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"Well, you're a fine fierce fellow," Alistair said, reaching down to rub its belly. "Some sort of wolfhound, would ye say? Mixed with God alone knows what. Look at his paws, Deirdre. He's still a pup."

The dog's tail whipped from side to side in the sodden leaves. When Alistair smiled at her, Deirdre's heart did a giddy little dance. But it meant nothing, she thought. It was just a smile. He did not want her.

How could he act as though nothing had happened between them last night? Had it really meant so little to him? But she could not forget so easily. Why had he turned away from her so suddenly? What had she done wrong? She could not bring herself to ask the questions, for she was afraid to hear the answers.

"We cannot keep him," she said sharply, rubbing her temples against the dull ache that had started there. "We can barely feed ourselves, let alone—"

"I don't think it's so much a matter of us keeping him as him keeping us," Alistair said, rising and brushing his knees. "He'll probably go home when he gets hungry."

"Unless he decides to make a meal of us," Deirdre muttered.

"Finn," Maeve said suddenly, reaching to touch the dog's head. "Finn Mac Coul."

Deirdre laughed. She couldn't help herself. She, like Maeve, had always loved the stories of Finn Mac Coul, the wily Irish giant.

"A fine name," Alistair said. "He is a very giant among dogs."

Maeve smiled happily. "Finn," she repeated and the dog looked at her, tail wagging, for all the world as if he knew his name already. "My Finn."

By dusk it began to rain again. Alistair made a shelter of pine boughs that kept the worst of it off their heads, but he could not coax a fire from the sodden wood. They huddled miserably together, chewing on dried meat and hard bread.

Alistair was very much aware of Deirdre just beside him, shivering in the darkness. It was with some effort that he restrained himself from putting his arm around her and drawing her beneath his cloak. That would warm her, he thought. It would warm both of them quite nicely. But then they would be back where they had been last night. Just the thought of it, her limbs twined with his, her lips parting in sweet invitation, made his stomach clench with longing.

"Here," he said brusquely, unfastening his cloak. "Take this. Maeve is cold," he added, cutting off Deirdre's protest.

"Maeve, here—stop that!" Deirdre said sharply. "You cannot give your food to that dog!"

"But he's hungry, Mam."

"Then let him go home. Now say thank you to Sir Alistair and go to sleep."

"Thank you," Maeve said obediently.

Alistair tossed the dog the rest of his meal. "Here, Finn," he said, loud enough for Maeve to hear. "Eat up."

He smiled a little when he heard Deirdre's exasperated sigh.

"Good night, Alistair," she said, sounding annoyed. "I hope you don't freeze."

He piled pine needles on the wet ground and stretched out on top of them. "A small price to pay for your comfort, Your Highness."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," she said, but her words held a trace of laughter.

Alistair turned over on his side, pulling a branch over his shoulders. It was worth it, he thought. Worth the cold and the discomfort, worth the hard ache he carried with him always now. It was all well worth it if he could make her smile.

But all journeys have to end, he thought. This one would not last the week. In four or five days they would reach Annan and Deirdre would take ship for home.

I could go with her, he thought. It will be a new start, a whole new life...a life with Deirdre? Was it possible? He would work as hard as he had to, do anything at all if there was the slightest chance of winning her. When he looked at it calmly, he knew it was not hopeless. There was that Fitzgerald lad, of course, but if he could not stop Deirdre from marrying Brody Maxwell, what sort of man was he? No doubt their childhood romance had been sweet, but he had been far from Deirdre's thoughts last night. She desires me, Alistair thought, and while that isn't near enough, it is something to begin with.

Whether he could earn her respect was another matter. Pathetic, she had called him, cowardly, and her words had stung like snow rubbed against a frozen limb. Once the sting began to fade, feeling had rushed in...and the first stir of hope.

He was not too old to start anew. He still had his strength, his skill—and all the knowledge he had gained as Captain of Kirallen's knights. Surely that was worth something!

I'll do it, he thought. I'll go to Ireland, to Donegal. With Deirdre. And then I will do anything to win her.

On that thought he fell asleep, a smile on his lips.

The next morning when Deirdre woke, Finn was still there, his back pressed close against Maeve, her small fingers wound in his thick gray coat.