Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (26 page)

Her silence lasted no more than a moment, but to
Alistair it seemed to stretch into eternity as the echo of his words hung
between them. Was it only friendship she felt for him, then, and gratitude, and
desire?  From any other woman those things would have been enough, but not from
Deirdre.

"You did this before, as well," he pointed
out, a bit more sharply than he'd meant to. "With your husband."

"But that—that was nothing like..." she said
uncertainly.

Why? he wanted to cry out. What was the difference? 
But he stopped himself. It would spoil everything if he pressed her for what
she was not ready to give.

"No more was it for me," he said, forcing
himself to speak in the light, teasing voice he'd used so often in the past,
when the woman in his arms meant no more than a night's shared pleasure.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her
fingertips, ending with a playful nip on the soft pad of her thumb. "Sweet
Christ, lady, ye nearly killed me."

"Did I?"  She sat up, instantly contrite.
"Oh, Alistair—"

"Whisht, I'm not complaining. I didna mind at
all."  He laughed, relieved that it sounded so natural, and pinched her
cheek. "One day we'll change places and I'll show ye what it's like."

"Will you?" she asked wistfully and his
heart lifted.

"My word upon it. Or ... we could try it
now."

With that he pounced and she squirmed away with a
shriek of laughter. At last he lay on top of her and pinned her hands beside
her head.

"Well, well," he said. "Look what I
have here."

"And what is that?" she demanded, breathless
with laughter.

"The most beautiful lady in all the world."

"Don't," she said, pulling her hands from
his and turning her face away.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say that, Alistair, not now. Not
tonight."

"Ye really dinna ken? Oh, Christ, Dee," he
said roughly, pulling her against him and rocking her as if she was a child.
"What did he do to you?"

She hid her face against his shoulder.

"How did you know about Brodie?" she asked.
"What you said to him—earlier in the hall—how could you have known those
things?"

"It didn't take the Sight for that! 'Tis the fear
every man carries, that he's not man enough for his woman. In Brodie's case, I
suppose it was well-founded. And did he blame you for his failure?"

The question was asked so matter-of-factly that Deirdre
did not even feel ashamed. She simply nodded.

"And this?  Did he do this?"

Alistair kissed the scar beneath her brow and she
fisted her hands in his hair, holding him against her as quick tears stung her
eyes.

"That was the first," she said, trying to
control her shaking voice. "Later he learned not to mark me."

"He will never hurt you again. I swear it."

"Don't swear," she said quickly. "'Tis
bad luck."

"I dinna need luck," Alistair answered,
raising his head. His eyes were flat and hard as disks of silver.

"You mustn't say such a thing!" she said, a
little frightened. "Anything could happen— You cannot know—"

"Oh, but I do. Brodie Maxwell has hurt you for
the last time. I swear it by St. Andrew and the Blessed Virgin. Tomorrow Brodie
Maxwell dies."

D
eirdre yawned and stretched, deliciously aware of
every muscle of her body in a way she had never experienced before. Her eyes
still closed, she reached toward the other side of the bed and found only chill
emptiness. Sitting up, she pushed the tangled hair back from her face.

"Alistair?"

Finn lay curled by the door, but save for the dog the
chamber was empty. Rising quickly, Deirdre ran to the window and looked out,
searching for a glimpse of golden hair among the crowd gathered in the courtyard
below. Finding none, she dressed quickly and ran down the winding steps into
the hall.

The morning meal finished, servants moved among the
long trestles, emptying the last of the porridge and bread into buckets. Deirdre
grabbed a heel of bread and went out into the courtyard.

"Malcolm!" she cried, spotting the boy
across the yard, talking with Haddon Darnley. "Where is Alistair?"

He shrugged. "I haven't seen him."

"I did, earlier," Haddon put in. "He
rode out this morning."

Jemmy and Alyson joined them. "Where is
Alistair?" Jemmy asked. "I thought he was with you, lady."

"No," Deirdre said. "Haddon said he
rode out earlier."

"He'd best hurry back," Jemmy said. "We'll
be leaving in an hour. It will take nearly that long for him to get armed and
ready."

"He was armed," Haddon said. "I saw his
mail as he went by."

Deirdre's stomach knotted. Where had Alistair gone all
alone? Why hadn't he waited for the rest of them?

"He may have wanted an early start." Jemmy
spoke easily, but Deirdre saw the worried glance he exchanged with Alyson.

"You don't suppose he—well, ran away, do
you?" Haddon asked and Malcolm shrugged.

"Of course not," Deirdre snapped. "Malcolm,
how could you even think such a thing? You know him better than that!"

"Do I?" Malcolm said, his casual façade
crumbling as his eyes filled with tears. "I thought I did, but..." He
blinked and swallowed hard. "Maybe he did run. I hope he did. I hope he
never comes back here again!"

"So do I," Haddon said, putting a comforting
hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Begging your pardon, Lady Maxwell, but you
can't expect any of us to feel differently."

"I'm sorry Deirdre," Alyson said quietly. "What
he did for you yesterday was a fine thing, but it changes nothing. Whatever
happens with Maxwell today, Alistair will have to go."

"He can come with me, then," Deirdre said,
her eyes flashing.

"That would be best," Alyson said with a
tight smile.

"What of you?" Deirdre said impulsively,
turning to Jemmy. "Do you think he ran away?"

"No," Jemmy said gently. "I think
Alistair cares for you very much, my lady, far too much to run off and leave
you to Maxwell. He'll be waiting for us at Kendrick's field, and I suggest we
get ready to go and find him there."

A
listair reached the field with a quarter of an hour to
spare. He dismounted and pushed back the mail coif, running one hand through
his sweat-soaked hair. He had feared he would be late, yet he was the first to
arrive. Smiling a little, he checked his horse's hooves and saddle, thinking
back over the last few hours with satisfaction.

Straightening, he looked over the clearing, pacing the
ground to check for holes and hillocks that might catch Germain unawares. When
he reached the far side of the meadow he stopped, his eye caught by a splash of
color against the darkness of the pines.

Approaching cautiously, he found a man lying huddled
at the edge of the clearing. He dropped to his knees and turned the man over,
staring in disbelief at Brodie's lifeless face.

The wind soughed through the high branches as Alistair
glanced quickly about the field, knowing already that he was alone here with a
dead man. With deepening shock he noticed the dagger protruding from between
Brodie's shoulder blades, and stared in disbelief at the carved stag's head
adorning the handle.

"How pretty," Deirdre had said that day in
the courtyard, when she was cutting flowers. He had answered, "It was a
gift from the laird."

Then he had handed it to her.

To Deirdre.

And now here it was again, stuck fast in Brodie
Maxwell.

"Hold there! Alistair, what have ye done?"

Alistair looked up, seeing the Maxwells ride into the
clearing as if in a dream. At that moment Jemmy rode in from the other side,
his men behind him. Kinnon cantered his horse to Jemmy's and spoke urgently,
gesturing toward Brodie's body, as the Maxwell men-at-arms surrounded Alistair.

Deirdre sat frozen on her horse, staring at Brodie's
lifeless form. Why, Deirdre? Alistair wanted to shout. He had
told
her
she would never go back to Brodie, had sworn to her—but she hadn't trusted him
to do it.

But no, what was he thinking?  Deirdre could not have
done this. Even if she had, she would not have used his own dagger, then sat
silent as he was taken. She loved him! Or no, he had been the one to say those
words... A shattering wave of doubt seized him and he could not speak, neither
to accuse nor deny.

Like a man in a dream, he watched Fitzgerald pull his
steed close to Deirdre and encircle her with his arm.

"His
lady's ta'en another mate-o,
So we may mak our dinner sweet-o."

How long would it take her? Alistair wondered. How
long before she wed the Irishman?

Deirdre swayed in her saddle and Ronan was there,
pulling his horse close to her, eyes blazing emerald in a face as pale as
parchment.

"He didn't," Deirdre whispered. "He
didn't do this."

"Sure, he did. 'Twas—'twas for you he did it,
though, just remember that."

Alistair eyes were fastened on Deirdre, but he did not
speak a word. Why does he look at me that way? Deirdre thought. As though it is
my fault? Oh, dear St. Brighid, could Ronan be right? Had Alistair really done
this thing? 
For her
?

A rustle of leaves made Alistair look up. Right on
time, he thought with an eerie detachment as the corbies took their places
above his head.

"God's blood, Alistair," Kinnon Maxwell
cried. "I never took ye for a backstabber!"

The Maxwell men began to move forward. "Let me
have him, Kinnon," Jemmy said. "I'll get the truth from him."

"What truth? I can see the truth with my own
eyes," Kinnon cried, pointing to his brother's body. "What more do I
need? Alistair backstabbed him and he'll hang for it."

Alistair caught Jemmy's eye and shrugged, an
infinitesimal movement of one shoulder. Ye canna help me now, he said silently.
Don't even try.

The men were still arguing, pointing toward the body.
Brodie's body. Even from this distance Deirdre could see the sunlight glinting
off the handle of the dagger—Alistair's dagger—that she had left lying on the
table, ready to his hand when he stole out this morning without waking her.

She shivered as she remembered his words last night. "I
don't need luck...tomorrow Brodie Maxwell dies."

"Nay!" she cried again.

Ronan's eyes were wide with shock as he followed her
gaze. "'Tis best this way, Dee," he said uncertainly. "Have you
not heard what they are saying at Ravenspur? They've known him for years and
they believe he's capable of far worse than this."

"What are they doing?" Deirdre cried as
Alistair's hands were bound and he was dragged to the center of the field.

"I think—I believe they are about to hang
him," Ronan faltered.

Deirdre leaped from her horse and darted to the center
of the field. "Is this justice?" she demanded. "In all fairness,
he must be tried!"

Alistair was lifted to his horse, hands bound behind
him, the noose around his neck. Still he did not speak, nor did he take his
eyes from her. Deirdre began to shake, the strength draining from her limbs.

"My lord," she said hoarsely, turning to
Jemmy. "You cannot let this happen. He is a Kirallen, entitled to justice.
You cannot simply hang him!"

"Oh, aye, we can," Kinnon said, and lifted
one hand to give the order.

Jemmy seized his wrist. "Donal," he ordered
sharply. "You and Roger get Sir Alistair down from there. Now. He must
stand trial."

Kinnon frowned, biting the corner of his lip. "At
Cranston Keep."

"At Ravenspur," Jemmy said evenly.
"He's ours, Kinnon, as little as I may like it. We'll see justice done.
Tomorrow midday we'll begin."

Deirdre had just begun to breathe again when
Alistair's horse reared. Donal and another knight struggled to push through the
crowd as Alistair clung to the horse with his knees, trying desperately to
control the stallion as he was dragged backward bit by bit, the noose
tightening around his neck.

It was Ronan who slipped through and caught Alistair
by the knees as he was pulled free from his horse. "Cut him down
!
" Ronan shouted, staggering beneath Alistair's weight.

Conal galloped over, the men scattering before his
mount's steel-shod hooves. Deirdre watched him cut through the rope, seeing
Alistair's struggles weaken and finally stop before it was done. When the last
strand parted, he and Ronan fell together to the ground.

Deirdre pushed through the crowd about the tree. By
the time she reached Alistair's side, he was sitting up, gasping and coughing
as he tore the noose from around his neck and flung it aside.

"There's a taste for ye, Kirallen," one of
the Maxwell's jeered, leaning over to spit into his face. "How did ye like
it?"

"I liked it fine," Alistair said hoarsely as
his foot shot out, sweeping the man's legs from under him. "How did ye
like that?"

"Enough!" Jemmy thundered furiously.
"Bring him back to Ravenspur for trial."

Deirdre watched as Alistair was pulled roughly to his
feet, every inch of him blazing defiance. "Trial?" he cried.
"Still playing laird, are ye, Jemmy?  Well, enjoy it while ye can!"

"Oh, I will," Jemmy answered. "I'll
enjoy every moment. My father cannot help you now, Alistair. 'Tis I you'll have
to deal with. And by this time tomorrow, you'll be begging them to finish what
they started here today."

Alistair was jerked backward and tied to his horse
before he could answer.

"Alistair and I have some old business to
settle," Jemmy said, struggling to compose himself as he turned to Kinnon.

"I see that," Kinnon replied thoughtfully.
"Mayhap it will work out for the best after all."

"Lady Maxwell," Jemmy ordered. "Mount
up."

"She can come back with me," Kinnon offered,
holding out his arm to Deirdre.

Deirdre stared at the two men with loathing, not
bothering to answer. Back stiff, she walked back to her horse and let Ronan
help her mount.

"That was well done," she said, nodding to
him as she picked up the reins.

"Was it?" Ronan scratched his chin and
watched Alistair ride off through narrowed eyes. "Dee—" he began,
turning to her suddenly.

"What?"

"I—oh, never mind." He shook his head and
kicked his horse forward. After a moment, Deirdre followed.