Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (21 page)

He was committed now. There was
no turning back. And no point to thinking how it might have been if he had
simply bent his head and kissed the soft skin of Deirdre's neck. He had chosen
his path and he must follow it to the end.

"Calder might decide it's
easier just to get rid of you," Jemmy said.

"Aye," Alistair said
wearily. "He's already holding Malcolm hostage to my good behavior, but
that might not be enough."

"Have you considered Lady
Maxwell's safety?"

"I have. She'll be going
back to Ireland with that Fitzgerald lad who came today."

"I thought—the two of you
seemed to be—"

"She's leaving,"
Alistair said shortly. He couldn't talk of Deirdre, not now, or he would start
remembering this afternoon, the way she'd leaned against him so trustingly—

"I think your wound should
keep you abed the next day or two," he said, forcing his mind back to the
present. "I don't need ye in my way just now."

"I can't say I'd mind
that," Jemmy admitted. "Damn this shoulder—it's taking too much out
of me. I suppose it was Calder who did it."

Alistair nodded. "And that
Maxwell lad—he was Calder's man, as well. I don't know if he's the only one,
but I wouldn't be welcoming any of them here if I were you."

They sat in silence as the fire
subsided, leaving only the illumination of the candles against the darkness. Alistair
threw a fresh log into the fire and leaned both arms on the mantle, staring
into the flame.

"There is one thing more I'd
ask of you," Jemmy said from behind him. "If I don't make it, see
that Alyson gets back to her kin."

"Whisht, man, you're
drunk," Alistair said, forcing himself to speak cheerfully as he took his
seat again. "Of course you'll—"

"I mean it. I ken how you
keep your promises and it isn't lightly I burden you with this one. But I
must."

"Even if something was to
happen to you, there would be no danger to her. Unless—" he broke off,
staring. "Oh, Jemmy. Don't tell me she is— What the devil are ye thinking
to keep her here?  She must go at once!"

"Try telling her that."

Alistair laughed unwillingly. "Aye,
I see the problem. She's a braw lass, Jemmy. Much better than ye deserve."

Though he'd spoken lightly, Jemmy
didn't smile. "She is. For myself I don't mind, but—I cannot rest thinking
of what might happen to her after—"

"Enough of that. You'll be
fine. But just to put your mind at rest, I promise. Now lie back and go to
sleep before you waste all the fine spirit you just poured down your
throat."

Jemmy obeyed, but not before
Alistair had seen the shimmer of relief misting his dark eyes. Poor bastard,
Alistair thought, rising and looking down at him. He's about reached the end of
his strength. But maybe now he'll begin to mend.

He walked to the door, hesitated,
then summoned all his energy and flung it open. "Sleep well, Jemmy. Ye
stupid, stubborn fool!" he added beneath his breath, but loud enough for
Donal to hear.

Staggering a little, he glared at
the young knight. "I'll thank ye for my sword," he said thickly, then
made a show of missing his scabbard as he tried to sheathe it. "Listen,
Donal," he added with drunken confidentiality, leaning close to the young
knight. "You're a good lad, I ken that. Time was ye rode with
me
. So
I'll just whisper in your ear that you're backing the wrong horse." He
nodded wisely. "Mark me, now. There's still time to save yourself."

Donal stiffened, his eyes
flashing.

"To think I used to admire
ye," he spat. "Now—"

"Oh, spare me,"
Alistair said contemptuously. "If ye want to be a fool, dinna hold me to
blame for it."

With that he staggered down the
hall, satisfied that Donal would spread the word of his treachery. Calder would
surely hear of it ere morning.

But later, as Alistair hovered on
the edge of sleep, he wasn't thinking of the promises he'd made or the
impossible burden he had shouldered. He was finally remembering the images he'd
pushed from his mind all day:  Deirdre leaning back against him, her head
against his shoulder. Deirdre standing on the hillside, dark hair flying about
her face, crying out for him to leave her be, that she never wanted to speak to
him again. And worst of all was Deirdre, tears of joy running down her cheeks,
clasped in the Irishman's arms.

With a hoarse cry Alistair turned
his face into the pillow. But even the sound of his own anguish could not drown
out the flutter of dark wings above.

"I
hear ye were
visiting Jemmy last night."

Alistair was kneeling on the
hard-packed earth of the paddock, adjusting the spur around his boot. He
finished the job, taking his time about it, then rose to his feet. The wind was
chill against his bare chest, and he picked up the shirt folded across the
fence. The horse he had been engaged in breaking stood trembling on the end of
the long lead rope. Alistair motioned to a groom, who led the exhausted
stallion to the stable.

"That's right," he said
briefly, tilting his head to meet Calder's eye.

"Well, what did ye say to
him?"

The three men behind Calder
stood, arms folded, and regarded him with stony eyes.

"I told him to go back to
Spain," he answered briefly, pulling the shirt over his head.

Calder let out a hissing breath
of annoyance. "I thought we agreed—"

"No,
you
agreed. I
did not. And I decided I didna want to stand back and let thing happen around
me."

"Ye should have come to me
first," Calder began furiously. "Who the devil do ye think ye
are?"

"I know exactly who I
am," Alistair snapped. "It's you who seem to have forgotten."

Calder's gripped the front of
Alistair's shirt, pulling him close. "We dinna need ye here,
Alistair."

Alistair brought his hands up
between Calder's, breaking the man's grasp. Then his fist shot out and buried
itself in Calder's stomach. The breath went out of him in a startled gasp, and
before he could recover, Alistair struck him squarely on the jaw.

Calder's men were slow, Alistair
thought as the three of them sprang forward. He easily evaded them and seized
Calder by the hair, jerking his head upright, instinctively reaching for the
dagger in his belt. He cursed silently when he found it was not there and bent
instead to pull the small knife from his boot.

"Back," he ordered the
men. When they did not obey at once, he touched the point to the soft skin of
Calder's neck.

"Ye heard him!" Calder
shouted. "Get back."

When the men had retreated to a
safe distance, Alistair released Calder and bent to sheathe his knife as the
larger man struggled to his feet.

"I thought ye knew me
better," Alistair said, shaking his head.

"I thought I did, too,"
Calder said, leaning against the fence and rubbing his throat. "But ye
havena been yourself since ye came back."

"These are dangerous times,
Calder," Alistair said. "A man does well to keep himself to himself. Otherwise,
a man can make mistakes. You made one yesterday—but I think ye ken that now. Am
I right?"

"Aye."  Calder bit off
the word.

"Malcolm is mine. Don't
forget it. As for Jemmy—well, he's my kinsman and I had to give him a chance to
see reason. Just as I am giving you today. He was fool enough not to take it,
but I don't think you'll make the same mistake."

"I won't," Calder said,
and though his tone was conciliatory, Alistair was more interested in his
fingers, clenched white-knuckled on the fence.

"That's good," he said,
just as though he accepted Calder's words as truth. "Now the laird has
sent for me. I am here at his command and he has given me his blessing. 'Twould
be foolish to do anything to make the clan doubt his judgment. Do ye hear that,
Calder?  We do
nothing
."

"But Jemmy—"

"Once the laird is gone,
I
will deal with Jemmy. But for now, I am the laird's obedient foster son and
care only to fulfill his dying wish. 'Tis clear as glass, Calder."

"For you, maybe,"
Calder muttered.

"Aye, that's right. For me. As
I said, these are dangerous times," he added, leaning on the fence beside
Calder and squinting up at the sky. "A man needs to know who his friends
are—and his enemies. Which one d'ye intend to be?"

"A friend, of course,"
Calder said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Of course," Alistair
agreed, noting the cold fury in the depths of Calder's gaze. "Then we'll
say no more about it."

As he passed Calder's men he
clapped the largest of them on the shoulder. "Next time you'll have to be
a little faster," he said with a friendly grin.

The man did not return his smile.
"Next time I will be."

Alistair laughed and walked away,
but he had no doubt the man had meant it. Next time—and there would be a next
time, of that he was quite sure—he would have to be that much quicker himself.

"I
've never heard
the like!" Alyson exclaimed as they sat in the hall that night, watching
Ronan in the center of the floor. His hands moved over the harp strings as
gently as a lover's, drawing forth a melody of piercing sweetness.

"Nor I," Jemmy said. "I
don't imagine many people have."

Jemmy looked better tonight,
Deirdre thought, with the lines of pain eased from his face and some color in
his cheeks. When he smiled at Alyson she lit up like a flame. Deirdre was happy
for her friend. Maybe now things would settle down here and Alyson could bear
her child in peace.

Then Alistair took his seat
beside Deirdre, and at once the table grew still. Malcolm, on Jemmy's other
side, gave Alistair a miserable, bewildered look. Haddon Darnley stiffened. And
the glow faded from Alyson, leaving her pale and weary. Only Jemmy seemed
unaffected. He did not even acknowledge Alistair's presence as he gestured for
a fresh goblet of wine and brought it to Ronan.

It was an honor, but though Ronan
smiled and thanked him, he didn't look particularly grateful. But then, Ronan
never did. He just accepted the cup as if it was his due and chatted easily
with Jemmy without bothering to rise from his seat.

But when Jemmy returned to the
table, he was smiling, obviously unoffended. "He has played at more royal
courts than even I have seen. What luck to have him here."

"Luck?" Alistair
muttered darkly, resting his chin in his palm. "Aye, well, there's all
sorts of luck."

Deirdre glanced at him nervously,
but his eyes were fixed on the center of the hall. Though she had seen him once
or twice since Ronan arrived, he had not spoken a single word to her.

No doubt he was glad that Ronan
had come, she thought. Now he would not have to even bother to arrange her
escort to Donegal. Ronan had relieved him of his burden and he was free to stay
here and wreak havoc among his kin.

Maybe Alyson was right about him
after all, she thought, though she still could not quite believe it. He had
been so different in the forest, so ready to help her when she needed him,
content to take each day as it came. Laird of the Mist, she thought and blinked
hard, remembering how he had annoyed her with his careless ways.

Now he was someone else entirely,
a stranger with cold eyes and a ruthless edge to him, a man who frightened even
those who had once loved him. Or was this who he had always been and she had
been too blind to see it?

Once the meal was finished and
the trestles taken down, Ronan stopped the pretty tunes he had been playing and
sat without moving, waiting for the talk to cease. So commanding was his
presence that the hall soon fell silent. He let the anticipation grow and build
until every eye was fastened upon him, then he took his hands from the harp and
began to sing without accompaniment. He sang to Deirdre as though no one else
was present, the song he used to sing for her so long ago.

"Black,
black, black
is the color of my true love's hair
Her face is something wondrous fair

Oh
I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes."

His voice had deepened and grown
in power since she'd heard it last. Not a person spoke, not a single foot
shifted as he paused between the verses. They were all under his spell.

"Black,
black, black
is the color of my true love's hair
Alone, my life would be so bare.
I would sigh and I would weep,
Never, never would I sleep

For
my love is far beyond compare
She of the wondrous hair.

Black,
black, black
is the color of my true love's hair..."

His voice held the last note,
then faded slowly into a sigh. The people paid him the tribute of their utter
silence.

Before they could recover
themselves he began again, this time a merry tune that he played upon the harp,
and his bright green gaze was fixed, not on Deirdre, but on Alistair.

"There was
a gypsy came to our door

He came brave
and boldy-o

And he sang high
and he sang low

And he sang a
raggle-taggle gypsy-o."

Feet were tapping, hands beating
out the time as they caught the familiar rhythm of the song. But Alistair sat
very still beside her.

"It was
late that night when the knight came in

inquiring for
his lady-o,

and the servant
girl she said to the knight,

'She's away wi'
the raggle taggle gypsy-o.'"

Ronan grinned as he played
between the verses, obviously enjoying his jest. All around the hall people
began to dance. Why, Ronan? Deirdre wondered. Why must you shame Alistair in
his own hall? People would remember this later when she was gone. They all
believed she was betrothed to Alistair, and they would think she had run off,
just like the lady in the song, and left him behind. Her face was crimson with
embarrassment as Ronan began the verses that told of the Knight's final meeting
with his lady.

"'How could
you leave your house and your land?

How could you
leave your money-o?

How could you
leave your own husband

all for a raggle
taggle gypsy-o?'

"'What care
I for my house and my land?

What care I for
my money-o?

I'd rather have
a kiss from the gypsy's lips

I'm away wi' the
raggle taggle gypsy-o!'"

When the last verse was done, the
music still went on. Deirdre had never heard anything like it, not even from
Ronan. His fingers danced over the harpstrings, faster and faster, weaving a
melody that wound into fantastic flights of fancy. Yet it always came back
again to the original tune, changing it, playing with it, all of it done with
an apparent ease that stole Deirdre's breath.

Oh, Ronan had been good before,
he had been
brilliant
, but now such words were too pale and ordinary to
describe what he was doing. Indeed, it hardly seemed to be mortal music at all.
There was magic in him tonight, fey and wild, that held his listeners in thrall.
Deirdre wondered a little uneasily if the people could have ceased their
dancing even if they wanted to.

And then, at last, it ended. As
the last strains faded to silence there came a great sigh of loss.

"I didn't want it to
stop," Alyson said, wondering. "I wanted it to go on and on
forever."

Alistair lifted his goblet to his
lips. "Aye, he plays tunably enough. But I canna say I cared much for the
song."

Alyson stared at him as though he
must mad, but Jemmy only looked at him gravely. Deirdre wondered how much Jemmy
knew and what he must think of her, a silent—if unwilling—partner in Ronan's
cruel game.

"I thank you, Master
Harper," Jemmy called. "You have gifted us beyond all words."

Ronan inclined his dark head in
apparent humility, then glanced up at Deirdre with a wink so broad not a person
in the hall could miss it.

She could take no more. As he
began to play again, she jumped to her feet, murmured a quick excuse, and fled.
The corridor was deserted and she leaned her burning brow against the cold
stone wall. Oh, that was ill done, Ronan, she thought with rising anger. She
had
told
him all the kindness that Alistair had shown her. But that was
Ronan, whose humor often held a malicious edge.

And yet he
had
come for
her. She couldn't forget that. He had come all this way to find her. While
Alistair couldn't wait to see the back of her.

She bit back the tears that
threatened when she remembered that moment on the hillside, that perfect moment
she could never forget, no matter how hard she might try. The moment that
Alistair had broken her heart. But at least I have Ronan, she thought. He still
loves me.

And she loved him, as well,
though her love would never approach the feeling she had for Alistair. When
Ronan held her she felt no quickening of her pulse, no desire to run her hands
through his hair or feel his lips on hers. And Ronan felt none of those things
for her. Had never felt them. But he still believed that what they had between them
was true love.

If not for Alistair, she might
have grown to believe it herself.

Lost in her own thoughts, she
jumped with a startled cry as a heavy hand descended on her shoulder. She
turned to see a burly man with light brown hair staring down at her.

"What—?" She drew
herself up.  "Who are you, sir, and what do you want of me?"

"Whisht yer clabber and
listen," the man said in a harsh whisper. He loomed over her and she
shrank back against the wall. The corridor stretched empty to either side, lit by
guttering torches. From the hall came the sounds of laughter and voices raised
in song, and she knew that even if she screamed, no one would hear her.

"What is it?" she asked
with a brisk confidence she was far from feeling.

"Tell Alistair we're watchin'
him."

"I have no idea what you are
talking about. Now step back, if you please, or—"

The man grinned. "Ye dinna
need to understand. Just remember. And tell him we have ways o' makin' sure he
minds us."

"What—"

She had no time for more, for his
hands were about her neck. She struggled, beating against his chest, kicking
vainly at his shins, and his laughter was mingled with the pounding of the
blood in her ears as black spots danced before her eyes.

And then, when the black spots
began to merge and the sound of music thinned to a distant hum, he released her
and stepped back. She fell painfully to her knees, one hand at her throat, and
at last managed to draw a ragged, sobbing breath.

"Will ye tell him?"

When she said nothing he wound
his hand in her hair, jerking her head upright. "Answer me, lady, when I
speak to ye."

She nodded frantically, furious
at her own helplessness to stop the tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Do it soon. We are not
patient men."

And then the corridor was empty
again. She struggled to her feet and nausea rolled through her. She clamped a
hand over her mouth, willing herself not to vomit, trying desperately to
breathe.

"Deirdre, where have you
been? You missed—"

It was Alyson with Jemmy beside
her, both of them looking at her with concern.

"What happened to you,
lady?" Jemmy asked. "Are you ill?"

"Deirdre, what
happened?" Alyson asked, her voice sharp with fear. "Did someone—hurt
you?"

Deirdre clutched her throat,
trying to force the words to come. But it was like a nightmare; she couldn't
speak, she couldn't make so much as a sound. And then Alistair was there,
pushing between Alyson and Jemmy, and without a word he lifted her as easily as
if she was a child and carried her swiftly up the stairs.

He kicked open a door and brought
her into a small chamber, then sat down with her on the bed—his own bed, she
realized dizzily.

"Deirdre, lass, calm
yourself," he said urgently. "Ye must calm yourself now and talk to
me. Who hurt ye?"

"I—I don't know who he
was."

The words came out in a hoarse
croak and Alistair took her hand, still clutched about her throat, and held it
tightly in his own. His eyes narrowed into ice gray slits as he saw the
darkening bruise that lay beneath.

"He—he said—" Deirdre
whispered, her teeth chattering from shock and fear. "Tell you—th-that
they're watching you."

"Calder is a dead man,"
Alistair said with a calm that was somehow more terrifying than any shouted
threats. "Did he say more?"

Deirdre shook her head. "N-no."

He pulled her against him in a
convulsive movement, crushing her hard against his chest. "If I had known—if
ever I imagined he'd move so swiftly, I would never have let ye from my
sight."

Deirdre pressed her cheek against
his shoulder, and beneath her fear a savage joy swept through her heart. Alistair
had said he'd kill the man who hurt her. And in saying it he had claimed her as
his to protect. Why would he do such a thing if he didn't care for her?

Then his words reached her and
she lifted her head. "You knew that he might do this?"

"Not now," Alistair
said. "Not yet."

"But you thought I might be
in danger?" she insisted in a strained whisper and he nodded reluctantly. "And
it's for that you wanted me to go?"

"I—oh, Christ, Deirdre, yes.
Ye must go at once."