Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (14 page)

R
iding the path to Ravenspur felt very odd to Alistair,
strange and yet familiar. His eyes moved over each well-remembered landmark
with the joy of finding something precious he had believed was lost for good. Every
turn of the road, each stream and tree and field held a hundred memories—some
good, some bad, but all a part of him. Leaving here, he had left most of
himself behind. To see it all again, even once, was a rare and unexpected gift.

And then with a suddenness that took his breath away,
there was Ravenspur itself, rising from the moor. There was no pretension of
grace about its grim towers and tumbled battlements, no artistry in its design.
On the very doorstep of the enemy, it was only strength that mattered. Ravenspur
was what it was, a border fortress, the finest of its kind, no more and
certainly no less.

The horse stopped, but Alistair made no attempt to
urge him forward. He simply sat and stared, seeing himself reflected in the
stark lines of his home. Yet he was different now—or was he?  Suddenly he
wasn't sure. In his own uncertainty the building before him was as foreboding
as the black tower of his vision.

Jemmy reined in beside him.

"Ugly pile of stone, isn't it?" he asked
lightly.

Alistair looked sharply at his kinsman, remembering
that Jemmy had said the same thing on his own return to Ravenspur. He
remembered, too, the contempt with which he had greeted his foster brother's
words that day. Now he saw that Jemmy was the only one who could possibly
understand what he was feeling now.

Jemmy had been exiled from Ravenspur as well—by his
own choice, aye, but then, the same could be said of Alistair himself. And the
pain of exile had been no less for that. What had driven Jemmy to make that
choice? he wondered suddenly. What had
he
felt when first seeing his
home after so long an absence?

Well, at least Alistair had the answer to that
question. Now, too late, he understood exactly what Jemmy had felt that day. And
it was beyond words.

"Hideous," he said roughly, to hide the
sudden tremor in his voice. "But 'tis still there, isn't it?"

"Aye." Jemmy sighed. "It always
is."

Their eyes met and at the same moment they laughed. Alistair
hadn't meant for that to happen, and from the way Jemmy frowned and spurred his
horse forward, he guessed his kinsman hadn't expected it, either.

They continued toward the manor without speaking, and
as the silence grew between them, Alistair found himself wanting to break it,
though he wasn't sure exactly what he needed to say. Perhaps he
had
been
hard on Jemmy when he first came home from Spain, but had events not proved him
right?

Never once had Jemmy listened to Alistair's warnings,
never once had he admitted that Alistair was right to suspect Darnley's motives
and he himself had been wrong. Even when Alistair had succeeded in exposing
Darnley's treachery—and who had thanked him for it?  No one!—Jemmy had gone on,
headstrong, willful, insisting young Haddon Darnley be fostered at Ravenspur to
ensure the peace. All of them, including Darnley himself, had bowed beneath
Jemmy's implacable will. All but Alistair. The laird, forced to choose, had
sided with his son. And Alistair was sent away.

So why did he still feel he owed Jemmy an apology?

It was because of the woman. Alistair could justify
his every action—save for his treatment of Darnley's baseborn daughter, Alyson.
She had been sent to marry Jemmy, all the while pretending to be her half sister
Lady Maude, a part of Darnley's plan to destroy the Kirallen clan. On the face
of it, she had been as guilty as her father, but she had been driven into the
plan against her will. Jemmy had come to love her, in the end had married her—and
always, deep in Alistair's heart, had lurked a sneaking admiration for that
decision. Alyson was a fine lass, lovely, brave and loyal, and though Darnley
was her father, her mother had been Clare McLaran, the kindest lady who ever
lived.

He wondered if the clan had accepted her and suspected
they had not. He was quite sure the laird had not forgiven Jemmy for defying
his will and taking Alyson to wife.

But still, there was no need to be feeling bad for
Jemmy. After all, Jemmy had seen Alistair banished and married the lass he
loved. Jemmy had won. Or had he? What had been going on at Ravenspur during the
past year? Why had the laird sent for Alistair now? In Jemmy's place, Alistair
knew that he would have been both angry and deeply worried.

Well, Jemmy has naught to fear, Alistair thought. Not
from me. Alistair was grateful to have the chance to see the laird once more
and to say his farewells properly, but once that was done, there would be
nothing to hold him to this place. He would be finished with Ravenspur forever
and ready to start again. Tomorrow or the next day I'm off to Donegal, with
Deirdre, he thought, his spirits rising sharply.

Jemmy rode on silently, growing paler by the moment,
his mouth set in a grim line. When they drew up in the stableyard, he made no
move to dismount. He sat, his head bowed, hands clutching the edge of his
saddle.

"Go in," he said hoarsely. "Father's
waiting. And would you send Conal to me?"

Alistair started to obey, but the memory of how kindly
Jemmy had spoken to Deirdre halted him. For that, if nothing else, Jemmy deserved
something in return.

"Here, I'll help ye down," he said. "There's
no need to wait for Conal."

Jemmy half slid from the saddle, his face gray as
ashes by the time he was on his feet. "Thank you," he said. "I'll
be all right now."

"What happened to you?" Alistair asked.

"A bit of a stramash with McInnes," Jemmy
said, trying to pass it off lightly even as the sweat broke out on his brow. "Hasn't
had the chance to heal yet."

Alistair was fairly certain that Jemmy would never
make it into the manor under his own power, so he slowed his steps to match his
kinsman's, wondering what the devil was going on here.

"Tell me what's been happening since I
left," he said.

"Not much," Jemmy answered. "You know
how it is. The same from day to day."

"How is Malcolm?"

"Oh, well enough." Jemmy stopped to lean
against the doorpost. "Missing you, of course, but otherwise—" he
drew a hissing breath as he straightened. "Quite all right."

"Let me get someone to help you," Alistair
said, but Jemmy shook his head.

"No!" he said vehemently. "I'm
fine."

They walked into the hall. It was dim inside after the
brightness of the afternoon. As Alistair's eyes adjusted, he realized it was
filled with people, but a silence fell as he stepped into the room. A moment
later the voices all broke out again in excited speculation as Jemmy drew
himself up and walked firmly into the crowd, Alistair just beside him.

"My lord," an anxious voice said. A small,
gray-haired man gave Alistair a quick, rather nervous smile, before continuing.
"I have the accounts ready if ye'd care to look at them."

"Thank you," Jemmy said. "But I cannot
stop just now. Perhaps this afternoon."

"Aye, my lord," the man said with a quick
bow. "But I did just want to talk to you about—"

Jemmy smiled, though his pallor deepened even further.
"Later," he said carefully. "I promise I will make the
time."

The crowd parted to let them by, every face alight
with speculation to see the two of them walk in together. Alistair noted it
with half his mind, while the other part was busy watching Jemmy. He could tell
exactly how bad the pain was now by the lines bracketing Jemmy's mouth. It was
just how Ian used to look when he was hurting and didn't want anyone to know. And
the way he walked—it was Ian to the life, the same set of the shoulders and
tilt of his head. Strange how he'd never noticed how like they were before. He'd
always been too busy noticing the differences between them.

"My lord, a moment!"

Jemmy stopped and turned. "Aye, Sir Calder?"

The knight gave Alistair a sly smile. It said more
clearly than words that Calder knew Alistair had a plan and what's more, he was
ready to be a part of it. Jemmy stood very straight, his gaze moving quickly
from Calder's face to Alistair's and back again. He closed his eyes briefly, as
though his strength had reached its final limit, but when he opened them his
gaze was steady.

"Dougal Maxwell sent a message back wi' us,"
Calder said.

"I'd be most interested to hear it," Jemmy replied.
"But I cannot stop now. I'll send for you later."

"Alistair," Calder said, putting a hand on
his arm. "Wait a moment. What—?"

"Not now," Alistair said. "I must see
the laird."

"Ah," Calder said with a knowing glance at
Jemmy. "I see."

What exactly Calder saw, Alistair couldn't begin to
guess. And he found he didn't really care. After the quiet of the past year the
crowded hall was almost more than he could bear; there were too many emotions
swirling about the room, too many faces, too much noise. Instead he watched
Jemmy, wondering if he could possibly make it all the way across the hall and
why he didn't simply ask for help. Even Ian would have admitted the need of
Alistair's arm by now.

"I'll see ye after," he said to Calder and
the knight dropped him a broad wink before turning away to speak to several other
men. They all listened, huddled in a group, their eyes following Alistair and
Jemmy as they went on. A year ago I would have been among them, Alistair
thought. Now all their plots and plans seemed very small and sordid.

He and Jemmy reached the stairway without further
interruption and started up. When they reached the first turn, Jemmy motioned
him ahead. "I'll be along."

"Christ, Jemmy, what's the matter with ye?"
Alistair demanded. "Let me help."

"I do not need help," Jemmy said distinctly.
"I am a little tired, that's all, and the wound is troubling me a bit. It's
nothing—"

"Right," Alistair said, putting one arm
beneath Jemmy's shoulder and half carrying him up the stairway. "It's
nothing. You are fine and need no help. I ken ye well enough, all right?"

By the time they reached the chamber, Jemmy had fallen
into white-lipped silence. Alistair flung open the door and helped him to a
chair. There was a small sound behind him and he whirled to see Jemmy's wife
rise from her seat by the window.

Alyson, Lady Kirallen, was dressed in a blue gown, cut
far more simply than those she used to wear when she had first come among them,
pretending to be someone that she wasn't. The style suited her much better than
the finery had done. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays fell upon it,
lighting the golden strands within its auburn depths. She looked older,
Alistair thought, worn with care and worry. Though it had been not quite a year
since they had met, he saw it hadn't been an easy year for her.

He stood awkwardly, words deserting him. He should
have known she would be here, but he wasn't thinking very clearly today. The
truth was that during the past year he had done his best not to think of her at
all.

The last time he had talked to Jemmy's lady, it was to
bring her a sentence of death and an offer so shameful that he could hardly
bear the memory.

"There's no help for you," he remembered his
own voice saying. "You are a traitor and a spy...but for all that you're a
pretty doxy and seem to know your business well enough...name your price."

Later he had realized his mistake. She was not the
scheming harlot he had thought her; was not for sale at any price. But by then
the damage had been done. Now he wanted to turn and flee, go back to the
solitude of the forest and find the peace he had so briefly glimpsed before
Deirdre dragged him back into the world with all its shameful memories.

What would Deirdre think if she knew how he had
threatened Jemmy's lady? She would despise him. But no more than in that moment
he despised himself. Why hadn't Jemmy simply killed him when he had the chance?
he wondered wearily. If anyone had said such things to Deirdre, Alistair would
have run him through without a second thought.

Alyson looked at him, surprise and fear and wariness
passing quickly across her mobile features. But she wasted no words on him
before turning to her husband. And all at once Alistair knew the answer to his
question. Jemmy hadn't killed him because he didn't know. She hadn't told him. From
some protective instinct, Alyson had kept the details of that last terrible
interview to herself.

"'Tis all right," Jemmy mumbled. "I'm
fine."

"I'm sure you are," she said briskly, though
Alistair saw her hands were shaking as she unfastened his cloak and pulled it
back. "But if it's all the same to you, I'll have a look at this."

The gambeson beneath was soaked with blood. Jemmy laid
his head back against the seat as she unlaced it and pulled the edges of the
fabric from the wound.

"I'll have to cut it. 'Tis ruined anyway,"
she added with a brave attempt to sound annoyed.