Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (15 page)

At last Alistair could see the extent of the damage,
and he whistled softly between his teeth. Alyson bit her lip, then blinked
several times and drew a deep breath.

"Well, you've gone and torn the stitches,"
she scolded, patting gently at the shoulder with a dampened cloth. "And
such a pretty job I made of them!  This time you'll have to rest, Jemmy."

"We'll see," he said between clenched teeth.

"Oh, no we won't," she answered tartly. "Besides,
you found them, didn't you? Conal and Donal told me all about it." She
cast Alistair a swift glance over her shoulder. "The lady and her bairn
are resting."

She went to the hearth and stirred the small pot
hanging over the coals. After a moment she pulled out a strip of fabric and let
it drip into the bowl as it cooled.

"Can you get to the bed?" she asked.

"Aye."

Jemmy's knuckles whitened on the arms of the chair as
he tried to lever himself upright. Alyson twisted the rag between her hands,
but she bit her lips and did not speak a word. She knows him well, Alistair
thought. He would only snap at her if she offered help.

Alistair gripped Jemmy's good wrist and pulled him up,
ignoring his kinsman's furious protest. "You can shout at me later if you
like. For now why don't you stop being such a selfish, stiff-necked bastard? Do
you think your lady likes to watch you suffer?"

That shut him up, just as Alistair had intended that
it should. He got him to the bed and eased him down. "That looks
terrible," he said, peering closely at the wound. "Stop making light
of it. Let someone else tend to your affairs and rest."

"There isn't—" Alyson began, but Jemmy cut
her off.

"I'll think about it," he said. "Now go
and see Father. Tell him I will be there soon."

"Aye. My lady," Alistair said, bowing in
Alyson's direction. "I—" he stopped, confused, with no idea of what
he had meant to say. But she was bending over Jemmy and didn't seem to notice.

He slipped from the chamber and leaned against the
wall, praying for the strength to face his next ordeal. After a moment he
pushed himself upright and started toward the laird's chamber.

D
eirdre woke with a start and looked around, her heart
beating hard and quick. Something was wrong. Where was she? Where was Maeve?
She breathed again when she found the child curled beside her, dark ringlets
plastered damply to her cheeks and one thumb tucked between her lips. The fever
had broken, Deirdre realized, touching one hand gently to her child's head.

She sat up, pushing the tangled hair back from her
face. Finn looked up questioningly from his place beside the bed, then yawned
and laid his head down on his paws. Yes, she remembered now, they were in the
tower room, where Lady Alyson had brought them. She and Maeve were safe here—at
least for the time. But where was Alistair?

Lady Alyson had not been able to
tell her that, for neither Alistair nor Jemmy Kirallen had returned by the time
Deirdre lay down beside Maeve. She'd had no intention of sleeping until she
learned what happened out there on the road when she rode off and left Alistair
to face his kinsman all alone. Apparently she had been unable to hold her
exhaustion at bay.

The sun was westering, she saw, going to the narrow
window. Late afternoon sunlight washed the cobblestones with rich gold light
and a scullion walked whistling to the kitchen carrying two pails. It had been
hours, then. They must be back by this time. Or had the corbies caught up to
Alistair at last?  Did he lie there on the deserted stretch of road as they
went about their work?

"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny gray een;
Wi ae lock o his golden hair-o
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare-o."

Deirdre paced the small chamber, ten paces and turn,
ten and turn again, but the hateful melody still jangled through her mind until
she thought she would go mad. She wished she could cry, if only to ease the
terrible pressure building inside her. But this pain went beyond tears. So she
walked ten paces, turned and walked, round and round as the tune went round
inside her head. When the door opened, she whirled to see Lady Alyson step
inside.

Deirdre studied her through dry and burning eyes,
taking in the rich blue gown, the veil flowing over the lustrous dark red
braids, the rings shining on her slender hands. She knew she should feel
nothing but gratitude towards this lady who had taken her and Maeve, fugitives
that they were, into her own home. But in that moment Deirdre hated her with
all her heart.

There she stood, this Englishwoman—rich, cherished,
with her shining jewels and her fine manor and her bonny husband, the man who'd
said so carelessly, "Take them to my lady's bower."  With a woman's
ear, Deirdre had heard much in that simple statement. The way he said, "my
lady," with such possessive pride, the implication that
his
lady
could be trusted absolutely. It all told Deirdre that on top of everything else
this lady had, she held her husband's heart, as well.

"You're awake," Lady Alyson said with a
friendly, somewhat anxious smile. "Good. How does the bairn?"

"The fever broke, just as you said it
would," Deirdre answered stiffly. "I think she will be well when she
wakes."

"Aye, and hungry," Lady Alyson said
practically. "I'll have something sent up and a bath for you, as
well."

"Thank you."

"Do you have need of anything else?"

"Nothing."

The coolness of Deirdre's tone seemed to reach Lady Alyson.
She gave the other woman a questioning look and the smile faded from her lips.

"Well, then," she said, stepping back toward
the door. "If you think of anything, let Maggie know."

"There is one thing."

"Aye?"  Lady Alyson turned in the doorway,
brows raised in question.

"Can you tell me if Sir Alistair—is he—"

Deidre could not force herself to say the final word,
the one that marked the end of him forever.

"Sir Alistair returned some time ago. He is with
the laird now."

"Oh."

Deirdre's knees buckled, and she sat down hard on the
narrow window seat.

"I thought—when I left him—I thought that—"

"That my lord would kill him?" Lady Alyson
finished, and Deirdre nodded helplessly, for now the tears she had wished for
earlier had risen to her throat, choking off all speech.

"Well, he did not. For good or ill," she
added quietly, as though speaking to herself, "he did not."  She looked
at Deirdre and her expression softened. "I see that pleases you, Lady
Maxwell."

"Yes. Sir Alistair has been—very kind to us. And
earlier, if you had but seen him, the way he faced the Maxwells all alone—"

"Donal told me something of it," Lady Alyson
said. "No one has ever doubted Sir Alistair's
courage
."

"'Tis his loyalty you question?  But that's the
very thing has been his undoing!  Misguided loyalty, maybe, to a man who's dead
and past all caring, but still loyalty for all that. Mayhap he isn't a fine
English
knight," she continued in a burst of reckless anger, "and he speaks
too blunt for a lady like yourself. But he does not lie—"

Lady Alyson's face was working—with anger, Deirdre
thought—but then she realized the other woman was trying not to laugh.

"I don't see what you find amusing about this!"
she cried indignantly. "'Tis a man's life we speak of!"

"Oh, I know," Lady Alyson said, struggling
to compose herself. "It isn't funny—not really—and you're right, of course.
I've often thought how terrible it must have been for him last year, knowing
what he did and no one listening to him—save for me, that is, and I wasn't
about to admit I credited him at all—"

Deirdre watched, too surprised to speak, as Lady Alyson's
laughter took on an edge that sounded dangerously close to tears. She sat down
beside Deirdre and drew a shaking breath.

"'Tis a long tale, Lady Maxwell, and I see Sir
Alistair hasn't told you the whole of it."

"Nay, he never did say much, and though we heard some
at Cranston Keep, 'twas all a terrible muddle."

"That about describes it," Lady Alyson said
wryly.

"Yet now that I know Sir Alistair, I'm sure he
could not have been so much at fault as rumor has it."

"In some ways he was wronged, but he brought much
of it upon himself. And when it came to the point, he defied an order from his laird,
though he knew full well what the consequence would be. He was bent on
vengeance and no one could make him see it differently—"

"I think he does see it differently now,"
Deirdre said. "'Twas his pride that kept him wandering. Foolish, aye, but
men are foolish creatures when it comes to pride."

"They are that," Lady Alyson said with
feeling. "Great fools, every one of them. I suppose that's why God sends
them women to watch over them."  She glanced at Deirdre sideways and
smiled.

"Nay, my lady," Deirdre said gravely. "'Tis
not as you might think. Sir Alistair is but a—a friend to me and Maeve. Indeed,"
she added, looking at her sleeping child, "I think 'tis for Maeve's sake
he agreed to help us. The child loves him well."

"Aye, he does have a way with bairns." Lady Alyson
sighed.

"Why did they bring him back here?" Deirdre
asked. "What will happen to him now?"

"The laird is very ill. He wanted to see Alistair
once more before the end. After that..." She shrugged. "We shall have
to see."

"My lady, if you could speak to your lord—"

"On Alistair's behalf?"  Lady Alyson stood
and smoothed her skirt, then added quietly, "That I cannot do. Ah, don't
glare at me like that, Lady Maxwell. Even if I would speak to Jemmy, 'twould do
no good. There are many things you do not know. And if I do not take Alistair's
part as you would have me, there is reason for it. For him to come back now,
with things as they are—" 

She was frightened, Deirdre realized, frightened of
what Alistair's return would bring. On impulse she reached out and took the
lady's hand.

"It will be all right," she said. "I
see there
is
much here that I do not understand, but I think—I believe—that
whatever drove Alistair away has changed—that
he
has changed."

"God send that you are right, lady."

"Deirdre."

Lady Alyson squeezed her hand and smiled. "And I
am Alyson."

"I have not thanked you, Alyson. Forgive me. I am
grateful for what you've done for us."

Alyson gave her a mischievous smile that lit her
blue-green eyes, and for the first time Deirdre realized how young she was,
perhaps younger than Deirdre was herself. "I was glad to do it—and I'm
very glad you're here," she added with an impulsive warmth that left
Deirdre in no doubt of her sincerity.

"Now, I promised myself that I'd not trouble you
with questions...but I'll tell you truly, Deirdre, I can hardly wait to hear
your tale. You mustn't speak until you're ready, of course, and not to me at
all if you'd rather not. And yet...if there are some things easier said to me
than Jemmy..."

"Yes," Deirdre said. "I would like to
tell you. I think—I hope that you will understand."

"I will try. But I won't listen to a word until
you've bathed and eaten. Rest for now and I'll be back."

D
eirdre hung back in the shadow of the archway, feeling
suddenly unsure that coming to the hall had been a good idea after all.  Lady Alyson—no,
just Alyson, she reminded herself—had said she should join them there that
night, since apparently the news of her arrival had already spread throughout
the manor.  

"I cannot say how it happened," Alyson had
sighed when she came to Deirdre's tower room, a gown folded across her arm.
"Maggie would never talk and I trust Conal and Donal—but in this place
there are no secrets. Still, the news can hardly travel as far as Cranston Keep
tonight, so you might as well enjoy a proper meal. And here, I think this will
fit you well enough," she added, holding out the gown across her arm.

Now Alyson gave her an encouraging smile as they stood
together, looking into the noisy, crowded hall. It was grand, Deirdre thought,
staring about with wide eyes, at least twice the size of the hall at Cranston
Keep, with hangings on the wall and two long windows filled with bits of
colored glass stretching almost to the ceiling. But even this enormous space
seemed barely enough to hold all the people within. People who would look at
her with curious eyes, knowing—or thinking they knew—what brought her here.

"Aye, they'll stare," Alyson said, as though
reading Deirdre's mind. "But what can't be changed must be borne. Chin up
now, Deirdre."

Her brisk kindness was exactly what Deirdre needed. "Well,
then," she said. "Let's go in."

She hadn't taken two steps before she saw Alistair. He
stood across the room, a crowd of men around him. At her entrance his head
turned sharply toward the door.

Deirdre was aware of the curious eyes upon her, but
they meant nothing to her now. For Alistair was coming toward her, and a warm
blush rose up her throat to stain her cheeks. She touched a fold of her gown,
the heavy velvet soft beneath her fingers. It was the finest gown she'd ever
worn, midnight blue trimmed with silver, and Alyson had twined bits of silver
ribbon in her dark braids.

Alistair looked fresh and rested, his hair shining
like burnished gold in the torchlight. He was clad in a fine wool tunic that
just matched the color of his eyes. But, she noticed, he still didn't bear the
Kirallen colors anywhere about him.

"Deirdre," he said, taking her hand and
bowing over it. "You look—verra well tonight. How is Maeve?"

She smiled, for she'd caught the hesitation in his
words and knew that he had been about to say something else. He had been about
to say that she looked beautiful. "Maeve is quite well, thank you. Sleeping,
now."

"I'm glad."

There was so much she wanted to ask him, but this was
not the time or place for questions. Even now Lady Alyson was waiting for them
to take their place at the table.

"My lady," Alistair said stiffly to her.

She nodded coolly. "Sir Alistair."

They began to walk across the hall, but before they
reached the dais, the bearded knight Alistair had been talking with swept an
elbow across the table, upsetting a pitcher of ale that splashed the hem of
Alyson's gown. Instead of apologizing, the man turned away, but not before
Deirdre had caught the flash of teeth in his dark beard.

"Why, the clumsy churl!" Deirdre exclaimed.

"'Tis all right," Alyson answered shortly. Two
bright spots of color on her cheeks were the only indication she had even
noticed the man's rudeness as she made to walk on.

"Nay, 'tis not!" Deirdre protested. "Alistair,
did you not see?"

"Leave it, Deirdre," Alyson said.

But Alistair was already at the man's side, speaking
to him in a tone too low to hear, though from their gestures it was clear they
were arguing. A moment later they both came forward.

"Forgive me, my lady," the man said sullenly.
"I dinna see what I had done."

"Very well, Sir Calder," Alyson said and the
knight returned to his seat, giving Alistair a puzzled, resentful glance as he
went.

"He did it deliberately," Deirdre said,
staring after him. "But why?"

Alistair looked distinctly uncomfortable for a moment,
but was saved from answering when someone cried his name across the hall.

A boy hurtled through the crowd and threw himself into
Alistair's arms. "It
is
you! They said—but I didn't believe it—"
The words came out in jerky bursts as he buried his face against Alistair's
chest.

"Aye, Malcolm, it's me," Alistair murmured,
holding him close. "Whisht now, I'm here, dinna greet, lad..."

When they finally drew apart, Malcolm dragged an arm
across his eyes and smiled shakily. "Ye look the same," he said.

"The same canna be said for you!  Why, you've
grown half a foot! Deirdre," he said, "this is Malcolm, the laird's
grandson. Malcolm, this is Lady Deirdre Maxwell."

The boy swept her a graceful bow. "Lady Maxwell,
welcome to Ravenspur. Your presence does us honor."

Alistair smiled proudly. As well he might, Deirdre
thought as she curtseyed to the young Kirallen. Malcolm was a tall young man of
twelve or thirteen years, with curling brown hair and bright blue eyes and a
dangerously charming smile. In a few years—a very few years, Deirdre judged—he
would be turning heads and breaking any number of hearts.

"Where's Uncle Jemmy?" Malcolm asked Alyson.

"With the laird," she answered, a worried
frown passing quickly across her face. "He won't be down tonight."

Poor lady, Deirdre thought. She has troubles, sure
enough. What with the laird so ill, her own husband distracted, and the
puzzling rudeness of the dark-bearded knight, Alyson had much to worry her. She
was bearing up bravely—for what could not be changed must be borne—but it was
clear she had care enough without an errant Maxwell lady on her hands.

And yet, Deirdre thought, struck again by Alyson's
kindness, she had still found the time to bring me a gown and see to the
dressing of my hair.

"Come, Malcolm," Alyson said now, smiling at
her nephew with an effort Deirdre was fairly sure none of the others could see.
"You must take Jemmy's place tonight."

"Aye—but—" he glanced back over his
shoulder.

"Who's that?" Alistair asked, following his
gaze. "Is it young Darnley?  Bid him join us, if you would. 'Tis all
right," he added as Malcolm hesitated. "Tell him I won't bite."

Malcolm grinned and ran off, returning a moment later
with a smaller boy with red curls and a wary look in his blue-green eyes. This
must be Alyson's brother—or was it half brother?  Deirdre wasn't sure. But
either way, the resemblance was strong. Alyson stood back watching, her
expression unreadable, as Malcolm presented Haddon Darnley to Deirdre. The boy
made her a courteous bow, but all the while he watched Alistair from the corner
of his eye.

"You remember Sir Alistair, of course," Malcolm
added brightly—too brightly, Deirdre thought.

"Aye," Haddon said. "I do."

"And I remember you, as well," Alistair said
with a smile so menacing that Deirdre didn't blame the Darnley boy for paling
visibly.

"My quarrel is with your father, not with you,"
Alistair went on. "And both of us are guests in this hall. So if ye please
we'll eat our meal and say no more about it."

"Aye."  Haddon's voice cracked on the word,
but he did not back away or take his eyes from Alistair's. "That will suit
me."

After a very long moment, Alistair nodded briefly. "That
is well."

Deirdre let out a breath she hadn't realized she was
holding as the tension between them slackened. This place is like deep water on
a sunny day, she thought dizzily. You never know when you'll hit an icy current
that steals the breath right from your body and turns your limbs to lead.

"Then let's eat," Malcolm cried with a
determined cheer that Deirdre found brave and rather touching. "I'm
famished. My lady," he turned to Alyson and held out his arm.

Deirdre slipped her hand into the crook of Alistair's
elbow, feeling the iron tension of the muscles beneath her hand.

"Did you have to do that?" she asked.

"I did nothing." 

His voice warned her to drop the question there and
then. This was a man she'd never seen before, grim and almost frightening, with
eyes like chips of ice. No wonder they sent him away, she thought. No wonder
they fear him still.

She waited until they were seated, then said with
equal coolness, "You frightened that poor boy. It was ill done."

He sat down beside her, his mouth tightening into a
hard line. "Did I not tell him he'd be safe?"

"Don't try to frighten
me
, Alistair
Kirallen," Deirdre said tartly. "You know well enough what I'm saying,
so there's no use pretending that you don't."

He glared at her, then smiled wryly. "And as Her
Highness says, so must it be!"

"Don't call me that," Deirdre snapped, and
Alistair laughed shortly.

"Then mind that tongue, lady, or someone might
get cut!  And you can stop shooting daggers at me with your eyes. I did the boy
no harm, nor will I."

"You did him no good, either. Nor any of the
others. Oh, sure and 'tis a fine homecoming you're making for yourself! You can
see as well as I that there's trouble enough brewing here without
you
stirring up the pot."

"This is no homecoming. The laird
sent for me and I came. There's no more to it than that. And might I remind
your ladyship," he added ironically, "that you have troubles aplenty
of your own without putting your nose into mine."

"Forgive me," she said
stiffly. "You are right, of course. You tend to your own affairs—no matter
how sorry a job you make of it," she added beneath her breath.

She accepted a slice of venison
from a kneeling squire, though after the meal she and Maeve had shared earlier,
she wasn't really hungry. Alistair
is
right, she thought. Who am I to
tell him what to do? Soon—tomorrow, perhaps—Maeve and I will be gone. Now that
Alistair had been summoned back by the laird himself, it seemed unlikely he
would want to leave again.

Would Alyson convince her husband
to let her and Maeve go free? Or would he turn them over to the Maxwells? With
everything here at sixes and sevens, she could hardly blame him if he did just
that. The last thing he needed was trouble with a neighbor. And even if he did
let them go, how long would it be before the Maxwells found them again? 

I'll see what happens tomorrow,
she thought, then almost smiled, thinking she was beginning to sound like
Alistair. Or at least the way he used to sound. Tonight he was a very different
man from her carefree companion of the forest. He was home now, back in the
place where he belonged. And she did not.

She kept her gaze fixed on her
trencher as she cut the meat into tiny pieces and bit by bit became aware of
the flow of conversation going on around her.

"...should have been there,
Alistair," Malcolm was saying. "The McLarans had such a feast! Emma
kept Robin there, but he should be back again any day now..."

"...no, Bryce, not like
that," Alyson said patiently to the squire. "You must kneel and hold
it so—yes, that's it..."

"Well, there's no tellin',
is there?" one knight was saying to another at the table just to Deirdre's
side. "But ye know that Calder said 'tis only a matter of time—and now
that Alistair is back, I see he spoke true. 'Twill will be young Malcolm for
sure..."

"...they say the pair of
them ran off together and the Maxwell is sore angry," a woman's shrill
voice exclaimed. A second woman answered, too low for Deirdre to catch the
words, though whatever she said caused a burst of laughter. "Aye, he's too
canny to be caught by the likes of her! Now he's back again, he'll be looking a
good deal higher than
that
whey-faced strumpet!"

"Deirdre."

She looked up, her face burning,
to meet Alistair's eyes.

"I'm sorry. For what I said
before and—" he nodded towards the ladies seated down the table. "—and
for that, as well."

"No need to be sorry for
that," she said clearly. "They're naught but silly women clacking
their silly tongues."

Alistair grinned and squeezed her
hand. "That's right, lass."

As simply as that, it was there
again between them, exactly as it had been that night in the woodsman's hut. She
turned her hand in his, their fingers twined, and suddenly it was true, the
women
didn't
matter. Let them say what they wanted, it made no
difference, none at all, because Alistair was holding her hand and smiling into
her eyes.

"I must to see the laird,"
he said. "He sent for me and—and I must see him once again. But once
that's done, we're off to Donegal."

"Oh, Alistair," she
cried. "Do you mean it? But I thought—"

He cocked a brow. "I gave my
word I'd see ye home. Did ye imagine I would break it?"