Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (9 page)

"That's right," she sniffed. "I shan't.
Nor will Maeve. We are going home, the two of us together. I have enough for
our passage once we reach Annan."

"Then ye best get some sleep," he said,
thoroughly exasperated. "'Tis a long way ye have to travel."

Stubborn, foolish female, he thought as he wrapped
himself in his cloak and flung himself upon the earth. But about one thing she
was right: it was none of his concern.

He twisted on the hard ground, trying to get
comfortable. There was really no need for him to worry. Even if she insisted on
traveling on, it would all come to naught. Maxwell would likely have her back
again before she came to any harm. It seemed a pity that the old man was so
quick to break the bargain his son had made, but that was typical of Maxwell. He
was a tight-fisted bastard, always had been. Age had only made him worse.

Deirdre didn't stand a chance against him, Alistair
thought, giving up the attempt to sleep and sitting up. Not one woman all
alone, burdened with a helpless child. The whole plan—if such a wild,
ill-judged venture could be dignified by such a name—was absurd. But brave, he
admitted reluctantly. He'd have to give her full marks for courage. She must
want to get home very badly.

It was the man, he decided. The one she'd spoken of
the first night they met, the one she'd left behind in Ireland. He wondered who
the man was and if he was worth all this trouble. Well, he must be worth it to
Deirdre. If it was a song or story he supposed he would admire the loyalty that
drove her to this desperate act.

What kind of story was her tale, he wondered, drawing
his sword and taking the whetstone from his pouch. One that ended happily with
the lovers reunited? Or a sad one in which she was caught—or set upon by
thieves or tinkers—or she and the child starved together in the forest—and the
man she sought never even knew that she had tried? 

How the devil did I get dragged into her story? he wondered
irritably. She had made it clear—not once, but twice now—that she wanted
nothing more to do with him. And that was fine with him. The very last thing he
needed was to entangle himself with any woman, no matter how sweetly she fit
into his arms. Let her save her kisses for the Irishman or, if her luck failed,
for whatever man Maxwell decided should have her slim white hand in marriage. It
was naught to him.

The branches up above his head fluttered without any
breeze to stir them. They were back, he thought with weary dread. The damned
corbies had found him once again.

God's blood, but he was tired of them. And he was sick
to death of tales that ended badly. His own ending he knew and it wasn't a nice
one. But what was nice about any death?

It all goes by so quickly, he thought, listening to
the woman and the child breathing softly in their sleep. Nothing—not rank or
gold or skill at arms—could save anyone in the end. Death would always win.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, loosening
the dagger in his sheathe. He might as well use the time that he had left to
see that Deirdre's story turned out a bit more happily than his own.

T
he forest was coming alive around them as Alistair
knelt by the mare, one hand running down her off foreleg.

"When did she begin to limp?" he asked, not
looking up.

"Last night she was a little lame," Deirdre
said, kneeling beside him and looking anxiously at the mare. "I checked,
but there was no stone that I could see—"

"The muscle is strained. She canna carry
ye."

Deirdre's hands clenched into fists but her voice was
even when she said, "Then she'll have to find her own way home. She'll be
all right until she does, there's plenty of grass and water."

Alistair looked up at her and she glanced away, not
wanting to see the expression in his eyes. He'd made his opinion of her plans
clear enough last night and she had no intention of arguing the matter further.

"If we must walk, we shall walk," she said
firmly. "Come, Maeve, it's time we left."

Maeve obediently gave her mother her hand, looking up
at her so trustingly that Deirdre's throat ached with sudden tears. Oh, God,
what was she doing? What kind of mother was she to even think of risking
Maeve's life this way? But what kind of life would Maeve have ahead of her at
Cranston Keep? She straightened her shoulders and smiled encouragingly at her
daughter.

"There will be no need for that," Alistair
said as he pulled a currycomb from his saddlebag and began to groom his own
horse. "Germain can carry you both."

"You'd give us your horse?" Deirdre asked,
stunned by the generosity of the offer.

"Weel, no, not exactly. I need him, ye ken. I'm
afraid you'll have to take the both of us."

"Take you?" Deirdre repeated weakly. "Take
you where?"

"I've always wanted to see Annan."

His hands moved over the horse's back in quick,
competent strokes. But then, everything about Alistair Kirallen screamed
competence. From the moment she had stumbled upon him last night he had taken
charge of everything, making sure they had enough to eat, giving Deirdre the
first decent rest she'd had since old Maxwell made his announcement.

Twice during the night she'd woken with a start of
fear to see Alistair sitting at the clearing's edge, a faint outline against
the darkness of the forest, the drawn sword across his knees glittering coldly
in the moonlight.

"Mam!" Maeve tugged on her hand, pulling
Deirdre down to her. "It's him. Sir Star. Laird of the Mist, Mam. Ye said
so."

"Oh, no, sweeting," Deirdre said, caught
between tears and laughter. "'Tis only Sir Alistair Kirallen, as I told
you—"

Maeve shook her head and her dark curls flew in wisps
about her flushed cheeks. "Nay, Mam. Look at his sword!"

Of course his sword was bright, Deirdre thought. He'd
had the entire night to sharpen it! And all because he'd stayed awake and
watchful.

He would protect them. She was sure of that. But what
did he expect in return? She felt badly even asking the question after all his
kindness, and yet it must be asked. She was not about to enter into any bargain
she did not fully understand. Not again.

"It is very kind of you," she said firmly,
"but I don't see why you would take such a risk. We'll have to go through
Kirallen's lands and you know that isn't safe for you—"

"'Tis no' so great a risk as all that," he answered,
swinging the saddle from the branch onto the horse's back. "I know the
paths they ride and others, too." He rested his arms on the saddle and
looked at her, his gray eyes very steady. "I'm doing it because I want to.
There's no more to it than that. You needn't fear I'll ask for something in
return."

"I didn't mean—"

"Och, of course you did. And quite rightly, too. 'Tis
natural enough for you to wonder. The truth is," he added lightly, bending
to tighten the girth. "I've taken quite a fancy to Mistress Maeve. Every
knight needs a lady to serve—it's the rule, ye ken, and I'm all for following
the rules—so I've decided she'll be mine."

He knelt before the child. "My lady," he
said gravely, holding out his laced fingers. "Your steed awaits."

Maeve smiled, two dimples appearing in her cheeks. "S-Star!"
she said.

"Weel, his name is Germain—or at least it was—but
I suppose—"

Maeve shook her head and touched Alistair's cheek. "Star,"
she said firmly.

Alistair's mouth twitched and Deirdre held her breath,
certain he would burst out laughing. She had only meant to set the child at
ease with her nonsense last evening, and now Maeve had somehow tangled Alistair
with the enchanted knight of Deirdre's stories. But if he laughed at her now,
Maeve would be devastated.

It was seldom that Maeve spoke to anyone save Deirdre.
She was a very quiet child, existing in a world of her own imagination. Deirdre
was well aware the Maxwells thought her simple. They made no attempt to
understand her, and their unkind laughter had moved Maeve first to tears and
then to stubborn silence.

But Alistair did not laugh. "That's Sir
Star," he said to Maeve and the girl smiled brilliantly. "At your
service."

Deirdre blinked back sudden tears as Maeve put her
tiny foot into Alistair's waiting hands. It was a small thing he had done, but
Maeve was staring at him as though he was in truth the shining knight straight
out of legend. She asked so little, Deirdre thought. Just a bit of kindness. Brodie
had never cared enough to show her even that.

"Will you ride, as well?" Alistair asked,
turning to Deirdre.

"I can walk."

He took the reins and began to lead the horse down the
path. "Come along, then. Let's walk."

T
he day was warm, with a brisk little breeze that kept
them comfortable as they passed quietly along the sun-splashed path. They kept
a good pace and the miles melted away beneath Deirdre's eager feet. Home, home,
it grew closer with each step she took. She could almost hear the mewling
gulls, feel the ocean breeze upon her face. Oh, she couldn't wait to show it
all to Maeve. They would explore every one of the secret places she'd
discovered as a child and Maeve would grow strong and well and happy in the
salt sea air.

She thought of Ronan Fitzgerald then, so much a part
of her own childhood, and her heart faltered. She had dreamed of him last
night, a strange dream, very clear. He had stood beside her as she lay sleeping.

"I'll be there soon," he had said. "Don't
worry, Dee. I'll find you."

Well, everyone had dreams, and far stranger ones than
that!  Yet a part of her feared that Ronan was indeed on his way to find her. And
if he was, the fault was hers for letting her thoughts dwell on him so much the
night Alistair had arrived at Cranston Keep. Ronan had always known when
Deirdre was in trouble or had need of him.

Years ago, when she was still a child, Deirdre had
fallen down the cellar stairs and sprained her ankle. Ronan had appeared
moments later, saying he had a feeling something was amiss. And once, when she
had walked out to a small island and been stranded by the tide, Ronan had led
her father straight to her. Even Father had been impressed by that! And so had
Deirdre. But then, she had never denied there was a special bond between them.

There was no one's company she preferred to Ronan's,
no one she trusted more completely. If she could have loved him as he wanted,
she would have done so. But she could not. And if Ronan had a bit more sense,
he would have realized she was doing him a favor by refusing him. But though
Ronan had many gifts, sense was the one thing he had always lacked.

In his last letter, Deirdre's father said Ronan was
back from his travels, still unmarried, still pining over Deirdre. And when
they met again, their friendship, so precious to her, would be shattered beyond
mending. If he asked—and he would, she was sure of it—she would refuse, as
kindly as she could, but very firmly. She had no intention of marrying anyone. Once
had been quite enough.

No doubt Ronan would compose a new song lamenting
Deirdre's cruelty, and when he sang it the most hardened warrior would weep
into his ale. Oh, his pain was genuine, she thought with quick remorse, and she
was sorry to have caused it. But she would have been a good deal sorrier had he
not been so quick to turn his pain to verse and find a fitting melody!

Now she stole a glance at Alistair, walking along with
an easy, loose-limbed stride. Somehow she could not imagine
him
wasting
a moment in pining for a lady. No, it was far more likely that he would use
that slow smile and deep soft voice to win her for his own.

Jennie and the others had giggled like girls in the
kitchen the night that Alistair arrived at Cranston Keep, saying he knew a
thousand tricks to woo a woman to his bed, joking about his prowess between the
sheets.

"Now there's a man who knows how to pleasure a
lass," one of them had said, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Pleasure?  Deirdre had wondered with a shudder, even as the others burst into
eager laughing questions. What possible pleasure could there ever be for a
woman in
that
?

She glanced at Alistair again and a shiver, half fear
and half excitement, started at the pit of her stomach and rippled slowly
downward. What exactly did he
do
with a woman in his bed?  It must—surely
it
must
be something very different than Brodie had done with her. She
studied his eyes, so cool and distant, and wondered how they would look at a
woman lying in his arms. Her glance lingered on the sensual curve of his lips,
the breadth of his shoulders, moved down to his hands, so strong, yet capable
of gentleness, as well...

But whatever it was he did, she wouldn't be finding
out. For Alistair Kirallen, who had bedded every lass from Aberdeen to Berwick—at
least to hear Jennie tell it—now seemed content to have her as a friend and
nothing more.

For which I should be on my knees, thanking all the
gods, she reminded herself sharply. A friend was exactly what she needed now
and this man's friendship most of all. And it was best that way, because of one
thing she was certain. After Alistair had wooed the woman, taken her to bed and
did whatever it was he did there, he would go on again. Alone. In the end
Alistair would always walk alone.

She laid a hand on Maeve's small leg and smiled at her
daughter. They were going home together. And once they were safe, she'd never
trouble about any man again.