Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (24 page)

R
onan leaned
against the stone wall overlooking the moat, chin propped in his hand. The day
had cleared, but he did not lift his head to see sunlight and shadow chasing
each other across the hills. From time to time he sighed, his shoulders
drooping sadly.

Now there is a lovesick young
fool if ever I saw one, Calder thought, watching from the shadow of a tree. He'd
been making inquiries about the Irishman all morning and was satisfied with
what he'd learned. A bard, young Fitzgerald claimed to be, with a harp
bequeathed by his grandfather, a lordling of the Sidhe. He had dreamed that
Lady Maxwell was in danger and so had come hot-foot from Ireland to rescue her.

A fine story to impress the
serving wenches, Calder thought with some amusement, though from all accounts
Fitzgerald was immune to their charms, a cause of great lamentation in the
kitchens.

And a lot of good his fidelity
would do him. Alistair meant to have the woman and was prepared to slay the
dragon Brodie Maxwell for her sake. And where did that leave young Ronan? Out
in the cold, angry, bitter, with a head full of romantic drivel.

In short, he was the perfect
tool.

"So here ye are."

Ronan glanced to one side. "I
am. What do you want?"

"To talk a bit."

Calder pulled himself up onto the
wall and looked down at Ronan with a grin.

"Just look at yourself, man!
Mopin' about while Sir Alistair carries your lady off right from under your
nose!"

"What is that to you?"
Ronan asked shortly.

"Weel, lad, 'twould seem we
have a common cause here. Alistair is no friend to me or to any o' the
Kirallens. He's out for all he can get and doesna care too much how he gets it,
either. Why, ye saw it for yourself before! There was no wedding yesterday, I
ken that well enough. 'Twas a clever trick—but then, Alistair was never above
bending the truth to have his way."

"What's your point,
Sir...?"

"Calder. Just a word in your
ear, laddie. I've seen it happen a hundred times before. There isn't a lass who
can say him nay, but when he's done with them, he's
done
. Off to the
next one, that's Alistair, not caring what he leaves behind. Many a fine lassie
has he ruined and never once looked back."

A flush of anger rose to the
boy's fair cheeks. "He won't do that to Deirdre. I'll talk to her—warn her—"

"And what good will that
do?"  Calder said derisively. "When I say there's no lass who can
deny him, I mean just that. He's uncanny, lad, fey as hell. Why, he spent the
last few months up in the hills with an old sorcerer, learning all his tricks
and charms. He'll put a glamour on your lady—if he hasna done so already—and
she'll be clay in his hands."

Ronan's flush faded and he
shivered. "That can't be true," he said, though his words lacked
conviction.

"But it is. 'Tis no secret
that Alistair and I aren't the best of friends just now. 'Twould please me no
end to do him a mischief over this. Then you could take your lady back to
Ireland where she'll be safe."

Calder looked down at him kindly,
an older man advising a younger one with only the lad's good at heart. "She's
a fine lady, Ronan. Far too good for his tricks and games."

"Yes," Ronan agreed
fervently. "Far too good for him."

"Then let's do us both a
favor. I know a woman in the hills can break his spell, but I need something of
his to bring to her."

"Like what?"

Calder bit back a smile. "Weel,
there's a dagger he carries always. 'Tis a pretty thing, shaped like a stag's
head and set with two green stones for the eyes.
Green
stones, lad. Mark
that. 'Tis part of a set the laird had made long ago. Lord Jemmy carries one
set with rubies, young Malcolm's has his father's with chips of diamonds. Ye
want Alistair's."

"With the green
stones."

"Aye. And I need it today. Tomorrow
will be too late."

Ronan bit his lip. "I don't
know..."

"Suit yourself, lad,"
Calder said with a shrug as he jumped down from the wall. "If ye want to
take Sir Alistair's leavings, ye need only wait until he's done with her. Shouldn't
take too long. It never does. Once he beds them, he tires of them
quickly."

Three paces. Five. He was just
losing hope when Ronan's voice halted him.

"Wait!"

"Aye?"

"Where can I find you?
Later."

"I'll be in the hall. But
don't leave it too late."

T
hrough the
window of the tower room Deirdre could hear the men-at-arms drilling in the
practice yard. She wondered if Alistair was out there, but didn't have the will
to rise from the bed and walk to the window.

Instead she stared down at her
hands, folded in her lap. It was very lonely in the small room since Maeve had
gone. Should Alistair lose tomorrow, she would never see her child again. But
on the other hand, if Brodie was the victor, she would not have much time to
grieve.

She looked up as a light knock
sounded on the door, then set her shoulders and called, "Come in,
Ronan."

He entered and stood before her. "You
knew that it was me?"

She sighed. "I did."

"Then you know why I have
come."

"Yes. Sit down," she
said indifferently.

He perched on the edge of the
mattress beside her. "No matter which way it goes tomorrow, you will not
go back to Brodie Maxwell. If we leave while they are fighting—"

Deirdre shook her head. "Brodie
will expect me to be there. And I want to be there. I must see it for
myself."

"And if Sir Alistair wins?
Will you leave with me then?"

"I don't know," she
answered honestly. "It depends on what Alistair wants."

Ronan jumped to his feet and began
to pace the small chamber. "Listen, Dee, this has gone far enough. You
were meant for me, you know that just as I do. My grandfather had no right to
interfere—"

"He was acting under orders
from his king," Deirdre reminded him.

"Edward!" Ronan spat
the name. "He is not my king! His edicts and decrees have naught to do
with us. I was too young to fight my grandfather then, but now I am a man. I
will
have you!"

"No, Ronan, you will
not," Deirdre said as gently as she could. "My answer has not
changed."

"So if Brodie wins, you mean
to be Deirdre of the Sorrows, is that it? Dragged back by your husband as a
prisoner! And will you cast yourself upon the rocks as she did? Well, I won't
have it. You are coming with me if I have to kill Brodie Maxwell myself."

Deirdre glanced at him, taking in
the bright flush on his cheeks, the dangerous glitter in his eyes. It was all
too easy to dismiss Ronan as a mere musician, but his slender form concealed an
iron strength that had not been earned by practice on the harp. No, John
Fitzgerald's grandson had spent many an hour in the tiltyard, training with
sword and lance. As little as Ronan liked the exercise, Deirdre remembered now
that he excelled at both.

But Brodie was twice his weight
and had ten years more experience. Ronan would never stand a chance against him.

"You must promise me you
will not fight," she ordered sharply. "If you want to help me, then
take Maeve home."

"I'll take the both of you,
whether Brodie Maxwell wins or loses. And then, Dee, we will be married."

His calm insistence snapped the
last thread of Deirdre's patience. "How many times must I tell you
no?" she flared. "I am sorry, Ronan, I do care for you, but I will
not marry you. I have finished with marriage altogether."

"Oh, have you?" he shot
back. "And if Sir Alistair was to ask for your hand, would you give him
the same answer?"

Deirdre looked away.

"But he has not asked, has
he?" Ronan demanded. "No, and he will not. He wants you—I think he's
made that plain enough. He wants to use you as his whore! You! Good God,
Deirdre, have you forgotten who you are?"

"How dare you?" Deirdre
cried, jumping to her feet.

"You're too good for this
sort of thing!" he cried, gesturing toward the bed. "Too good for him—"

"This sort of thing? Can you
not even bring yourself to say the words?  When a man and woman love each
other, 'tis right and natural that they should want to lie together."

Ronan jerked back as though she
had struck him, with a sound of horrified disgust. "What has happened to
you?" he cried. "Listen to yourself!  It's him—Sir Alistair—he has
bewitched you—"

"Don't be ridiculous,"
Deirdre said, holding her temper with an effort. "Alistair needs no magic
to win my heart."

"You say that—mayhap you
even believe it—"

"Because it is the
truth!"  With a tongue made reckless by anger, she went on, "You say
you love me, and I know you believe it, but you don't know the meaning of the
word. It's all a dream to you, a fantasy—"

"It isn't!" he shouted.
"I love you, Dee, and that's no dream, that's reality!  I love you far too
much to stand by and watch you debase yourself this way. He is no better than
an animal and he would drag you right down with him. Why can't you see
that?"

"Oh, I see!" she
shouted back furiously. "I see you understand nothing about me at all. You
don't want me, Ronan, not as I really am. You want a plaster statue to put on a
shelf and make pretty songs to!  That's all I am, all I've ever been to you. But
I want—I
need
more!"

"You want
him
,"
Ronan spat. "The traitor! Do you not know what they say of him? He has
murder in his heart, that one, and will stop at nothing to get exactly what he
wants."

"I know what they say."

"And you know it is the
truth. The man has no honor. He is a murderer, a kin-slayer—"

"Stop!" Deirdre cried,
pressing her hands over her ears. "Get out! I won't listen to you—"

"You are a fool!" he
cried, starting for the door. "Or else he has beglamored you in
truth."

She turned away and stared out
the window, her back stiff. As he passed the table, he hesitated, glancing at a
pile of wilted greenery piled on its surface. Among the fading blossoms sat a
dagger. He stared at it, noting the beauty of the finely wrought stag's head,
the emeralds winking in the sunlight.

"Dee, won't you listen to
me?" he cried desperately. "Can't you see how you have changed, what
he has done to you?"

"Get out," she said,
not turning. "Just leave. I don't want you here."

"Fine. I will."

His hand shot out and grasped the
dagger. He thrust it into his belt and hurried from the room.

W
ater dripped
from the eaves of the deserted croft tucked away among the hills. Inside it was
cold and drear; the hearth was dark and empty, save for the swallows' nest
halfway up the crumbled chimney. The one room held only a table on which a
smoking lantern had been set. It lit the faces of the two men standing above
it, sharpening their noses and making shadowed hollows of their eyes.

"What news?"  Though
all was deserted for miles around, still the smaller of the men spoke in a
whisper.

"Och, fine news," the
larger man said. When he laughed his hood fell back, revealing the bearded face
of Calder. "The laird is dying. He'll no' last out the night. And tomorrow
we'll be rid of Alistair."

"Fine for you. But what of
Brodie?"

"Dinna fear, man. I havena
forgotten ye." Calder laughed. "Alistair and Brodie will both be dead
by sunset."

"How?" the smaller man
asked sourly. "'Tis hardly likely they'll kill each other on the
field."

"They'll never even have the
chance. Listen, friend, and tell me what ye think...."

Calder bent and lowered his voice
even further. As he spoke, the smaller man began to laugh.

"Damn if I don't think it
will work!"

"Of course it will. If ye do
your part."

Calder held out his hand and the
dagger glittered in his palm, the emeralds catching the lantern light.

"Oh, that's good, Calder. Verra
good."

Calder handed off the dagger and
followed his companion to the door. With a flash of Maxwell plaid, the man
mounted and rode off.

D
eirdre rolled
over onto her back and sighed, staring up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling.
A moment later she turned on her side and shut her eyes, then with an impatient
gesture threw off the twisted coverlet and rose from the disordered bed.

Finn whined and twitched in his
sleep. Deirdre sank down on the settle and laid a hand on his shaggy gray pelt.
He quieted, then jumped up with a startled "woof" and ran to the
door, his tail whipping furiously from side to side.

"Deirdre?"  Alistair's
voice was hardly more than a whisper.

She leaped to her feet and
hurried toward the door. And if I had a tail, it would be wagging like the
hound's, she thought wryly as she drew the latch.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Did
I wake you?"

"No." 

When he walked inside the frozen
ache in her heart began to thaw and the tight muscles of her shoulders relax. The
very air seemed different with him in the room. The fire gave more light, the
candles burned more brightly. All at once the rain was falling sweetly outside
the window, making the chamber a warm and homely shelter from the storm.

He stood before the hearth as
Finn whined and nosed at his hand. "All right, lad," he said,
stroking Finn's head. "That's enough, now. Down."

Finn flopped down at Alistair's
feet and gave a snort of sheer contentment.

"That's a good fellow,"
Alistair said and reached down to give him a pat. Such a perfectly domestic
scene, Deirdre thought. If only it could really be like this, if only it could
last...

"I shouldn't have
come," Alistair said, straightening. "'Tis late..."

"Is it my reputation you're
worried for?" Deirdre asked lightly, pouring wine for them both. "Or
yours?"

He accepted the wine and sipped,
leaning back against the mantle with his own peculiar grace. "I have no
reputation left to worry for."

She flushed, remembering his
words to Brodie earlier in the hall, when he'd claimed to have taken her to his
bed. "No more have I. After today, what was left of it is gone."

"I don't blame you for being
angry," he said, his bright head bent as he gazed into the fire. "I'm
sorry. But I could think of no other way to bring Brodie to the point."

"I know that. And I'm not
angry, Alistair, not at you. I'm sorry if I sounded that way earlier. I don't
want you to fight him! What if—"

He moved quickly across the few
steps between them to touch his finger to her lips.

"No 'what ifs,'" he
said. "We've been through that before. I knew what I was doing,
Deirdre."

A gust of wind made the fire
dance and flicker in the hearth. The chamber seemed to grow a little smaller as
she stared into his eyes, and she was suddenly aware that she was clad only in
her shift with a thin chamber robe thrown over her shoulders. As though
following her thoughts, his gaze moved downward and she shivered, pulling the
robe more closely around her throat.

"You're cold and it's late and
I'm sorry I woke ye," Alistair said. "I'll go."

"Oh, don't go! Not
yet," she said quickly. "I was wakeful anyway."

Alistair sat down on the bench
and she sat beside him. They were quiet then, sipping at their wine, watching
the fire.

"Deirdre," he said at
last. "The laird is dead."

"I am sorry. Was it—?" 
She bit her lip, not knowing if he would want to speak of it.

"He didn't wake,"
Alistair said. "His breathing changed and then..." he held out his
hands and stared at them. "It just stopped. They said—the physician and
priest—it was a blessed release. And I suppose it was. But—"

His voice broke and he leaned his
head in his hands, shading his eyes.

"You loved him."

Alistair nodded. "Always. He
was more of a father to me than my own ever was."

Alistair had spoken of his mother
once or twice, but Deirdre realized now that he had never once mentioned his
father.

"Who was your father?"
she asked.

"He name was Niall Gordon. He
was one of Kirallen's knights."

"Gordon?" Deirdre said,
surprised. "But you—" she broke off in confusion.

"He met my mother at a
gathering," Alistair said, his eyes fixed on the floor between his feet. "She
was fifteen then, a crofter's daughter, young enough to be dazzled by a
knight's attentions and innocent enough to believe his lies. He left her with a
ring and a promise he never meant to keep."  Alistair looked up at her. "And
with me."

There was a small silence during
which Deirdre was very conscious of Alistair watching her, waiting for her
reaction. She hesitated, trying to find the right words. She could hardly say
it did not matter who his parents were, when it obviously mattered very much to
him.

"At least she had you,"
Deirdre said at last. "A fine son. I'm sure that was—that
you
were
a comfort to her."

"Hardly that," Alistair
answered bitterly. "Her parents never forgave either of us for her
disgrace."

"But—well, these things do
happen," Deirdre said. "She was very young. Did she ever marry?"

"She never had the chance. Her
parents kept both of us well out of sight. When she died, they could hardly
wait to get me here to Ravenspur. They said I had been a burden to them long
enough and it was my father's turn to care for me."

"Did he?"

"He refused to acknowledge
me," Alistair said. "Oh, he was a bonny laddie in his silk and velvet,
fancied himself quite the gallant. But it was all paid for by his lady wife. She
was much older, ye ken, and verra jealous of her fine young husband. The last
thing he wanted was for her to find out what he'd been up to.

"He tried to give me back to
my grandparents, but they would not have me. It was quite a scene," he
said with a wry smile. "There we were in the laird's antechamber, Gordon
denying everything at the top of his voice and my grandparents shouting at him,
pushing me back and forth between them—"

Quite a scene indeed, Deirdre
thought. A terrible thing to happen to any child, let alone one who had just
lost his mother.

"How did they settle
it?" she asked.

"They didn't. God knows what
would have happened if the laird hadn't heard the noise and come out to see
what was going on. He—he took my hand and brought me into his chamber, sat me
on his knee and said they were all a pack of fools and I mustn't mind anything
they said. Then he called Ian in and bade him look after me while they decided what
to do."

"Is that when the laird took
you to foster?" Deirdre asked.

"Nay, that came later, when
Gordon was dead. I think the laird kept hoping he'd come to his senses and
acknowledge me, especially as he had no children of his own. But he never did.
Instead, he apprenticed me to the manor blacksmith. I saw him only once, when
he stopped to collect a horse my master shod. He didn't even speak to me. Just
looked right through me as if I wasn't there. But the laird didna forget me. Nor
did Ian. Not a week passed that he didn't ask to have me up to the manor."

"You must have made quite an
impression on Ian," Deirdre said, a bit surprised that a nobleman's heir
would be so friendly with a common child.

"None of the manor lads
could keep up with him."  Alistair laughed, remembering. "Ian would
always go a bit further than anyone else, just to prove that he could do it. And
I was not about to let any boy—especially a noble—get the best of me. We
became...friends. Blood brothers, in fact," he added lightly, holding out
his hand.

Deirdre traced her finger across
his thumb and smiled, remembering the solemnity with which she and Ronan had
sworn just such a pact. How much more important that pledge must have been to a
child like Alistair, who had no family of his own.

"Ian sounds like a fine
boy," she said approvingly, giving Alistair's hand a squeeze.

"He was verra headstrong and
more than a bit spoiled, but so good-natured that it was hard to fault him for
it. He taught me how to laugh," Alistair said, his fingers tightening on
hers. "I'd never had much practice at it before. I—well, I looked after
him.
Someone
had to! And he let me do it. He listened to me—not always,
but often enough that his father took notice. The laird cancelled my indenture
and brought me to live at the manor as Ian's companion. When my father died,
the laird asked if I would be
his
son now and would I like to take his
name? He was so kind to me, Deirdre. So kind. I canna believe he is gone—that
both of them are dead—"

He turned to her blindly and she
held him hard against her.

They sat quietly for a time, her
head against his shoulder and his cheek against her hair. His hand moved slowly
over her neck and shoulders, and her heartbeat quickened as he stroked her hair.
She sat quite still as he untied the knot about her braid and loosened the
plait, just as he had done before, though  every muscle in her body tensed as
she remembered how she'd failed him in the woodsman's cottage.

What did I do wrong that night?
she wondered. What should I do now? I must—I have to get it right this time.

"You have such lovely
hair," he said. "Did ye know that? I thought so the first time I saw
ye, by the pool..."

She wondered what she should say,
what answer would be right, but then realized it didn't matter, for he wasn't
waiting for her to speak. He pushed her hair aside and kissed the place where
her neck met her shoulder, sending shivers down her back.

"And this...ah, Deirdre,
there are no words for this, or not words that I know..."

She closed her eyes and turned to
him, her arms reaching to clasp his neck as his lips moved against the pulse
beating madly in her throat.

She yielded her mouth to him,
leaning back against his arm. The kiss deepened until she lost all sense of
time or place, until nothing existed but the fascinating dance of lips and
tongues and hands. When he drew back she made a wordless sound of protest.

"Shh...'tis only that my arm
has gone to sleep—"

He smiled and she was smiling,
too, as she stood and pulled him to his feet. They walked together toward the
bed, but once she lay down she went rigid with fear. Whatever should she do
now? She didn't know—she'd never known—and her failure had moved Brodie to rage.

But no, it was shame to think of
Alistair as being no different than Brodie. Just lie still, she told herself,
squeezing her eyes shut. Let him take what he wants, and pray God he finds joy
in it.

"Here, now, what's this?
Don't tell me I've put you to sleep?"

She opened her eyes and Alistair
was leaning over her, smiling, a lock of bright hair falling over his eyes. "Let
me take this off."

"Oh, no."  She put her
hands firmly on the skirt of her shift.

"No?  All right, then, I
won't. But I thought you wanted..."

"I did. I do. But—but I—well—"

He looked at her, brows raised. "Then
I take it your husband never—"

She was glad he didn't speak
Brodie's name, but it made no difference. He was here between them anyway. Brodie
with his rough hands and hurtful words. "Useless, that's what ye
are."  That's what Brodie had said on their wedding night and he was
right, there was some lack in her, something wrong, and now Alistair would see
it, too—

Oh, God, she thought, panicked,
sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. I cannot do this. Not
again. Not even for Alistair.

His hand touched her hair, very
softly, stroking down her neck. "Deirdre," he said softly. "I'll
make you a bargain. When it comes off—
if
it comes off—you'll be the one
to do it. Fair enough?"

She nodded warily, not sure what he meant but anxious
not to drive him away. His arm went around her tentatively and she leaned
against him, wondering what he thought was supposed to happen here. It was
obviously something different than she had experienced with Brodie.

"Alistair," she said, staring down at her
clasped hands. "I—I don't know what to do."

"Dinna fash yourself," he said, bending to
her. "It doesn't matter."

But it
did
matter, she was quite sure it
mattered very much. As he drew her close, she lay stiff in his arms, afraid to
move yet fearing something was expected of her. After a moment he sighed and
released her, rolling over on his back and folding his arms beneath his head.

"Well, then," he said. "What am I doing
wrong?"

"You?  No, it isn't you, it's me—"

"All right," he said agreeably. "What
are you doing wrong?"

She gave a choked laugh. "I was hoping you could
tell me."

"If you're asking me—you are asking me, aren't
you?"  He propped himself on one elbow. "Nothing. You're everything a
man could want—silly lass!"