Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (12 page)

"I am sure they will all be pleased to have ye
back," Alistair said evenly. "Sleep now. We'll start at dawn."

As she went back to her place beside Maeve, he threw a
stick into the fire and watched the cinders leap. Friends, indeed! He saw the
whole thing now, the two young lovers torn apart, Deirdre's forced marriage to
Brodie Maxwell. But they were not helpless children any more. And if young
Ronan Fitzgerald—noble, wealthy, in every way a fitting match for Deirdre—did
not still want her, the man must be either a eunuch or a fool.

But Alistair himself was neither. He ached for her—literally,
he thought, shifting uncomfortably on the hard-packed earthen floor. And he
would just have to keep on aching, for Deirdre MacLochlann Maxwell was far out
of his reach. She was meant for a man of wealth and rank, not the bastard
offspring of a crofter's daughter and the smooth-tongued, lying knight who had
so basely used her, then refused to even acknowledge his own son.

At least I haven't repeated his mistakes, Alistair
thought. There had been no virgins for him, no rings or empty promises. He had
made damned sure that any woman who shared his bed understood exactly what he
offered. If any of them had ever come to him and claimed him as father to her
child, Alistair would have welcomed the bairn with joy and given it his name. But
that was when he had a name that meant something. If he and Deirdre had
begotten a child here tonight, she would have no choice but to pass it off as
Brodie's get. It would never have even have known who its father was.

He had done the right thing. The only thing. But when
he picked up a stick and broke it across his knee, he took grim pleasure in
imagining it was Ronan Fitzgerald's neck he snapped.

T
he rain stopped mid-morning, though the sun still hid
behind heavy clouds and the wind blew cold and damp. They trudged along in
silence until they halted for their noontime meal. Maeve seemed tired, Deirdre
thought. She hoped the child wasn't coming down with a chill. If only the rain
would hold off long enough to make a fire tonight...and they could find some
dry ground to sleep on...

Hold on, Maeve, she thought. We're going to make it. We're
going home.

"In Donegal," she began, then stopped, rigid
with fear, as an enormous shaggy shape burst through the undergrowth.

Alistair was on his feet in an instant, drawn sword in
his hand.

"No!" Maeve cried. "Doggy!"

She threw herself before the dog, who began to wriggle
with excitement, his enormous tongue lashing the child's face until Maeve fell
laughing to the ground.

"Doggy!" she cried, burying her hands in its
springing pelt. "My doggy."

"No, Maeve, he's not yours," Deirdre said. "He
belongs to the man who gave us shelter last night."

Maeve made a face. "Mean man. Kicked the
doggy."

She put her arms around the dog's neck and kissed its
muzzle. "Mine."

The dog flopped onto the ground and turned over on its
back, long legs sprawling awkwardly this way and that.

"Well, you're a fine fierce fellow,"
Alistair said, reaching down to rub its belly. "Some sort of wolfhound,
would ye say?  Mixed with God alone knows what. Look at his paws, Deirdre. He's
still a pup."

The dog's tail whipped from side to side in the sodden
leaves. When Alistair smiled at her, Deirdre's heart did a giddy little dance. But
it meant nothing, she thought. It was just a smile. He did not want her.

How could he act as though nothing had happened
between them last night? Had it really meant so little to him? But she could
not forget so easily. Why had he turned away from her so suddenly?  What had
she done wrong? She could not bring herself to ask the questions, for she was
afraid to hear the answers.

"We cannot keep him," she said sharply,
rubbing her temples against the dull ache that had started there. "We can
barely feed ourselves, let alone—"

"I don't think it's so much a matter of us
keeping him as him keeping us," Alistair said, rising and brushing his
knees. "He'll probably go home when he gets hungry."

"Unless he decides to make a meal of us,"
Deirdre muttered.

"Finn," Maeve said suddenly, reaching to
touch the dog's head. "Finn Mac Coul."

Deirdre laughed. She couldn't help herself. She, like
Maeve, had always loved the stories of Finn Mac Coul, the wily Irish giant.

"A fine name," Alistair said. "He is a
very giant among dogs."

Maeve smiled happily. "Finn," she repeated
and the dog looked at her, tail wagging, for all the world as if he knew his
name already. "My Finn."

B
y dusk it began to rain again. Alistair made a shelter
of pine boughs that kept the worst of it off their heads, but he could not coax
a fire from the sodden wood. They huddled miserably together, chewing on dried
meat and hard bread.

Alistair was very much aware of Deirdre just beside
him, shivering in the darkness. It was with some effort that he restrained
himself from putting his arm around her and drawing her beneath his cloak. That
would warm her, he thought. It would warm both of them quite nicely. But then
they would be back where they had been last night. Just the thought of it, her
limbs twined with his, her lips parting in sweet invitation, made his stomach
clench with longing.

"Here," he said brusquely, unfastening his
cloak. "Take this. Maeve is cold," he added, cutting off Deirdre's protest.

"Maeve, here—stop that!" Deirdre said
sharply. "You cannot give your food to that dog!"

"But he's hungry, Mam."

"Then let him go home. Now say thank you to Sir
Alistair and go to sleep."

"Thank you," Maeve said obediently.

Alistair tossed the dog the rest of his meal. "Here,
Finn," he said, loud enough for Maeve to hear. "Eat up." 

He smiled a little when he heard Deirdre's exasperated
sigh.

"Good night, Alistair," she said, sounding
annoyed. "I hope you don't freeze."

He piled pine needles on the wet ground and stretched
out on top of them. "A small price to pay for your comfort, Your
Highness."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," she
said, but her words held a trace of laughter.

Alistair turned over on his side, pulling a branch
over his shoulders. It was worth it, he thought. Worth the cold and the
discomfort, worth the hard ache he carried with him always now. It was all well
worth it if he could make her smile.

But all journeys have to end, he thought. This one
would not last the week. In four or five days they would reach Annan and
Deirdre would take ship for home.

I could go with her, he thought. It will be a new
start, a whole new life...a life with Deirdre?  Was it possible?  He would work
as hard as he had to, do anything at all if there was the slightest chance of
winning her. When he looked at it calmly, he knew it was not hopeless. There
was that Fitzgerald lad, of course, but if he could not stop Deirdre from
marrying Brody Maxwell, what sort of man was he? No doubt their childhood
romance had been sweet, but he had been far from Deirdre's thoughts last night.
She desires me, Alistair thought, and while that isn't near enough, it is
something to begin with.

Whether he could earn her respect was another matter.
Pathetic, she had called him, cowardly, and her words had stung like snow
rubbed against a frozen limb. Once the sting began to fade, feeling had rushed
in...and the first stir of hope.

He was not too old to start anew. He still had his
strength, his skill—and all the knowledge he had gained as Captain of
Kirallen's knights. Surely that was worth something!

I'll do it, he thought. I'll go to Ireland, to
Donegal. With Deirdre. And then I will do anything to win her.

On that thought he fell asleep, a smile on his lips.

T
he next morning when Deirdre woke, Finn was still
there, his back pressed close against Maeve, her small fingers wound in his
thick gray coat.

"Wretched hound," she said with something
approaching affection as she woke her daughter. At least he had kept Maeve warm.
Which was more than she or Alistair had been.

They gathered their things and went on again. By
midmorning Deirdre was plastered with mud and stumbling with exhaustion. Alistair
looked no better. His eyes were rimmed with red and his jaw downed with golden
stubble. Yet he was smiling as he strode along, and once or twice whistled a
cheerful tune. Maeve dozed in his arms; she had taken to insisting that he
carry her and refused to ride the horse. Germain trailed along after them, head
hanging, Finn padding along happily beside him.

"Where are we?" Deirdre said when they
stopped to rest beside a clear swift burn.

"At this rate, four or five days out of Annan. We'll
have to stop this afternoon, though, and see what we can catch."

Deirdre nodded. She knew well enough their food was
running dangerously low. And perhaps they could all have a wash and dry their
damp clothes by a fire. "Then let's get on," she said.

Alistair stood and pulled her to her feet. When his
hands closed over hers, she felt the heat rise to her face. He hadn't touched
her since that night—her face burned as she thought of it, the way she'd lain
in his arms. She must have been mad to forget herself that way. Shameless, she
had been, forgetting everything but the dizzying rush of her own desire.

She should be grateful he had stopped it when he had. She
knew that. But she wasn't. It must be as Brodie had so often said, that there
was some terrible lack in her, a coldness that killed a man's desire.

"Deirdre," he said slowly, her hands still
clasped in his. "I have been thinking about the other night—"

"No," she said, her voice a choked whisper. "It
doesn't matter."

"—and I think I will come with ye as far as
Donegal."

"What?" she said, confused, then realized he
had not been talking about
that
night at all. "Oh. Will you?"

"I find skulking in the forest is no' so pleasant
in the rain," he said with a smile. "I imagine it will be even worse
when the snow comes."

She smiled in return, feeling as though the sun had
just come out again. "That's fine, Alistair," she said warmly. "Just
fine. You won't be sorry, I'm sure of it. It's very beautiful in Donegal, and—"

She clamped her lips shut against the tide of words,
feeling an utter fool. He released her hands and bent to pick up the saddlebag.

"Well, after all I've heard about it, I'd like to
see the place!"

"Come, my love," Deirdre said to Maeve,
nervously straightening her coif. "Time to be going on. And I want you to
ride Germain for a bit. I think he's lonely."

Maeve got to her feet and stood, her head hanging. "No,"
she said. "Star."

"Sir Alistair is weary," Deirdre said. "Mind
me now and get up on the horse."

Maeve shook her head. "Won't."

Deirdre stopped Alistair with a gesture and knelt
before her daughter. "That is enough," she said severely. "This
is no time for your whims and fancies."

Maeve raised her head and looked at Deirdre with
fever-bright eyes. Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant red. "Hurts,"
she said. "Hurts, Mam."

"Where exactly does it hurt, sweeting?" she
asked, touching her knuckles to Maeve's brow.

Maeve put one hand to her throat. "Here. All
over."

"I'll make a fire," Alistair said.

"Aye," Deirdre said, running one hand
distractedly across Maeve's hair. "Let me think—willow bark will ease
her."

"I think I saw some back—"

Finn growled deep in his throat and Deirdre turned
with a start of terror. But the dog was looking back into the forest, the hair
standing out stiffly on the ruff of his neck.

Then Deirdre heard it for herself, the sound of horses
moving through the trees. Her eyes met Alistair's as they waited to see which
way the riders would go. A hound bayed and then another in the unmistakable
sound of dogs who had caught their quarry's scent.

"This is what ye do now," Alistair said.  He
spoke in a voice she'd never heard before; crisp, authoritative. "Take
Maeve and get into the water. They canna track ye there. I wish ye could take Germain,
but I need him."

As he spoke, he tossed the bag of provisions to
Deirdre, then turned and flipped open the saddlebags. "Walk upstream until
ye reach a waterfall, then—are ye listening, Deirdre?"

Deirdre, who had turned toward the sounds coming from
the forest, jerked her gaze back to his face. "Yes."

He gave her a small pouch, tied securely at the top.
She felt the weight of it, heard the dull clink of coins as it changed hands,
and looked up at him sharply. "What is this?"

"When ye come to the waterfall, take shelter in
the thicket," he went on, ignoring her question. "Wait for dusk, then
head north. Tonight, or early tomorrow, ye will see a break in the hills, verra
sharp, like this—" he held up two fingers to illustrate. "There is a
cave just between—make for it as fast as ye are able. An old man dwells there,
Fergus is his name. He can be trusted absolutely, just tell him I sent
you."

Deirdre thrust the pouch at him. "This is
yours--"

He waved it aside. "Now, what did I tell ye to
do?"

It was all happening too fast. Deirdre could hardly
understand that he was leaving her, when just a moment ago he had promised to
come to Donegal. She stared down at the pouch holding his entire fortune and knew
he did not believe they would meet again.

"Wait," she said.

"Nay, Deirdre we canna wait. Tell me."  When
she did not answer, he put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. "Say
it
!
  What are ye going to do?"

"Walk upstream to the waterfall. Go north. Look
for a break in the hills."

"Aye, that's right."

"But—"

He leaned down and kissed her hard, his beard scraping
against her cheeks. Then he scooped Maeve from the ground and hugged her
briefly. "Be a good lass. Mind your Mam."

"Aye, Star," Maeve whispered, her eyes
round.

"But—" Deirdre said again, and he put a
finger to her lips.

"Take Maeve home to Donegal. Ye can do it, lass.
Nay, Finn," he added sharply as the dog began to run from the clearing.

The hounds bayed again, and a man cried out, "To
me
!
  This way, they have something
!
" His voice was so close that Deirdre's heart leaped to her
throat.