Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (17 page)

"No one."

Deirdre's puzzlement deepened. "Surely
there is some woman—a friend?"

"No," Alyson said in a
small voice. "They all—oh, Deirdre, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"About how I came
here."

"Well," Deirdre said
cautiously. "There was some talk. They said your father tried some trick
and it all went wrong."

Alyson's pale lips curved in a
smile. "That's what they're still saying here. But I think it all went
right—at least for me. And Jemmy. Though lately I've wondered...I've brought
him nothing but trouble from the first..."

Deirdre took Alyson's cold hand
in hers. "Tell me," she said. "If you want to."

"Yes. I do want to. Better
you hear it from me..."

Deirdre listened with
astonishment as Alyson's tale came out, of the deception she'd been forced to
undertake, her growing love for Jemmy and his for her. When Alyson reached the
part where Jemmy had defied his clan and father to wed her, Deirdre wiped her
eyes and laughed.

"I knew from the first he
was mad with love for you," she said. "Oh, Alyson, if you could have
heard the way he spoke of you—he doesn't regret it. Don't ever think it."

"He should regret it. It
turned the clan against him—and he had enough to overcome as it was. We could
have won them over, though, I'm sure of it, if not for—"

"For Alistair?"

"Aye. Once he was gone, they
all started to talk of him as if he was a holy martyr. The laird could have
stopped it, but he didn't. It was the guilt," she said quietly. "He
looked at Alistair like his own son, the only one he had once Ian was gone. He
and Jemmy—they never got on well. That was why Jemmy left in the first place. Once
Jemmy came back again, things began to get better between them. Until Jemmy
married me instead of Maude."

"But I don't understand,"
Deirdre said. "What difference did it make by then?  The laird had the
peace he wanted."

"He had it at the price of
losing Alistair. The laird always thought that if Jemmy had only married Maude,
Alistair would have accepted it—that the clan would have accepted it. But
there's a great difference between having Maude, Darnley's true-born daughter,
as their lady, and the baseborn kitchen slut Darnley foisted off on Jemmy. They
hate me, Deirdre—"

"Oh, Alyson," Deirdre
cried, "Surely that can't be so! They can't all hate you!"

"Maybe not," Alyson
agreed listlessly. "But the ones who don't, don't dare quite offer
friendship. They're standing back, waiting, watching to see which way things
will go. Now that Alistair's back again, the waverers will be sidling over to
his camp if it seems he's winning."

"Winning what?"

"Power," Alyson said
flatly. "Isn't that what all this is about?"

"Mayhap Alistair was bitter
when he left," Deirdre said slowly. "Who could blame him if he was?
But he has changed. He didn't mean to come back here at all, he was just
guiding us through your lands—"

"Are you sure of that,
Deirdre?  Really, really sure?"

Deirdre thought back over
everything that had happened since she met Alistair on Beltane Eve.

"Yes," she said at last.
"I am sure."

I am, I
must
be, she
thought. Because if I am wrong, then Alistair is not only a liar, but the most
accomplished liar I've ever met. And that she could not accept.

"He is coming with me to
Donegal," she said. "I see now we should leave as quickly as we
can."

"Oh, Deirdre—I hate to say
this, but I hope you will."

"Now rest," Deirdre
said firmly. "Whatever is to happen, you must have a care for yourself—and
the babe."

She sat by the bed, stroking the
bright hair back from Alyson's pale face until her breathing slowed and Deirdre
knew she slept.

When someone knocked softly on
the door, she was up and across the floor in an instant.

"Hush," she said,
pulling open the door, surprised to find herself face to face with Alistair.

"How is she?" he asked,
looking past her into the room.

"Resting," Deirdre said
briefly.

"Poor Deirdre," he
said, "You look worn out yourself. Will ye come and get some air?"

Deirdre glanced back over her
shoulder.

"She can spare ye for an
hour," Alistair said. "And where is Maeve? I hoped to see her."

"In the gardens,"
Deirdre said. "Let me send someone for Maggie and then I can go."

"I'll see to it," he
offered.

A few minutes later Deirdre
walked into the Ravenspur garden, a riot of bright colors and sweet scents. Deirdre
inhaled deeply, then pulled the coif from her head and let the sun beat down
upon her head.

"It is beautiful,"
Alistair said, his gaze moving over the flowerbeds and neatly clipped lawn. "She's
done much in just a year."

Then he smiled, catching sight of
Maeve. "Hello, sweeting," he called and she looked up, her small face
lighting with pleasure.

"Star!" she cried,
running across the lawn and jumping into his arms. He swung her around until
she screamed with laughter, then held her high above his head and looked into
her face.

"And what have ye been
about, poppet?"

"Horsy!" she said
excitedly. "There—"

Deirdre followed her pointing
finger to see Malcolm rise laughing from his knees.

"So you're the horsy, are
ye?" Alistair said, swinging Maeve onto his shoulders and walking over to
the boy.

"A very fine steed,
too," he replied with a grin. "Good morning to ye, Lady
Maxwell."

"Again!" Maeve cried,
tugging at Alistair's hair. "Horsey—again!"

"All right, then,"
Malcolm said agreeably. "Have another ride if ye like."

Alistair led Deirdre to a stone
bench set among the roses and stretched out on the grass at her feet, looking
up at her through his lashes with a smile. He could not be plotting murder and
treachery, she thought. He simply could not. It was impossible that he could
look at her like this, his eyes so bright and clear, if that was so.

"The Maxwells have gone, I
trust?" she said lightly.

"Aye, God rot them."

"What do you think happened,
earlier, in the hall?"

He looked down at the grass,
avoiding her gaze. "Things got a bit out of hand, didn't they? Apparently
the man was a bit the worse for drink—" He shrugged.

"It seemed as though Sir
Calder started the whole thing."

"That is not what the
knights say," he answered evasively.

So he was defending Sir Calder now.
Deirdre's heart faltered, but she forced herself to smile brightly.

"And have you seen the laird?"

"I've seen him, aye, but he
has not seen me. He was asleep yesterday. I must go back to him soon."

"And what do you think he'll
say to you?"

"I won't know until he says
it, will I?" he answered sharply.

"But surely you have some
idea! Alistair," she said directly, abandoning all pretense, "What if
he asks you to come back for good and all? What will you do?"

She braced herself against his
anger, but when he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

"I don't know," he
said, sounding utterly exhausted. "I didn't want this, you must believe
that.
Damn
them for dragging me back into it again! Before God and all
the saints, I have half a mind to ride out of here right now and make for
Donegal."

"Yes! Let's leave right now,
today—"

"I cannot. Not yet." He
ran one hand through his hair, until the fine bright strands broke free of
their braid and shimmered like molten gold in the sunlight. "I will not
walk away and leave Malcolm unprotected. He is Ian's son, it is his right to
rule—what Ian would have wanted—"

"Alistair," she said
with swift urgency, "you must stop thinking about what Ian would have
wanted. You must. Don't you see it doesn't matter now? He's dead and you're
here and this is your choice, not his. What do
you
think?"

"Do you really want to know
what I think? I think you're wrong, Deirdre. This has everything to do with Ian.
Don't you see?  I told you he wanted something of me still. This is it, and it's
my one chance—my last chance—to put right what went wrong when he died."

"No, I don't see—"

"It was my place to protect
him and I wasn't even there. I failed him and he's dead. And now—" he
looked up at her, his eyes stricken. "There isn't much time left to me. If
I canna make things right, I'll have failed him again and then I will be damned
forever—"

"No!" She dropped to
her knees beside him and took him by the shoulders. "Alistair, that is mad—"

He shrugged away. "I knew
you wouldn't understand—"

"But I do! I do understand!
Ian trusted you, they all say that, he relied on you—Alistair, listen to me. If
Ian was alive and faced with such a decision, what would he have done?"

"That's what I've been—"

"No!" she cried. "Listen!
The first—the very first thing Ian would have done was ask you! Wouldn't
he?"

"Aye," he said at last.
"He would have."

"Because he knew you would
think it through for him. Isn't that how it always was between you?"

"Aye."

"Then start using the mind
he valued so much and stop letting your guilt get in the way of doing what you
have to do."

Without a word he pulled her
close and laid his head against her shoulder. She put her arms around him, one
hand stroking the fine soft hair, and felt him draw a long shuddering breath.

"You see things so
clearly," he said, his voice muffled. "It sounds so simple when you
say it, but it isna simple, not any more. And I'm so tired, Deirdre. I canna
seem to think."  He lifted his head sharply and looked up. "D'ye hear
them? They're with me all the time now—"

"Whisht," she said,
pulling his head back down on her shoulder. "I don't see anything, there's
nothing there,
nothing
."

But she
had
seen them,
sitting motionless among the green leaves and bright red fruit of the cherry
tree above them. Two dark winged shapes, hideous, terrifying, implacable as
death itself. She tightened her arms around Alistair, as though somehow she
could protect him, and a sharp stab of fear shot through her as she prayed the
prayer of every living being confronted with the reality of death.

Not yet, she pleaded silently. Don't
take him now. It isn't fair, it isn't right. Oh, please, just a little longer—

He lifted his head and wiped a
tear from her cheek with one callused thumb. "I'm sorry," he said. "I
shouldn't have gone on like that. I must be more tired than I thought. Please
don't cry, Deirdre, it will be all right."

But how could it be right? she
wondered as she tried to summon a smile. How could anything ever be right
again?

"We all must die one
day," he said. "'Tis naught to fear. But what I do fear—the only
thing I fear now—is that I'll die without a chance to put things right."

"You'll find the way,"
Deirdre said. "I know you will."

He smiled, then leaned forward
and kissed her lightly. "So long as one of us believes that, I suppose it
will have to be enough."

He sighed and touched her cheek. "And
then there's you. What's to be done about ye, Deirdre?"

Before she could answer he slung
an arm around her shoulder and sat down, his back against the bench. "No,
forget I asked that. Can ye do that?  Do ye mind very much if we don't talk
about it yet?"

"I—well, no," she
answered, feeling suddenly a little breathless.

"Let's talk of something
else. Something different. Tell me what ye liked to do when ye were a
child," he suggested. "What was your favorite game?"

Completely disconcerted by this
abrupt change of subject, Deirdre felt herself begin to blush.

"Oh!  Well, let me think—I
always liked to go down to the cliffs. Sometimes I'd see a seal and would
pretend it was a silkie come to carry me away so I could live on the bottom of
the sea."

"I wouldn't blame any silkie
for trying," he said gallantly.

The sunlight was strong on her
face, the scent of flowers heady enough to make her dizzy. And all the time
there was the solid strength of his arm around her shoulders, the feeling of
his fingers as they twined in hers.

"And then I played the games
all children play," she continued, with a nod and smile to acknowledge his
compliment. "Counting and jumping—and wishing at the old well."

"What did ye wish for?"

She glanced at him, wondering how
he could possibly care about something so trivial when he had so much on his
mind. But he was looking at her with as though her answer was terribly
important.