. What was the matter with the dog?

Deirdre thought of Alistair, lying in his prison. Did Finn somehow sense that his master was to die tomorrow? She had heard of such things before.

"I know," she said, kneeling. "There's nothing you can do, Finn. Nothing anyone can do. Just lie down now, that's a good dog, and go to sleep."

But Finn was having none of it. After a time, Deirdre stood and pulled the bolt, then opened the door a crack. "Go on, then," she said as Finn slipped through and ran down the stairs. "Go find him. Mayhap he'll be glad to see you."

She shut the door and leaned against it, hot tears slipping down her cheeks. She had tried and tried to see Alistair earlier, only to be turned away. Jemmy had been no help to her. He was in the chapel, holding a private vigil for his father, and could not be disturbed. Alyson was unavailable, as well.

"If Sir Alistair wants ye, lady, he will send," the guard had said bluntly on Deirdre's third attempt. But Alistair had not sent.

If only she could hear from his own lips exactly how it had happened, perhaps she could believe he'd really done it. Yet he must have done. The evidence had been there before them all and Alistair had not even denied it.

It must have happened suddenly, she thought. He surely had not planned it. But Master Kerian said Brodie was dead two hours before noon. What had Alistair been doing all that time? Had he just sat there, waiting, too stunned to attempt escape? Oh, if only she could see him once, if only she could hear his explanation. But he did not want to see her.