Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (8 page)

M
axwell made his announcement that night in the hall.
Jennie, seated beside Deirdre, burst into noisy tears and flung her arms around
her sister-in-law.

"Poor Dee," she wailed. "Poor lass. Go
on, ye can cry, 'tis better if ye do—"

Deirdre closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Jennie
was a nice lass, but she was a fool if she thought Deirdre would ever grieve
for Brodie.

I'm sorry for you, Brodie, she thought. I am sorry I
feel naught by joy that you are gone. May God have mercy on your soul, for I
have none in me for you. And now I'm free!

"There, now, bear up," Jennie whispered,
patting her hand.

Deirdre wanted to scream at her sister-in-law's
innocent solicitude, to pull her hand free and shout out the truth to them all.
Instead she bowed her head and managed a brave smile. Let them believe what
they wanted to believe. She was going home.

"I have given some thought to your future,
daughter."

Deirdre turned toward her father-in-law with surprise.
The man had disapproved of her from the start, and his disapproval had taken
the form of ignoring her entirely. When forced to speak to her, he never
addressed her by name. "You," he would say when he wanted her
attention. "You, pass me the porridge." 

Never once had he called her daughter. Until now.

"Have you, my lord?" she said politely. "So
have I."

He waved one plump hand, dismissing her thoughts upon
the matter.

"Kinnon is in need of a wife," he said. "I've
given ye to him."

Deirdre looked past Maxwell to his second son, seated
on his other side. Kinnon was a small man with sandy thinning hair and a
perpetually anxious expression. Now he caught her eye and smiled nervously.

"Thank you," Deirdre said crisply. "But
I plan to return to my father's house as soon as possible."

Maxwell's small eyes narrowed above the pouches of
flesh. "Ye'll do no such thing."

"Indeed I shall," Deirdre said with icy
dignity. "My father insisted on the arrangement. In the event that I was
widowed, I was to return home if such was my desire." With a good bit of
gold, she thought, but did not quite dare add the words.

"I know of no such arrangement," Maxwell
said. "And I've already decided the matter. Ye should be grateful Kinnon
will have ye," he added nastily. "'Tisn't every man who'd agree to
take a dried up bag o' bones to wife."

Deirdre let the insult pass, instead seizing on the
lie he'd told so casually. He
did
know about the arrangement between
Brodie and her father. It was one reason he had been against the marriage from
the start, saying Brodie had been swindled. It wasn't for any love of her that
he wanted to keep her close, but to get out of paying the widow's rights she
had been promised.

"I am going home," she said firmly. "And
my daughter with me."

"The lassie is a Maxwell," the old man said
shrewdly. "I am the one to say whether she comes or goes. I suppose I
canna stop ye from running back to Ireland, if such be your desire. But I will
never give ye leave to take—ah—to take my granddaughter out o' Scotland."

He doesn't even know her name, Deirdre thought
furiously. Maeve is nothing but a pawn to him. He knows I would never leave my
child behind.

"So that's settled, daughter," he said. "Ye'll
wed Kinnon and we'll say no more about it."

Deirdre bent her head. It wasn't difficult to summon a
few tears, not when she could have cast herself on the floor and wailed in rage
at the ruin of her plan. Maxwell's lips curved in a satisfied smile as the
tears trailed down her cheeks.

Settled, is it? she thought, allowing a tiny sob
escape her lips. We'll see about that, you horrid old toad. Beneath downcast
lashes, her eyes gleamed with new determination as she plotted her escape.

A
listair added a few sticks to the fire, then leaned
his back against an oak and stretched his feet toward the blaze. The rabbit he
had snared was browning nicely and its scent was carried on a crisp autumn
breeze, mingling pleasantly with the scents of woodsmoke and damp leaves. He
closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the evening: the splash of water
over stone, the trilling of the birds among the trees, the crackle of the flame
and the small hissing sound the rabbit's fat made as it dripped into the fire.

They came seldom, these moments of contentment, rare
and precious gifts. Fergus said this state was what all men strove for, which
was something of a joke as the essence of contentment was the very lack of
striving. It could not be bought with gold nor won by force of arms. The only
way to find it was to stop looking altogether.

It was very strange, he thought. When he left Deirdre
Maxwell in the chapel, he had ridden forth in the blackest despair. But for the
past two days he had felt curiously empty. He had meant to travel much farther
before stopping, for he was a bit too close to Kirallen's border for his
comfort. But something about this small sunlit clearing had called to him and
he had given into the temptation to idle away an afternoon. Why not, after
all?  The day was warm and he had nowhere particular to go. But the afternoon
had turned to night and still he lingered, and now another day had passed.

He turned the rabbit on its spit. At least the corbies
had vanished from his life. For that, he was grateful. That Deirdre Maxwell had
vanished just as surely, he did not want to think about, for he resented every
moment she occupied his thoughts. Waking, he could keep her at bay, but at
night she persisted in invading his dreams.

She came to him as he slept, crowned by a shining
nimbus of glowing stars, moving with the regal bearing of a queen. Her hair was
loose and flowing as it had been beside the pool, her mouth soft and welcoming
beneath his as it had been that evening in the chapel...and in the dream things
went much farther than a kiss...

He muttered a curse and turned the rabbit again,
forcing his thoughts back to the present. Tonight he would eat and he would
sleep, well and deeply—God grant without dreams—and tomorrow he would see what
happened next.

It amused him that he, who had always planned his life—and
Ian's, too, as well as Ian's men—down to the smallest detail, was now content
to let tomorrow unfold before him. It would be good or bad, but worrying
wouldn't change that. Fergus would say that good and bad were an illusion; the
day would simply be what it was. It was he who put his judgment on it.

He walked to the edge of the clearing, then through a
small belt of trees and looked down into the sweep of the valley below. The
afternoon was drawing on and a chill mist crept up from the river, shrouding
the bottom of the valley. Sunlight caught the edges of the vapor, turning it to
a glittering web.

He perched on a rock and drew one knee up, clasping
his arms around it. He was waiting, he realized, but for what?  For some sense
of purpose to magically appear? For the death the corbies seemed to promise? Or
was he simply waiting for the mist to rise? He had a sudden image of himself
upon the rock as the mist enfolded him, muffling all sight and sound. When it
cleared, the rock would be empty.

He smiled and rested his chin upon his knee. There was
no hurry. Sooner or later, something would happen. He would wait.

D
eirdre paused on the edges of the forest, every muscle
tensed as she peered back through the trees. Damn this fog! She could not see
above ten yards. But then, she thought, the Maxwells could not see her, either.

"Mam—"

"Hush," Deirdre ordered sternly.

When Maeve's chin quivered and her eyes filled with
tears, Deirdre was stricken with remorse.

"I'm sorry, love," she said, catching her
child in her arms. "You've been a good lass, very good. Just be brave a
little longer, all right? Can you do that? Soon we will stop and rest."

"Aye, Mam," Maeve said, her head drooping.

Deirdre listened hard. No hoofbeats. No hounds baying.
No horn winding through the forest. They were safe—for now. But tomorrow the
hunt would start again.

A wave of weariness hit her, but she straightened her
back and lifted Maeve to the saddle, leading the mare carefully through the
wood. When she caught the scent of roasting meat she stopped. Maxwell's men?
She did not know, but she could take no chances. Moving slowly, wincing at
every crackle of twig beneath the horse's hooves, she turned to her left,
preparing to go around them.

Half an hour later Deirdre knew she was lost. The sun
was hidden, and without it to guide her, she feared she had turned around and
was going back the way she had come.

Stop, she thought, leaning wearily against an oak. Think
a bit. Don't go off in a mad rush, for that will gain you nothing. She looked
around carefully, seeing that over to the right, the trees thinned.

"This way," she said to Maeve, heading for
the edge of the treeline and passing through it. A moment later she stopped in
her tracks, hands white-knuckled on the reins.

The entire world had vanished. She and Maeve stood on
the edge of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by an impenetrable wall of mist. A
panicked cry rose to her lips, but she bit it back, mindful that the Maxwells
could be anywhere and sound traveled in the fog. Heart pounding, palms
sweating, Deirdre forced her mind to work. This could not last forever. She
must be patient, that was all, and it would clear.

A light breeze ruffled her damp brow. The mist parted
and a shaft of sunlight shot through its depths. Deirdre stared, too surprised
to move, her mouth falling open in astonishment. Not thirty paces away, a man
was seated on a rock, the sunlight falling squarely upon him. He lifted his
head and turned to her. She just had time to see the spun gold of his hair, to
note the surprise in his cool gray eyes, before the mist swirled over him
again, hiding Alistair Kirallen from her sight.

A
listair lifted the two sticks on which the rabbit was
suspended and planted them beside the fire. The flesh was crisp but not burnt,
he noticed. So he could not have been gone for more than a few minutes.

Just long enough to lose his mind.

He shook his head and sank down beside the fire. Was
Deirdre Maxwell going to haunt him forever, then, popping in and out of sight
like some demon in a pageant? Was he to spend the rest of his life chasing a
will-o'-the wisp as he had just done, scrambling over rough stones and bracken
to search vainly for any trace of her?

Well, why not? he thought bleakly. It isn't as though
I have anything better to do!

He dropped his head into his hands with a groan, then
straightened, his gaze going to the thicket to his right. A horse was
approaching down the road beyond. The Maxwells again, he told himself. It must
be. All day the wood had been crawling with them, riding to the hunt. So far he
had managed to avoid them. Now he sighed, hoping the rider would simply pass
him by, though he knew it wouldn't happen.

As the hoofbeats slowed and finally stopped, he
glanced at his sword, propped behind him against the tree. Then he shook his
head, instead loosening the dagger in its sheathe. It should be enough. He sat
back, legs crossed, hands lightly resting on the earth beside him. It was a deceptively
relaxed pose, for the slightest pressure on the outside of his feet would bring
him upright in an instant.

The thicket rustled but he pretended not to notice. Let
the stranger have a look at him. With luck, whoever it was would go away again
and leave him to his meal. As the seconds passed it was almost irresistibly
tempting to turn his head and glimpse whoever stood concealed. Go or stay, he
thought impatiently. But don't stand there all night gawping.

"Alistair Kirallen?"

The words were hardly more than a whisper, but he was
on his feet before the first syllable was complete, the dagger in his hand.

"Who is there?" he called sharply. "Show
yourself."

A small cloaked figure stepped from the trees.

"Deirdre?" Alistair whispered, then blinked
hard. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, looking at him
uncertainly. "You're really here!  But how—"

"Oh, Alistair!" she cried, her voice shaking.
"It
is
you!  I thought—before—"

"Aye, it's me," he said. He was not mad,
after all. She was truly here, standing in the flesh before him. He wanted to
laugh out loud, catch her in his arms and kiss her until both of them were
breathless...

"Mam!"

For the first time Alistair noticed that Deirdre was
not alone. An enchanting sprite of two or three stood just beside her, hands
fisted in Deirdre's skirt. She took one look at Alistair and began to cry,
turning to clutch her mother's knees.

"This is Maeve, my daughter. She is afraid of
men," Deirdre said apologetically, caressing the child's curls. "Hush,
now, Maeve, he isn't going to hurt you," she added to the child, then
looked at Alistair with the question in her eyes.

"Of course I'm not," he said gruffly,
annoyed that she thought it necessary to ask. "What happened? Are ye
lost?"

"No. Well, yes, perhaps a little—"

"A little?  Lady, ye are a full day's ride from
Cranston Keep."

"A day?" she repeated, putting one hand
against a tree trunk and leaning upon it as though suddenly exhausted. "Is
that all? I've been riding since dawn yesterday."

"Sit down," Alistair ordered. "Here, by
the fire. Have ye eaten?"

Deirdre sank down on the grass, one arm wrapped
protectively around her daughter. The little girl gave Alistair a wary glance
and moved to stand behind her mother.

"Not since yesterday. I thought I had enough to
see us to Annan—but then we were surprised—and I left the bag—"

Alistair seized on the one word she had spoken that
seemed to make the slightest sense. "Annan? Lady, you are nowhere near
Annan. What are ye doing out here all alone in the first place?  Has Maxwell
lost his wits, letting you travel—"

He broke off as the baby's chin began to quiver and
she buried her face in her mother's shoulder with a little sob.

"Later," Deirdre said. "Please."

"Of course," Alistair said at once. "Forgive
my lack of manners. I have not welcomed you to my castle!"  He waved a
hand about the clearing.

"Well, Maeve, it seems we are in luck,"
Deirdre said, her lips quirking in a smile. "I did not expect to find a
castle here! And how cleverly you have disguised it, sir! It looks exactly like
a forest clearing."

Maeve lifted her head and looked around, her eyes wide
and wondering.

"'Tis all part of the magic, ladies,"
Alistair said gravely.

"King of the Glen, are you?" Deirdre said,
went on lightly, pleased to see Maeve begin to smile. "Laird of the
Mist?"

"Precisely," Alistair agreed. "Did ye
no' see how I bade them come and go before? I needed time to prepare a feast
worthy of my guests." With the air of a conjurer, he began to lay food
before them on the ground. "We have rabbit, bread and cheese," he
said, and Deirdre's mouth began to water as the scent of the food reached her. "Hazel
nuts and, for later, a bit o' honeycomb."

"But we can't eat your entire supper!"
Deirdre protested.

"Of course ye can. I'll go catch a fish or two,
just over there. Call if ye have need of me."

He walked to the burn and crouched on the edge of the
rushing water, pulling a line and hook from the purse at his belt. He was an
indifferent fisherman at best, but to his surprise he caught two fine trout,
one after the other, almost as soon as his hook went into the water. He cleaned
them and wrapped them in leaves, then plastered the whole thing in clay before
walking back to the fire.

Maeve scooted closer to her mother when she saw him,
but she didn't hide this time. He smiled at her and set the fish to cook among
the coals and after a moment she smiled shyly in return.

"Did ye eat your supper, lass?" he said. "Oh,
I see ye did. Then this is for you."

He held out a bit of honeycomb. She looked from it to
his face, every muscle of her small body tensed, reminding Alistair of a wild
cat he'd once befriended as a child. He waited with the same patience he'd
learned then for her to make up her mind.

She glanced up at her mother and Deirdre nodded. With
a frown almost comical on one so young, Maeve set her shoulders and held out
her hand as though expecting a blow instead of the offered sweet. Alistair
dropped the comb into her palm and stepped back quickly.

Deirdre looked up at him with a smile that warmed him
to his toes.

"She's had but few treats," she said as
Maeve retreated behind her once again.

Few treats and a fear of men, Alistair thought,
shaking his head. Brodie Maxwell's gifts to his daughter.

As he waited for the fish to cook, Alistair slipped
back into the timeless contentment he had felt before. All the questions he
meant to ask melted into the shaft of deep golden sunlight slanting through the
trees. Time enough for questions later. For now it was enough to sit by the
fire, from time to time taking in the picture of the woman and her child
against the backdrop of the forest.

Deirdre had shed her cloak and leaned against the oak,
her eyes half closed as she stared into the flames. The coif had slipped back
on her head and a few wisps of hair escaped, startling against the whiteness of
her skin.

She was still too thin, he thought, and worn out by
her journey, but her face looked soft and far younger than she had seemed that
night at Cranston Keep. And that was no surprise. Being wed to Brodie Maxwell
would surely age a woman quickly.

The child beside her yawned, her cheeks flushed a
brilliant red, her lips sticky with honey. She put her head in her mother's lap
and brought the honeycomb to her mouth. And thus, between one heartbeat and the
next, she fell asleep.

When Deirdre looked down at her with a tenderness that
transformed her thin, pale face, Alistair's breath caught in his throat. Had
his own mother ever looked at him like that? It did not seem likely.

And yet...he remembered a warm presence, a sweet voice
and a gentle touch. Surely that had been her. How could he have forgotten that
for all these years?  And yet, he realized with some surprise, that memory had
always been with him, nestled close and secret in his heart.

The afternoon faded into twilight and the fire
brightened. When he judged the fish had cooked long enough he pulled it from
the coals and broke the hard clay, sniffing appreciatively as he peeled back
the leaves.

"Will ye have some?" he offered.

Deirdre looked up, her eyes wide and startled, as
though she had forgotten he was there.

 "No," she said. "I've eaten enough of
your food already."

"'Tisn't mine, lady. It comes from the forest and
there's enough for all."

She smiled back, somewhat wryly. "Not when you
don't know how to find or catch it. I fear we would have starved if we hadn't
come upon you."

"No, no. A day or two, if ye kept on as ye were
going, and you'd have reached Ravenspur. You would be welcome there."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't have stopped, not
unless we were starving in truth."

"Why not, Deirdre?" he asked directly.

"Because he must know by now that Maxwell is
looking for us. And I don't mean to be found. I'm going home and Maeve with
me."

She put one hand on the child's dark head. "They
won't keep her," she said with quiet vehemence. "I will not let them.
And I won't stay there myself. He can say what he likes, but I'll not marry at
his bidding. I am going home and no one, not the Maxwell himself, will stop
me."

"Ah, I see," Alistair said. He frowned,
picking at the fish. "'Tis a long way to Donegal."

She shrugged. "The journey has been made before."

"Not by a lone woman and a child with the
Maxwells hunting them."

"Have you seen them?" Deirdre asked
anxiously.

"All day I've heard men passing through the
wood."

She paled and the strained look returned to her face. "We
should go on, then."

"What, at night? Don't be ridiculous," he
said, more sharply than he'd intended. "Stay here where you're safe. You need
to rest. And your horse—"

"The horse!" She sat up straight.

Alistair sighed. "I'll get it."

He found the mare tethered loosely just off the path
and swore softly as he considered that any one of Maxwell's men could have seen
her there. For that matter, his fire could draw them still.

He led the stumbling horse to the patch of grass
beside the burn, hobbled her beside his own, and stamped the fire out.

"Deirdre," he said, sitting down beside her.
"I understand you wish to return home, but ye canna just run off into the
wood with no idea where you're going."

"I can do what I must." 

Her voice was calm and very, very certain. She
straightened her shoulders and looked at him coolly, as if he was a rather
dim-witted servitor with no conception of royal duties.

"Perhaps ye can," Alistair said grudgingly. "But
what of the child? Is it fair to drag her from her home and—"

"Fair? Aye, 'tis fair, Alistair Kirallen. Else
she'll live all her life a prisoner at Cranston Keep. I will not have it,"
she said, as though issuing orders from a throne. "Not for her nor for
myself. But that is not your worry."

"D'ye think I'll leave ye to wander until ye
starve or Maxwell's men take ye?"

"Neither of those things will happen." She
waved a hand, dismissing his words with an arrogance that astounded him, given
her complete lack of resources. "Tomorrow or the next day we will be out
of Maxwell's demesne. Without his men to trouble us, we can keep to the path
and make good time. I thank you for the meal and fire," she added
graciously. "But from here on in we shall be fine."

She meant it. Every foolish word that came from her
lips was spoken with complete conviction. She was lost in the forest, without
food, without a plan, without the slightest idea of what she was facing. Yet
for all that, he had been dismissed. She did not want his help.

"Fine?" he snapped. "That I doubt. Maxwell
will never give up until he finds ye. Best go back and seek his mercy
now."

"I beg no man's pardon when I am in the
right," she answered proudly. "My father had Brodie's word that I
would be free to return home if I was widowed—and I should have the gold to do
it. It was the one thing Father insisted upon and Brodie gave in at the last. But
now old Maxwell denies it, damn his lying tongue! I will not go back there—they
cannot make me—"

"All right," Alistair said quickly, hearing
the tremor in her voice. "If ye won't go, ye won't."