English, Elizabeth (30 page)

"Enough
of your backchat, laddie," he said. "Take up your sword and show me
what you've learned. I'll wager my new knife that ye shan't get past my guard
even once."

When
Malcolm grinned up at him Alistair was absurdly relieved, as though he'd won
back something precious that had nearly been lost.

It
was all that woman's fault, he reflected as they began Malcolm's lesson. She
was a danger in more ways than one. He didn't like her, and he didn't trust her
an inch, though everyone else seemed almost willfully blind to the danger
Alistair could feel surrounding them. It was understandable enough, he
supposed. The Laird, poor man, had never recovered from the shock of Ian's
death. Malcolm was only a boy who couldn't be expected to know any better. As
for Jemmy—well, Jemmy was a fool, Alistair had known that for years, besides
which he was obviously besotted with his bride.

But
he, Alistair, wasn't an old man or a boy or a fool. He was a man—and a
Kirallen. Though many had forgotten that Alistair had not been born a Kirallen,
he remembered. He could never forget the wretched life he'd had before the
Laird had taken him in, given him a home, a family, and a name.

Alistair
would not stand by and see the honor of that name destroyed. In his right mind
the Laird would never have so shamed them all, going cap in hand to beg peace
with Ian's murderer. And he would have known better than to trust Darnley to
keep his word.

God
be thanked that Alistair was still there to protect the Laird, even from himself.
If no one else would act, then he must.

"Here,
now, not like that," he said to Malcolm. "You turn your wrist like
this—that's it. Now step into it—good, lad, that's the way. Let's try
again."

Part
of his mind was busy with the lesson, but the other part stood off, thinking as
he so often did of that terrible January morning. Ah, Ian, he thought with
familiar bitter sorrow, why did ye have to die? Why did ye ride off with only a
handful of men? Why, why did ye no' wait for me?

And
it was all for those damnable white cows. If Alistair ever got his hands on
them again, he'd slaughter every one and burn the carcasses. It was all a game
to Ian, those wretched beasts, just one more competition between himself and
Darnley. But then Ian had never been serious for five minutes at a stretch.

"Why
should I worry?" he'd said once to Alistair. "I have you for
that!"

And
when he grinned Alistair had to laugh, for it was true and they both knew it.
Alistair had always been the practical one, attending to the details Ian tended
to ignore, pointing out the dangers Ian never stopped to see.

When
Ian had heard about the stolen cows he'd laughed. "Why, that vaunty
bastard!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes glowing. "Thinks he can ride in
here and take what's ours, does he? Well, we'll just have to show him, won't we
lads?"

"What
again?" the men cried, groaning.

"Aye,
again!" Ian answered. "And again and again— until he understands. We
leave at dawn." Then he'd raised his cup and cried, "Crioch
Onarach!" and they'd all roared back the toast, draining their mugs to the
dregs, with no idea that the good death they wished for was so very close.

It
was at that moment Alistair first knew something wasn't right. Ian usually
accepted Alistair's flashes of the Sight without question, but that night he
had been drinking and had no mind for anyone's ideas but his own.

"You're
turning into an old woman," he said, making a wry face. "Don't come
if you're afraid."

And
that was Ian at his worst—impatient, reckless, determined to have his way at any
price. From any other man those words would have had Alistair's sword leaping
from its scabbard. As it was, he bit back his anger and subsided, for he knew
there was no arguing with his foster brother in this mood.

The
next morning Ian had apparently decided to forget their quarrel. Alistair
wasn't surprised. Ian's fits of temper never lasted long.

"So
ye think this is a bad idea?" he asked, swinging himself into the saddle.

"Aye,
Ian, I do. If ye won't be stopped, then at least let's take more men."

Ian
frowned. "It's too late for that. We'll go carefully."

The
morning had been cold, a chill mist clinging to the hollows and hanging heavy
over the moat. They'd barely reached the other side when Alistair's horse went
lame. He pried the stone loose from the animal's hoof but when it still limped,
he turned back to the stable to fetch another.

Ian
sighed, his breath misting the air. "Catch up to us."

"I'll
only be a moment."

But
Ian, impatient again, just laughed. "We can't waste the morning waiting
about for you! Ye can catch us—and hurry, man, 'tis late enough already."

The
sharp answer Alistair was about to make died on his lips when he felt the hair
stir on the nape of his neck. His mouth went dry, and though he tried to shout
a warning, his words came out as hardly more than a whisper.

"Wait—don't
go—"

Ian
heeled his horse into a canter and looked back with a grin. "Try not to
miss all the fun!"

"Ian,
don't—
wait!"

But
Ian was gone. It hadn't taken Alistair long to find a fresh mount and then he
galloped after them. But even so, by the time he found them it was done and
Darnley's men no more than distant figures disappearing into the mist. He'd
only been in time to stare, appalled, at the carnage. Eight bodies lay upon the
blood-soaked moor, eight knights under his command. Or no, he realized. Not
eight. Nine. And the ninth was Ian.

He
dropped to his knees beside his kinsman. At Alistair's touch Ian opened his
eyes and grinned weakly. " 'Twas Darnley—I never expected him to come
himself—the bastard! I should have—waited—for you—"

"Christ,
Ian, we have to get you home."

But
when he tried to lift him, Ian gave a terrible cry of pain and gripped his arm.
"Too late—ah, God, Alistair, I'm sorry."

"Quiet,"
Alistair ordered, swinging the cloak from his own shoulders and laying it over
Ian. "Save your strength."

"No—no
time," Ian said, stuttering a little with cold and shock. "S-say that
it's all right, say that you—"

"I
forgive ye, all right? Is that what ye want to hear? Now shut up and let me
think a minute."

"Malcolm—watch
over him—"

"Like
my own son," Alistair promised, tears burning his eyes. "But you'll
be there, too. We'll get ye home and—"

Ian
coughed bright blood and Alistair was silenced. He could only hold him then,
his mind refusing to accept what was happening even after Ian had gone still in
his arms.

"It's
not supposed to be this way," he shouted to the sky, tears streaming
unheeded down his face. "I'm the one— not him—"

He
had always known he'd die for Ian. Protecting Ian was his fate, the sacred duty
entrusted to him by the Laird when he was just a bairn. God knew Ian needed
looking after even then. He went his own way, regardless of the danger, with
Alistair a step behind to guard his back. As they grew older, Ian had relied on
Alistair not only for the protection he never thought he needed, but to attend
to all the tiresome responsibilities of his position.

Not
that Alistair had complained. He knew his duty, and he never wavered. And if
Ian's demands had been sometimes exhausting, that was a small price to pay for
all Alistair had been given. The Laird was a far more devoted father than
Alistair's own had ever cared to be. Ian was not only his friend but his
brother. Even Jemmy had been a part of it, all those years ago, though he and
Alistair had never had much in common. But Ian had always been protective of
his little brother.

"Leave
him be," he used to say. " 'Tis not Jemmy's fault he's not like us.
Just let him be."

It
was Alistair, not Jemmy, that Ian had called his other half—joking words with
the truth hidden in the jest. They'd ridden their first horses side by side,
fought their first battle back to back. They'd shared hardship and victory,
jokes and songs and women, too close for any jealousy to come between them. And
always, always Alistair had known what his death would be: He would die
defending Ian to the last.

"Ye
should have waited," he'd said on that terrible morning as he laid Ian
back on the earth and gently wiped the blood from his still face. "Why
didn't ye wait for me?"

Now,
standing in the practice yard Alistair felt the pain tear through him, just as
sharp and bitter as it always was. But looking at the boy before him, he was
comforted. Maybe there was some purpose to it all, maybe he had survived for a
reason. I'll teach him, Ian, he vowed silently. I'll teach him to be what you
were.

What
had the Darnley bitch been saying to the boy? Alistair didn't know but he could
guess—she'd been poisoning his mind, turning him against his kin. Trying to
take him away.

At
that moment his dislike for her sharpened into hatred.

Alyson
threw down her sewing and ran to the window. There were riders approaching...
but none of them was Jemmy. He'd said a few days, and this was the third.
Surely she could expect him any moment. She paced the chamber restlessly, then
sat and took up her sewing again. A moment later it had fallen from her hands
as she stared blindly ahead, her mind taking up its frantic round.

She
could trust Jemmy, she was sure of it. Once he understood he'd help her. But,
oh, he would be angry. Angry at Darnley for the deception, angry at her for
lying to him. Surely he would see that she had to lie, she'd had no choice. But
she could have told him sooner. Would he understand that? Would he understand
why she hadn't spoken the truth during that night?

That
night... when she remembered what they'd done she grew hot and cold in turns.
He'd carried her to the bed—this very bed she was looking at right now. The
room had been dim; his face was in shadow but the firelight behind him played
off his skin as he pulled off his robe and bent to her. He'd kissed her until
she was certain she would faint—but she hadn't fainted, she'd been very much
aware of what was happening as his hand slid beneath her robe to cup her
breast. She'd arched her back and the robe fell away until they were naked
together in the soft bed, just where they belonged. He'd shown her a hundred
games that men and women play when they are just discovering each other... Ah,
next time, she thought, then her thoughts stopped with a jerk.

There
wouldn't be a next time. She'd had her night, and that was most definitely the
end of that. For a time she'd hoped she was with child—no matter what happened,
she would welcome the babe who came of that night of joy. When she'd found that
it was not so she'd cried, even though she knew she should be relieved, for
what future could such a child ever have? No, it was better this way, for it
was only herself she'd be risking when she told him the truth.

She
could trust him. She was sure of it. He'd said he loved her. But that was when
he thought she was Lady Maude. What would remain of that love when he learned
who she truly was? Would it be enough?

But
she had to tell him. She had no choice now, for she could not betray him to his
death. He was her only hope. Why did he not come? If he didn't come today, she
would have to see Sir Robert and try to discover Darnley's plan. She couldn't
imagine what she'd say to the knight—certainly not the truth! No, she'd invent
some tale and pray that Darnley would hold off for another day or two.

And
then she'd tell Jemmy everything. She tried to imagine the words she'd use but
her mind was blank. No matter, when the time came she'd think of some way to
say it. And then what would he do? He'd be angry, surely... But she had to
trust him. Why, why didn't he return?

"He'll
be back soon."

Maggie
stood before her, her face drawn with concern. "Dinna fash yourself, lady,
he'll be back. But he mustn't find you ill. Now eat some of this."

Alyson
tried but soon her throat closed and she could not manage to swallow.
"I'll have some later," she said, then stiffened, listening. She ran
to the window, but the road stretched empty before her eyes.

The
day wore into evening and then the evening faded into night. Alyson sat by the
window, a blanket pulled about her shoulders, until dawn lightened the sky.
Then she rose and dressed for riding, quietly so as not to disturb any of her
women. She couldn't put it off any longer, she had to see Sir Robert.

She
found him in the clearing, lying against the bank and staring at the sky.
"Come and sit," he said with a smile, patting the soft grass.
"It's a lovely morning, isn't it? But you don't look well at all. What's
happened?"

"Sir
Robert," she began, then stopped, biting her lip. She should have thought
this out more carefully, she realized now. She was so deadly tired that her
mind refused to work.

"There,
now," he said, patting her back. "Just rest a moment. You've done
well so far, very well indeed. And Robin is fine, so you needn't worry about
him. Did I tell you Master Jennet says he has the makings of a falconer? That
would be a fine life for him, don't you think?"