Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (30 page)

"Open!" she cried, pounding her fists
against the wood. "Alyson—Malcolm, open the door!"

There was no answer. She sank down against the door
and drew Alistair's head into her lap, bending over him to shield him with her
body as the fighting swept around them.

Someone stumbled over them with a curse, and a booted
foot struck Deirdre's cheek hard enough to flood her eyes with tears. The door
jerked open and she felt strong hands beneath her arms, tugging her backward. She
tightened her grip on Alistair and they were dragged together back into the
chapel. The moment they were inside, the door slammed shut again.

The sound of battle was muffled now, as though it came
from far away. Deirdre could hear Malcom breathing in harsh gasps as the boy
knelt beside her.

"Lady Maxwell," he said. "Are ye
hurt?"

She shook her head and smoothed the matted hair away
from Alistair's brow, staring down at his still face. Beneath the spatters of
blood, his skin was white as marble, the lashes lying dark and thick against
his cheeks. He looked very peaceful, she thought, very young.

"Is he...?" Malcolm gulped and swallowed
hard. He reached out a shaking hand and laid it against Alistair's neck, just
below the ear. "God be thanked."

Deirdre raised her head and looked at him,
uncomprehending.

"He lives, lady," Malcolm said. "Here—feel—"

She pressed her fingers to Alistair's neck, found the
pulse beating quick and light beneath his skin.

Slowly, very slowly, the sounds of battle faded. All
that was left were the groans of the wounded and the weeping of the women. Deirdre
sat, Alistair's head cradled in her lap, Malcolm moving restlessly between her
and Alyson, who was kneeling with two priests on the far side of the chapel. As
Deirdre caught their words, she realized they were administering the last
rites.

"The chapel guard," Malcolm said in answer
to Deirdre's question. "Some of them might live. The others—" His
eyes filled and he looked away.

Deirdre bent her head and closed her eyes.

At last the chapel door opened and Jemmy hurried in,
going immediately to his wife and lifting her in his arms.

"Oh, Jemmy," Alyson cried, throwing her arms
around his neck. "I'm fine," she added quickly. "Let me down,
I'm fine—but what of you?"

He looked almost too weary to stand, but he smiled. "I
am well enough. For now."

Alyson looked as though she might protest, but then
Jemmy added quietly, "There are...others who need help."

She nodded. "Aye. Of course. Come to me, then,
when you can."

Jemmy knelt beside Alistair, his expression grim. "Lady,"
he said, looking up at Deirdre. "Is he...?"

"Nay."

Jemmy smoothed a strand of blood-soaked hair from
Alistair's brow, looking long into his kinsman's battered face. "Where did
he come from, earlier?"

"Calder took him last night," Deirdre
answered dully. "He left him for dead."

"But you found him."

"Ronan helped me. Where is Ronan?" she
asked, looking dazedly about. "He left me—when we first arrived—"

Jemmy touched her hand. "He is being seen to."

"Why? What happened to him?"

"Alyson is going to him now," Jemmy said. "He—oh,
lady, he has earned our gratitude today. Whatever can be done for him, she will
do."

Deirdre bent her head and shut her eyes, willing back
the tears. When she looked up again, she met Jemmy's gaze and understood that
Ronan was but one of many he must worry for now.

"Were the losses very heavy?" she asked,
knowing already what the answer was.

"Aye. But not so heavy as they would have been
without Alistair."

"I thought—you would not heed him. I thought—"

"I know. But 'twas never true. All was said and
done for my sake."

Alistair's lids fluttered and he looked up at her.

"Dinna cry, lass," he said. "Deirdre,
don't—"

His gaze wandered, then fixed on Malcolm. "Jemmy,"
he said clearly. "Always. D'ye ken?"

"Aye, Alistair. I do now. Why did ye no' tell
me?" Malcolm cried.

"He could not," Jemmy said. "Nor could
I."

Alistair turned his gaze to Deirdre. "Oh, love, dinna
greet. It's all right. We did it. 'Ware, now, I'm bleeding on your gown."

"You can buy me a new one," Deirdre said,
her tears splashing on his face.

"Aye."  His eyes fell shut. The dark lashes
fluttered, as though he struggled to open them, and his voice was only a
whisper when he spoke again. "Shall we go to Donegal now?"

"Yes," Deirdre said fiercely. "My
father will want to meet the man I marry. For we
will
marry, Alistair. Don't
even
think
you can get out of it by dying on me now."

His eyes did open then, only for a moment. "Oh,
no, Your Highness."  The ghost of a smile passed across his pale lips. "I
wouldna dare to try."

S
now was coming, Alistair thought as he walked across
the courtyard. Not tonight, but soon. He stopped outside the tower door, a cold
wind snapping at the edges of his cloak. The sounds of merriment still drifted
from the hall, drunken voices bawling out the words of a particularly bawd
song.

He smiled and went lightly up the winding steps. By
the time he reached the top, there was no need to knock, for Finn had already
alerted Deirdre to his arrival.

"What are you doing here?" she asked,
standing back to let him in. "I thought you'd still be down there."

"The noise was making my head ache."

"Just the noise?" she asked, lifting one
dark brow.

"And the wine, as well," he admitted. He wasn't
drunk, but he was not exactly sober, either, and now that his head had cleared
a bit, he realized he was feeling very fine, indeed.

And why should he not? Today Jemmy had been proclaimed
laird of the Kirallen clan, and every man among them had sworn their oath to
him.

It had been a fine day altogether, Alistair thought. But
tomorrow would be finer still.

"Why are you no' abed, lass?" he asked,
pinching Deirdre's cheek. "You'll want to be fresh and rested for your
wedding day!"

"I was," she answered. "Until you woke
me."

"Did I?"  He took a step forward and held
out his arms. "God's blood, ye are beautiful tonight," he murmured
against her hair. "Just like a flower, all soft and rosy with sleep—"

She skipped back. "
Tomorrow
is our wedding
night. You must wait."

"I am not sure I can...oh, fine, then," he
said as she laughed and slapped his hand. "I suppose one more night won't
kill me. Though it feels as though it might."

When she smiled, the effect more dizzying than the
wine he'd drunk. "But I didna come here to woo ye—or not only for that. I
wanted to bring ye this."

As she took the parcel from his hand, Alistair was
riveted by the way her hair spilled over her shoulders, cascading in a dark
stream across the gentle swell of her breasts.

"What is it?" she said curiously, turning
the flat package in her hands.

He dragged his gaze to her face. "Open it and
see."

She sat down on the bed and untied the string, pulling
forth a bundle of yellowed parchments. Frowning, she tipped them toward the
candle's light and read the cramped writing. Her dark brows lifted and her lips
parted in astonishment.

"Who sent this?"

"Kinnon Maxwell. A wedding gift of sorts."

"Blood money is more like it," Deirdre said,
folding the parchment with a grimace and tossing it aside. "Does Kinnon
think this will make up for what he did?"

"Ah, but Kinnon says he has done nothing!"
Alistair said, his eyes moving over the rumpled bed with longing. "Claims
he knew naught of what happened here, that it was a plan Calder and some
renegade Maxwells brewed. Says he was shocked to hear of it."

Deirdre gave a delicate snort. "He expects us to
believe that? Why, he was there with Calder when they carried you off!  Ronan
said—"

"Ronan
said
there was a man in Maxwell
plaid who might—not
was
, Deirdre, but
might
—have been
Kinnon." Alistair shrugged. "And I canna say myself what happened
that day."

"You still don't remember any of it?"

Alistair frowned as he tried again to recall the
events of that strange and terrible day three weeks ago. "Bits and pieces,"
he said at last. "Naught that makes much sense."

He sat down on the bed beside her and reached for her
thick braid, feeling the glossy hair slide between his fingers. He brought it
up and set it to his lips.

"Kinnon sent Jemmy a fine destrier, as well,"
he said, "A gift to the new laird, his 'trusted friend and ally.'"

"He has more nerve than I gave him credit
for!" Deirdre said, whipping her braid from between his fingers. "Jemmy
did not take it, did he?"

"Aye, he did."

"But—"

"If he refused, it would have made for bitterness
between us and the Maxwells, maybe even come to war. So he accepted. And so
should you, Deirdre. 'Tis what was agreed upon when you wed Brodie."

"I don't want it," Deirdre said tightly. "I
don't want anything of theirs."

Her face had taken on the strained look it always wore
when Brodie's name was mentioned. Alistair sighed, almost wishing he had left
this for another day. He couldn't have done that, though. Deirdre had the right
to know she was a wealthy woman now. But if he had thought the knowledge would
please her, he'd been very much mistaken.

"But you think we should keep it," she said.
"Why?  What do you intend to do with it?"

"'Tis for you to say."

"Really?" she asked coolly. "Then I
shall give it to Maeve."

"A fine idea," Alistair said. Relieved to
have the matter settled, he slipped his arm around her.

"You don't mind?"

"Why should I?" he said, bending to kiss her
neck.

"Have you forgotten that as of tomorrow, by law,
what is mine is yours?"

"Oh, so that's it, is it?" He squeezed her
close against him. "Take Maxwell's gold and give it to Maeve—or throw it
down the well for all I care. 'Tis yours, and I want no part of it. What is
ours will belong to both of us together." He hesitated, then looked her in
the eye. "Deirdre, I am not Brodie Maxwell."

She looked away, her face reddening. "I know
that."

"No, ye don't. Not really."

He drew her against his chest and she wrapped her arms
around him, burying her face in his shoulder. "That's all right,
love," he said, rubbing her tight shoulders, letting his hands drift down
her back. "I don't expect ye to trust me all at once. I know it will take
time."

"I do trust you," she said, her voice
muffled against his shoulder. "I
do
."

"One thing at a time," he murmured. "That's
the way. I canna promise we'll never disagree, but I do promise we'll sort it
out together."  He felt her body soften as she relaxed against him. "It
will all be well. You'll see. So long as we're together."

"Oh, I do love you, Alistair," she said, her
arms tightening around him.

He smiled. "Whisht, I know that. Why else would
ye agree to stay in Scotland, when ye have told me so often what a wretched
place it is!"

"Not so wretched now," she said. "I've
grown—quite fond of it lately."

"We'll go to Donegal next spring," he said,
unwinding her braid. "I promise. You can show me every inch of it. We'll
stay as long as ye like—"

"We mustn't stay too long."  She raised her
head and gave him a brilliant smile. "Jemmy cannot do without you
now."

"Hmph." 

"'Tis true! You know it is. Earlier, at the
oath-taking, when he raised you up and set you just beside him—oh, Alistair, I
was so proud! And so was Maeve! The way they all cheered..."

Alistair felt the heat rise to his face. That had been
a fine moment, him and Malcolm on either side of Jemmy, seated in the laird's
great chair. As Alistair stepped into place, the shouts of approval had echoed
to the rafters. He remembered Malcolm's flashing smile, Jemmy looking up at
him, a momentary uncertainty passing quickly across his face.

Alistair had seized a goblet and held it high. "To
the laird!" he cried, "Long may he rule!"

Then the shouts rang out again as he drank and dropped
to one knee, offering the goblet to Jemmy.

"Thank you," Jemmy said, taking it from his
hand. When their eyes met, any doubts either of them might have had vanished
for all time. As Alistair straightened and stepped to one side, hand laid on
the hilt of his sword, he had no regrets. They were both exactly where they
belonged.

But sweet as it had been, the finest part had come
when he looked up into the gallery to see Deirdre leaning on the railing with
Maeve beside her, knowing that tomorrow they would truly be a family.

He looked at Deirdre now and felt the breath catch in
his throat. She was so beautiful tonight, her eyes glowing and her cheeks
stained with fresh color. My faerie lady, he thought. My love.

She smiled and lay back against the pillows, holding
out her arms. His eyes locked with hers, he unfastened his cloak and let it
fall to the floor, then kicked off his boots and pulled the velvet tunic over
his head. Still tangled in its folds, he grinned, feeling her hands tugging
impatiently at the fastenings of his trews.

When he slipped naked into bed beside her, she turned
to him, her warmth enfolding him as he took her in his arms. He kissed her long
and deeply, feeling her heart pounding against his chest in rhythm with his own.
But that was only right. She was a part of him now—or had she always been? He
did not know, nor did it matter, for she was his and he was hers...and tomorrow
all the world would know it.

He drew back and stroked the hair from her brow,
seeing his own wondering joy reflected in the depths of her sapphire eyes.

"Oh, Alistair, I'm so happy...I never thought to
feel like this. Tell me it is real," she whispered, her voice shaking.
"Say I am not dreaming."

"Oh, no, lady, this is
my
dream, not
yours!" She laughed and he bent to her again, his lips just brushing hers.
"And a verra pleasant one it's turning out to be."