Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (11 page)

T
hey woke to rain that went on and on, sometimes in a
downpour, sometimes in a drizzle. The sodden earth squelched beneath their feet
and their clothing would not dry, even when Alistair succeeded in igniting a
sullen little fire. The next day was no better. By dusk they were all exhausted,
and Alistair, who knew this stretch of forest well, insisted they seek shelter
at a woodsman's cottage. The old man who inhabited it was hardly welcoming, but
when Alistair insisted, he let them inside.

Alistair went to stable the horse and Deirdre cast a
nervous glance around the filthy room, very much aware that the woodsman was
watching her with sly, sideways glances. His enormous dog, surely the biggest
she had ever seen, sprawled between them and the fire, stealing a large measure
of its heat.

Deirdre eyed the hound apprehensively. It stared back,
then yawned, exposing enormous fangs that glinted in the firelight. Deirdre
stepped back a little and stumbled into the woodsman, who was standing just
behind her.

"I've naught to give ye," he said.

"That's all right," she answered quickly. "We
have dried meat and bread—will you share it?"

"Aye. I will."

She had just turned to their small bag of provisions
when a movement caught her eye.

"No, Maeve!" she cried. "Stand
back!"

The child had walked over to the dog. It lifted its
head from its enormous paws and looked straight into her eyes. Before Deirdre
could move, the hound sniffed Maeve's outstretched hands, then put his tongue
out and licked the girl's face.

"That's enough, sweeting," Deirdre said,
picking up her giggling child and setting her on a bench.

"Nice doggie," Maeve said.

"
Big
doggie," Deirdre answered. "Too
big to be playing with tonight. Here, now," she added quickly, putting a
bit of bread into Maeve's hand. "Eat."

The woodsman walked over to the dog and kicked it in
the ribs. "Out!" he commanded.

The hound cringed away, and as Alistair opened the
door, it slipped past him into the night. The woodsman gave Alistair his
sideways stare. "Mayhap I've seen ye before."

"Mayhap ye have,
grandfather," Alistair answered, shaking the rain from his cloak and
spreading it on the earthen floor before the fire. "But whether or no, I
think you'd best forget you saw me here tonight."

The old man nodded quickly. "Aye, well, 'tis none
of my affair."

"That's right," Alistair agreed. "It is
not."

There was no more talk as they consumed their meager
meal and settled down on the earthen floor to sleep. But even the warmth of the
fire could not lull Deirdre into slumber. She didn't like the way the woodsman
looked at them and then their baggage, as though weighing up his chances.

The night was halfway through when she rose to
replenish the dying fire. When the logs began to blaze she sat back on her
heels and held her hands out to the flame, then jumped with a startled cry as a
hand touched her shoulder.

"Go back to sleep," Alistair said. "You
need your rest."

"I'm nervous as a cat tonight," she
whispered back. "That man—he looks at us as if he means us no good."

"Perhaps he doesn't," Alistair said, amused.
"But you mustn't lose any sleep over him. He won't dare try anything
tonight. He kens well enough who I am."

"And he could earn a piece of gold, perhaps, if
he went to Ravenspur Manor with his information," she said, voicing one of
the fears that kept her wakeful.

"I'm sure he means to," Alistair agreed. "But
'tis half a day's walk to Ravenspur from where we sit. By the time he gets
there and finds someone to listen to his tale, we'll be long gone."

The sound of his voice, so calm, so unconcerned,
loosened the tight knot of worry in Deirdre's stomach. Alistair had realized
the danger already. For all he might claim to live from one moment to the next,
apparently he was quite capable of thinking ahead.

There was no denying that she and Maeve would never
have made it this far without him, Deirdre thought. And in return he had
received exactly what he asked:  nothing. Except, of course, her unwanted
advice, delivered with the rough side of her tongue. And her offer to come to
Tullyleah, which he had apparently rejected out of hand.

"Alistair," she said contritely. "I
haven't even thanked you for everything you have done for us."

He smiled, head bent as he tested the edge of his
dagger. "No need for thanks, Deirdre."

They sat in silence for a time, as the rain lashed
against the roof and the wind gusted down the chimney. Alistair put his dagger
down carefully and dropped the whetstone beside it. Then he turned and looked
straight into her eyes.

"A man gets weary of traveling alone."

Oh, Jennie had been wrong, Deirdre thought. Alistair
Kirallen was not the sort of man who would trick a woman to his bed. No, he was
very honest about it. He wanted her, right now, tonight, and made no attempt to
hide behind pretty words or empty promises. It was all there in his eyes; his
loneliness, his need, all there for her to see, offered with shattering
directness that stole her breath away. And yet he made it easy to refuse; she
only had to glance the other way and make some remark about the lateness of the
hour, the need to rest....

She felt the blush rise up her neck and flood her face
but still she could not look away. Did not want to look away. A log cracked in
the fire and fell apart in a shower of bright sparks; the wind gusted against
the shutters, rattling them in their frames. Slowly she reached out one shaking
hand to brush the tangled hair from his brow.

This would not be forever, she thought. He was not the
sort of man to commit himself beyond a single night. But for this night he
wanted her. He
needed
her. And, she realized with a shock of violent
longing, she needed him, as well.

A shiver ran through her body as he caught her hand
and brought it to his lips. When his mouth moved lazily across her palm, a
surge of unbearable anticipation rushed through her, sent her spinning into a
place of shimmering light and warmth.

Right or wrong ceased to matter. They were distant
concepts that held no meaning for her now. He was the one. She had known it
from the first. Her choice had been made already, long ago in some other place,
and she no longer had the will to fight it.

Alistair closed his eyes as Deirdre's fingers brushed
his face. It had been so long, too long since he had lost himself in a woman's
arms. And this chance might never come again. Tonight she was alone and
frightened, completely at his mercy. It would be so easy to take advantage of
her momentary weakness. But it wouldn't be like that, not really. He would see
that she did not regret it.

She slid easily into his arms, her body flowing
against his, and her mouth was soft and sweet. He kissed her slowly, sensing
her uncertainty, knowing instinctively that she had never experienced anything
like this before. And come to that, he thought, surprised, neither had he. Though
what the difference was, he could not say.

When he parted her lips she dug her fingers into his
shoulders and arched against him, so wantonly inviting that he was tempted to
lie her down on the floor and take her then and there. But as his hand moved up
her waist to cup her breast, she pulled back, eyes wide open and every muscle
tensed.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," she answered,
giving him a false, bright smile. "I'm sorry."

She pressed herself against him again, but it was not
the same. Her body was stiff, and though she tipped her head back, inviting his
kiss, her eyes were dark and frightened.

Brodie, he thought, and a surge of violent anger tore
through him. He had used her badly—blind, stupid bastard that he was. If the
man wasn't dead already, Alistair would gladly have murdered him at that moment.
But Brodie was dead. The question now was how to banish his memory forever and
undo the damage he had done.

"It's all right," he whispered, cradling her
against him. "There's nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all..."

He held her then, as the fire dwindled and the shadows
grew, until he felt the tension leave her. Then he pushed the coif back from
her hair and deftly unwound the long black braid. Her hair was cool, sliding
between his fingers, around his wrists, and it smelled faintly of some
wildflower. He buried his face in its darkness and felt her heart pounding
against his chest. Like a little bird, he thought, his throat aching with wild
tenderness. So beautiful. So right.

Moving slowly, careful not to frighten her, he eased
her down beneath him and looked into her eyes. She gazed up at him, still a
little hesitant, but curious, as well, trusting him to make it all come right
between them. And he knew that he could do just that. There was nothing he
wanted more than to give her all the joy that she had missed, and in giving,
find something more than pleasure.

She drew him down and he went, his mouth closing over
hers. This time her lips parted eagerly beneath his. One night, he thought,
deepening the kiss. That was all that he could hope for. Tomorrow she would
see, as he already did, that there could be no more than that. Deirdre
MacLochlann Maxwell, daughter of the kings of Aileach and monarchs of Eire, was
not meant for the likes of him. If he had any sense, he would stop this right
now.

When he broke the kiss she sighed, her lips warm
against his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. Her leg bent, slid up his
thigh, and his resolved wavered, then crumbled into dust. He ran his hand
slowly up the slim line of her waist, tracing the curve of her breast, feeling
her nipple harden. A searing flame of desire shot through him as she moaned
softly, her leg tightening on his. Tomorrow be damned, he thought. Tonight she
would be his.

But when she drew back a little, her lips parted and her
eyes glowing, he knew one night never be enough. No, not one night or two—even
a dozen would not begin to teach him all he longed to know. It would take many
nights, and many days as well to know her fully. Days spent loving her, talking
with her, listening to her laugh, watching each expression as it passed across
her face.

He wanted to know everything about her—what touch
would make her shiver with delight, the games she had played as a child, what
she believed would happen after death... One night could never answer all his
questions. With Deirdre it would take a lifetime.

But he didn't have a lifetime. And even if he did have
years before him, what difference would it make? There was nothing he could
offer her save disgrace, dishonor, and the bare existence of a gypsy tinker.

He could still have the one night, he thought,
smoothing the hair back from her face, kissing her brow, her eyes, the sweet
curve of her cheek. One night of joy. One night that would surely break his
heart. For in the morning they would both know he had taken advantage of her
loneliness to win a single night of pleasure. In her eyes—and in his—he would
be no better than Brodie, taking what he wanted with no thought of what was
best for her. He would lose her trust, her friendship, the chance to simply be
near her and sometimes make her smile.

He could not bear to lose her. Not now, not yet. She
was so brave and beautiful, so very much alive, the only brightness on the dark
path he was traveling. With an effort that seemed to tear him in two he sat up
and took his arms from around her.

"I'm sorry, Deirdre. I—oh, Christ, I'm
sorry," he repeated helplessly. "'Tis very late and we both are tired.
Too tired to be thinking clearly."

"Oh."

Just the one word, but it was enough to pierce him to
the heart, and when he saw the tears shining in her eyes it took all his
strength not to reach for her again. Instead he said deliberately, "You
never told me about the man you left behind in Ireland."

"Who?" she said, obviously bewildered. "What
man?"

"There is a man, is there no'?  Someone waiting
for you?"

"Oh! Well, I suppose..."

"What is his name?" Alistair insisted, some
devil prompting him to hear what could only cause him pain.

"Ronan," she said, her voice choked.

"Ah. And what sort of man is Ronan?"

"He—he is a Fitzgerald—at least, his father was. His
mother was an O'Donnell." 

A Fitzgerald. Of course. Even if it was a Norman name,
not quite so noble as Deirdre's, the Fitzgeralds were a powerful force in
Ireland these days. The old nobility and the new, he thought. A good and proper
union for them both.

Deirdre began to braid her hair, pulling it with
quick, vicious jerks that looked as though they hurt. He wanted to grab her
hands and still them against his lips. Instead he bent to the fire.

"Really?" he said, surprised to hear his
voice come out so calmly. "And have ye known this Ronan long?"

"All my life. We were betrothed—a cradle match—and
he was fostered with us when we were children. After King Edward outlawed
marriages between his Norman lords and the Irish, the match was broken. But he
still visits Tullyleah—my father wrote that he was there just last spring—and
we are still...friends."