Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (22 page)

"No," she rasped.

"Don't be a fool!" he
said roughly. "Think of Maeve if ye will not think of yourself. We both
know what we saw last Beltane Eve. When I am dead, who will ye have?"

She stared into Alistair's eyes,
seeing the fear in their depths. Not fear for himself, but for her. And now she
could see beyond the fear to something else, something that lit his eyes from
within and made them glow like molten silver. She reached up and traced her
fingertips across the stubborn line of his mouth.

"You should have told
me," she whispered.

She closed her eyes and sighed as
his lips brushed hers, teasing them apart, and with a strangled groan he
crushed her against his chest, deepening the kiss. She was flying, she was
melting, she was burning for the touch of his lips and as his hands tightened
on her waist, they burned through the velvet of her gown.

Slowly he lifted his mouth from
hers.

"Ye must go, Deirdre,"
he said, his lips against her hair.

"Then come with me!"
she cried hoarsely, abandoning all pride. "Oh, Alistair, please come away
from here!" She bit her lip, searching for the words. "They're all
afraid of you, even Malcolm—he said such terrible things, Alistair, I couldn't
believe them—I
won't
believe them—but... Please, just walk away, right
now, before something awful happens. Come with me. We could be so happy."

He looked at her with such
longing in his eyes that she was certain he'd agree. Then he shook his head.

"I cannot. I must stay and
ye must go. Yon harper can see ye home. God knows he's come far enough for the
honor." He smiled wryly. "He is a rogue, that one, but 'tis plain he
loves ye well. No," he said as she would have spoken, standing and setting
her on her feet. "Please, no more. You leave tomorrow."

W
hen dawn came,
it was all but invisible for the rain pouring down in sheets.

"I can't take Maeve out in
this," Deirdre said, gesturing toward the stable door.

"She's wrapped warm
enough," Alistair replied briefly, swinging the saddle over her palfrey. "She'll
be fine."

"But—"

"Mount up."

Ronan leaned against the wall,
green eyes shining from the shadow of his hood. "Do it, Dee," he said.
"Sure, a little rain won't hurt the child."

Deirdre shifted the weight of her
sleeping daughter in her arms. "But she'll want to say farewell."

She knew it was a pitiful excuse,
but she was running out of better ones. Since she'd been roused from sleep an
hour before, she'd used every argument she could think of to delay her
departure. None of them had earned her more than an impatient answer from
either Alistair or Ronan. Now that the two of them had joined forces, Deirdre
was definitely outnumbered. Alistair didn't even bother to answer as he jerked
his head toward the horse.

"Fernan and McTavish and I
will ride with ye a time," he said and her heart lifted a bit.

Ronan heaved himself aboard his
horse with a martyred sigh, and Deirdre felt a pang of guilt. He seldom stirred
before the morning was far gone, yet for her sake he was doing this without
complaint.

Alistair kissed Maeve's forehead,
then handed her to Deirdre. "Give her my farewells," he said, a
suspicious roughness in his voice.

"Alistair, I still think—"

"Aye, I ken what ye think. But
you're going just the same."

Deirdre glared at him with
impotent anger. Damn him for his pride, for his twisted sense of honor. Damn
him for being everything she had ever wanted and was about to lose forever.

As he tucked the cloak more
firmly about Maeve, she caught his wrist. "When you've done what you must
do here, come and find me. Do you hear me? You come to Donegal and I'll be
waiting."

"I fear 'twill be a long
wait, Deirdre," Alistair said, so matter-of-factly that tears rose to her
eyes.

"How gallant," Ronan
drawled.

"Shut up!" she cried,
rounding on him in sudden fury. "You know nothing about any of this."

"I know that we had best get
moving before those knights drown," Ronan replied, nodding toward the two
figures huddled stolidly in the downpour.

And then, before Deirdre could
think of anything else to say, they were out the door and the rain was beating
down upon her hood. They rode out of the stableyard and over the drawbridge,
the horse's hooves hollow on the wood. Then they were in the lane, and the rain
began to ease into a drizzle.

The fog was so thick around them
that Deirdre could scarcely see two paces ahead. The world had drawn down to
herself and Alistair, riding side by side, through an eerie landscape that
didn't seem quite real. It was more like a nightmare where monsters lurked
unseen. She tried to shake the impression off but her unease grew with every step.
Unconsciously she clutched her sleeping daughter closer as her eyes darted this
way and that, finding blank whiteness in all directions.

Ronan began to sing, but Alistair
stopped him with a sharp command. "Sound travels in the fog," he said
and for once Ronan made no argument. Perhaps he sensed it, too, the menace in
the mist, and his song was but a whistle in the dark.

The rain had stopped completely
by the time they turned into the lane and a little breeze tore ragged holes in
the fog. The ground dipped sharply and the fog enveloped them again.

"There is the road," Alistair
said, pointing. "Turn right and follow it straight to Annan. Go on,"
he added sharply as Deirdre hesitated.

She looked as though she might
speak, but in the end only nodded and turned her horse's head. Long after she
had vanished into the fog Alistair still sat, staring after her, clenching his
jaw against the impulse to call her back, to beg her not to leave him...

Deirdre would be safe now, he
reminded himself fiercely. This was the right—the only—thing to do. But though
that belief had sustained him through the past days, all at once it rang hollow
in his mind.

Oh, he had removed her from one
potential danger, but the world was filled with countless others that she must
now face without him at her side. How could such a thing be right?

Before he had an idea what he
meant to do, he had kicked his horse into a trot and was heading down the road
to Annan. Fool! He raged at himself. You weighed the facts, went over every
option, and came to the only possible decision. You
know
that. Deirdre
will be fine without you; 'tis naught but your own pride that makes you doubt.

He urged his horse into a canter,
cursing himself with every step. He
would
turn back, he
must
; it
would be wrong and selfish to keep her at his side. Then Germain was galloping
headlong down the road and Alistair was urging him ahead, for he knew that
whatever might come of it, he could not let her go.

Fitzgerald turned his horse
sharply at Alistair's approach, a long knife glinting in his hand. When he
realized who it was, his face grew dark with anger.

"Deirdre!" Alistair
cried, "Wait—"

Deirdre whirled, her smile
blazing across the distance between them.

"I knew you wouldn't—"
she began, but Ronan cut her off.

"Listen," he ordered. "Do
you hear it?"

And then Deirdre did hear the
ring of bridles in the distance. Her mouth fell open as a strong gust parted
the fog before them and she could glimpse the force of men coming down the
hillside.

"Maxwells," she
breathed. "Good God, how many are there?"

"Too many," Alistair
replied succinctly.

The concealing mist was ripped
away and they were in the open. Deirdre watched the lead riders halt and point,
and then they were cantering down the hillside, the others following.

"Back," Alistair
ordered, wheeling his horse around. "Get back to Ravenspur. Come on,
harper," he added impatiently as Ronan hesitated, staring at the
approaching force. "Or we'll go without you."

Ronan turned his horse and
clapped heels to its side. He was a good rider—in Donegal, every child who
could find or steal a horse rode like the devil himself—and Deirdre was just
behind him. Maeve stirred and began to cry and Deirdre held her fast as with
the other hand she slapped the reins, urging the horse forward.

They swept across the drawbridge
just ahead of the pursuit. There was no time to have it raised before the
Maxwells were upon it. Alistair leaped from his horse and helped Deirdre to
dismount. "Inside," he said. "Find Jemmy. Guard!" she heard
him cry as she handed Maeve to Ronan. "Guard, to me! Lower the
portcullis!"

Deirdre ran into the shelter of
the manor, crying out a warning to the startled guard within the door as she
flashed by.

She ran through the empty hall
and pelted up the stairway, hardly noticing the sharp stitch in her side. When
she reached Jemmy's door, she found Sir Conal on his feet.

"Wake him!" she cried.

But Jemmy, all the gods be
thanked, was already awake. He opened the door and stepped out, naked to the
waist. The bandage on his shoulder was very white against his skin.

"I see the Maxwells have
come to call," he said with a lift of one dark brow. "They picked a
damned inconvenient hour. Don't fear, Lady Maxwell, the main force is still
beyond the portcullis. My lady," he added, offering his arm to Alyson as
she walked out of their chamber. "Shall we go to greet them?"

Alyson was rosy with sleep, and
she yawned and passed a hand over her auburn hair, tumbled in glorious disarray
over her chamber robe.

"Of course, my lord,"
she said with a rueful shake of her head, as though the Maxwells were guilty of
nothing more than lack of manners. Oh, they are well matched, Deirdre thought
with a sharp stab of envy as they exchanged a very private smile. "But I
think we should dress first."

"Perhaps it would be best if
you wait here, Lady Maxwell," Jemmy added kindly. "There may be words
exchanged that would disturb you."

"Oh, no. Maeve is down there—"

"As you like. But stay close.
Conal," he added casually. "Would you be so kind as to attend me?"

"Aye," the red-haired
knight said. He put his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. A boy
with sleepy eyes popped his head around the corner. "Get Donal,"
Conal ordered. "Tell him to bring the others to the hall.
Now
."

The boy nodded once and vanished.
Conal drew his sword and set his shoulders.

"Whenever you are ready, my
lord, I'm at your back."

W
hen Deirdre
descended the stairs she found a dozen Maxwell warriors standing in the center
of the hall. Alistair stood at the bottom of the stairway, sword in hand. Ronan
sat in the shadows with Maeve upon his knee. The child was yawning hugely and
staring about wide-eyed.

"Kinnon," Jemmy said as
he and Alyson reached the bottom of the steps. "I give you greeting. Would
you care to break your fast?"

Maxwell's heir looked nervously
behind him, seeming relieved to see a cloaked and hooded warrior looming over
his shoulder.

"Nay, Jemmy—though I thank
ye," Kinnon added quickly, his small eyes darting nervously about the room.
A scant dozen of his men had made it through before the portcullis fell,
trapping the rest outside. Two dozen Kirallen men-at-arms surrounded them.

Jemmy followed his gaze and
smiled genially. "Then perhaps you would tell me what brings you here at
such an hour."

Kinnon licked his lips and darted
a sideways glance at Deirdre. "Well, Jemmy, 'tis like this. Ye see—'tis a
long tale, and perhaps it would be best told—"

"Oh, enough of this!"
an impatient voice growled and the hooded man shoved Kinnon aside. Deirdre's
mouth went dry. I should have stayed upstairs, she thought numbly. I should
have kept running when I had the chance.

And then the man pushed back his
hood.

Deirdre's knees refused to hold
her and she sat down hard on the bottom step. Ronan rose to his feet, tense and
wary, and drew a long knife from his belt. There was not a sound to be heard
until Maeve, who had been playing contentedly with a bright clasp Ronan had
given her, looked up. When the child saw the man thus revealed, she gave a
scream that ripped through the silent hall.

"No! No! Mam!"

Then Deirdre could move again. "'Tis
all right," she said, going swiftly across the room and picking up her
child. "I am here."

"No!" Maeve sobbed. "Make
him go!"

Brodie Maxwell fixed his wife and
daughter with a hard stare. "So that's the greeting I get, is it?"

He walked toward them and Deirdre
retreated, step by step, her eyes fixed upon her husband's face.

"Brodie, I thought—we all
thought—" she said, her voice hoarse from the bruising of her throat and
trembling with fear.

"Well, ye were wrong. Now
give me the bairn and we'll be going home."

"Mam! No!"

"Ronan, don't!" Deirdre
said, not taking her eyes from Brodie. But even without looking, she knew that
Ronan was tensed to spring. "Don't move, don't say a word."

"That's right, laddie,"
Brodie said with a smile that showed every one of his teeth. "Best listen
to Deirdre. She kens me well."

Jemmy moved forward with
lightning swiftness. "Brodie, why, I'm clean amazed! Come, sit down and tell
us what—"

"Get back, Kirallen,"
Brodie spat, shrugging Jemmy's hand from his shoulder. "I've come for
what's mine and I'll have it. Dinna think to get between us. For Deirdre and I
have some talkin' to do. A
lot
of talkin'."

Deirdre went numb with terror as
he spoke the words she had heard so often in the past and tried so desperately
to forget.

"Time to have a talk,
Deirdre," Brodie had announced cheerfully soon after their marriage. She
had followed him willingly enough to their chamber that first time, thinking he
meant exactly what he said. She had no idea he was angry until he slammed the
door behind her and she found herself alone with a blank-eyed stranger who
looked through her as if she wasn't there. "Come here, lass," he'd
said in a strange hoarse voice, "we have a bit of talkin' to do." 

Now she fought against the
paralyzing sense of inevitability that stole over her, the voice whispering in
her mind, "No one will help you, he's your husband, and fighting only
makes it worse." She hated that voice with its cowardly weakness, and her
greatest fear was that one day she would give up and admit that it was right. Or,
she amended, that
had
been her greatest fear. Until today. She suspected
that the conversation Brodie had in mind would be something far worse than she
had ever known.