Few guests ever braved Misthaven's doors, the manor house never hosting the convivial dinner parties or musicales or balls that drove the ennui from the neighboring gentry.
But even Hugh with his single-mindedness would notice if he tripped over Ciaran in the hallway. And she doubted the servants would suddenly believe she'd taken to eating an entire rack of lamb by herself at dinnertime.
Why hadn't she thought this whole escapade through before she'd trotted up to Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo and dug the cloak pin from its hiding place? Why hadn't she realized that the possibilities for disaster were endless?
Because no one had ever warned her that even legends have to be fed. It had never occurred to her that she would have to make provisions for Ciaran—simple things, infinitely difficult ones such as what he would eat, the clothes he would wear, where he would sleep. Exactly where did one hide six feet four inches of angry, bewildered male?
She could hardly keep him hidden in a bandbox beneath her bed, the way she had an injured fox pup when she was eight. The man was dangerous—a powder keg ready to explode, a runaway coach hurtling down a cliff's edge.
Was she making a terrible mistake bringing him to Misthaven at all?
She forced back the doubts. So things hadn't turned out the way she'd expected. What did it matter? All the snarls she'd encountered thus far would smooth out as soon as Ciaran regained his memory. Then he would turn into the Ciaran of legend—invincible, cunning, the noblest of warriors and the bravest. She just had to muddle through until then and stave off as many disasters as possible. Imagine how contrite he'd be for causing her so much trouble.
Forgive me, my fairest lady. I shall carry the shame of my oafish behavior toward you throughout eternity.
The image of this towering, powerful man kneeling before her, head bowed, hand outstretched, started a fluttering in her breast. She'd find it in her heart to forgive him, she decided. Once he had groveled enough.
"Ciaran?" She reined in the horse, felt Ciaran start, his body stiffening against her.
"What is it? Is someone coming?"
"No. I-I just... we're nearing Misthaven, and I wanted to explain to you—" She paused, gathering surprisingly scattered thoughts. Apparently her wits were more affected than she'd imagined by thoughts of Ciaran on his knees.
"I'm going to have to keep you hidden for a while."
He breathed a sigh that could only be relief. "That should be easy enough. I'm not likely to hold any dinner parties. Can't remember anyone to invite."
"It's just that my brother, Hugh, is... very protective of his situation. He dislikes anything that interferes with his business interests, or tending his estates. That is why I think it would be best if we kept you hidden for the time being. From the servants. And, uh, from my brother."
She felt Ciaran stiffen, knew with a sinking sensation that she'd jabbed at his pride and the stubbornness that was as much a part of the man as his waves of midnight hair.
"You'd sneak me into this man's home? Have me eat his food, sleep in his bed, without telling him?"
"Hugh's bed wouldn't be near large enough for the both of you," she said with forced lightness. "I imagine you're a restless sleeper."
"This isn't a jest! I won't sneak about, stealing hospitality from a man like some sort of thief."
"It would be the safest way to handle things. Until you regain your memory you're vulnerable. Misthaven is vulnerable, too."
"All the more reason your brother should know about me, about what he's risking."
"Don't you see? That's how I'm going to protect him, by keeping him ignorant of this whole scheme. That way, no one can blame him. No one can use it as an excuse for taking Misthaven away."
"Taking it away? You could lose your estate because you offered me shelter?"
"They'd confiscate Misthaven if Hugh sneezed the wrong way. They've been trying to snatch it since the time of Cromwell."
"I don't understand. Who is trying to take it?"
"The—" Shame spilled through her, familiar, hated, inescapable as if the word "betrayer" were branded into her cheek. She saw the puzzlement reflected in Ciaran MacCailte's eyes.
What would he think, this noblest of all Celts, if he learned the truth about the Delaneys, the tainted blood that ran through her veins? How could she even begin to explain the lengths her family had stooped to in order to cling to land and wealth and some modicum of power? No. He could never be made to understand. And she couldn't bear to see the scorn, the loathing, the pity cross his rugged face.
"It doesn't matter why," she dismissed his question. "The point is that Hugh will be safe enough. There are more than a few hereabouts who think that I'm touched in the head. It would be easy enough for them to believe I was behind such a wild scheme, and that Hugh knew nothing about it."
"You think I would put you in danger? A woman?"
"No need to stir up your sense of chivalry. This is the least of my crimes against the Crown, I assure you. I—" Fallon choked off the words, horrified at what she'd almost confessed: a thirst for Irish freedom some would call treason.
God above, what if this man wasn't Ciaran? What if he was an English officer, lost? Or, what if he had a hunger for British coin? What price would such information bring from a man like Captain Lionel Redmayne?
She couldn't see Ciaran's face, but she felt the sudden tensing, the awareness in him.
"I won't have anyone taking risks for me," he asserted stubbornly. "I should get down off this hell-born beast, and—"
"Oh, no! I'm not about to let you go wandering off into God knows what trouble. There's probably some cosmic punishment for misplacing a legend. And I don't intend to find out what it is!"
She sucked in a steadying breath, trying to reason with him. "If I thought you'd be caught, do you think I'd be fool enough to bring you to Misthaven? I've already figured out a perfect place—a safe place—to keep you. A priest hole. It's a secret room where an outlawed priest could hide to tend his parish."
Ciaran grasped her arm, hope surging into his voice. "I know what that is! Perhaps I'm a priest! The priest hunters caught up to me, and—"
Fallon couldn't stifle a bark of laughter. "You're no priest." Imagining this man taking a vow of celibacy was absurd. There was something vital in him, primitive, pagan—something that called to the untamed reaches of any woman's body and soul. Her laughter died, crushed by a tingling in her most secret places.
Instinctively she tightened her knees. The horse broke into a walk.
Ciaran clenched his jaw in irritation as she guided the horse along a narrow path through a wooded area. "Why the devil couldn't I be a priest?"
"Priests don't run about with ancient daggers clutched in their hands. Besides, we haven't had to hide priests for quite some time."
"But—"
His protest was lost as the horse skirted a copse of blooming hawthorn. The hell-born beast skittered, reared. Ciaran glimpsed a shadowy form huddled among the tangled tree roots.
Ciaran's heart jolted against his ribs as a cry rang out and the figure leaped up, taking on human form. In a panic, it darted in front of Cuchulain, its tattered clothing rippling in the wind, terrifying the horse. Instinctively, Ciaran grabbed at the reins in Fallon's hand to try to stop the horse, but he only made matters worse. The animal shied in an attempt to evade the apparition, but failed. His massive chest cracked into the figure hard, sending it sprawling.
In a heartbeat, Ciaran slid to the ground, the horse's, flashing hooves nearly catching him in the ribs. He knelt beside the shadowy form as Fallon scrambled over as well.
It was an old woman, white hair a mass of snarls in the wind, her body thin as winter-burned twigs. Hollow-eyed, she scrabbled against a tree trunk, shivering.
"Beggin' yer pardon, me lord," the crone pleaded. "I didn't mean to frighten yer horse, I didn't."
She looked afraid, as if he might strike her. The realization sickened Ciaran. "I won't hurt you. Don't be afraid."
"The blasted horse all but ran her over," Ciaran snapped, unable to quell the panic in his chest. "Of course she's hurt! Lie still," he ordered gruffly. "I'm going to check for broken bones." He gathered the old woman up in his arms, steadying her, running his hands down fragile limbs. This was familiar, this pounding anxiety, this knowing what was injured and what was not.
Eyes bright as ripe blackberries stared at him as if he had just risen out of the mist. "Just a wee bit shaken. 'Twas me own fault, not payin' attention. Me mind was jest flitterin' on other things."
"What is your name?" Fallon smoothed a lock of white hair back from a face wrinkled and sweet as a dried apple.
"I be Maeve McGinty."
"What the devil are you doing out alone, so late at night?" Ciaran said. Why did he feel this awful, crushing sense that he was responsible somehow for her fall? "Can't you see there's a storm brewing?"
"That's what Bridie would say. But take more than a few thunderheads to keep me at me own hearth tonight. Me girl, she's givin' birth to her first babe, and I wanted to be there to hold her hand."
"Your daughter sent for you on a night like this?" Ciaran growled. "What was she thinking of, expecting you to walk—"
"Nay. She's not so careless with her mama, is Bridie. Not a word did she send. She didn't need to. The girl beat her way to life beneath me heart. I jest know 'tis her time here." Maeve pressed a gnarled fist to her breast.
"You're not from Misthaven lands, are you?" Fallon asked.
"Mary, Joseph an' Jaysus, no, miss. If I was, you can be sure I'd not be trekkin' along dressed like this." Maeve brushed one birdlike hand along her tattered garments. "'Tis jest that grateful I am that me girl's come to marry one o' Mr. Hugh's tenants. She'll not ever be wanderin' in rags not fit to keep out the tiniest breeze."
Ciaran looked up at her. "We'll see you to your daughter's."
"No!" Fallon cry startled him. "We can't."
"Sir, ye're most kind, but I can hardly be expectin' a lady o' quality to be carryin' Maeve McGinty atop her pretty saddle."
"It's not that at all," Fallon stammered, dismay shadowing her features. "I would be happy to help if I were riding any other horse in the stables. But Cuchulain would never endure it." She turned to glare at Ciaran. "It's a miracle he'd carry you riding double. But it was worth the risk. We both know how hard your head is. But if he threw Mrs. McGinty she'd shatter into so many pieces even the great and powerful Son of the Mist couldn't put her back together."
Ciaran glowered at Fallon, wanting to shake her. "Damn it, that's not amusing."
"Me feet'll get me there right enough," the old woman insisted. "I was just catchin' me breath when ye came upon me. The wind—it has a bite in it tonight." A shiver worked through her.
"Little wonder you're cold with what you're wearing," Fallon said. Ciaran helped Mrs. McGinty up, brushing leaves from her threadbare plaid shawl. His face crumpled into a scowl. "I'm not about to just let you walk away, shivering."
"I have a few coins I could offer—" Fallon began, but Ciaran cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand.
"They'd hardly keep her warm now." At that instant, the wind tugged at the velvet cloak around his shoulders. He hesitated, recalling he had nothing on beneath the blue cloth. He stood there, torn. What kind of a fool would give away the only garment he had? A borrowed garment at that. But then, he had taken a blow to the head. His fingers went to the fastenings of the cloak. "Here," he said gruffly. "Take this."
"Oh, no, sir." Maeve thrust her hands behind her back, like a child tempted to filch sweetmeats. "I couldn't."
"But Ciaran," Fallon protested, "you're... you're n—"
Naked? The woman didn't need to remind him. He'd be freezing off his hind parts.
"It doesn't matter," he growled, his hands clumsy, his cheeks burning at the prospect of baring himself yet again. "I can't let an old woman go wandering off, cold, when I have this infernal cloak."
His jaw hardened as he slipped the blue velvet free.
Old Mrs. McGinty's eyes went wide as tea plates. "Lad, forgive an old woman fer mentionin' it, but yer clothes seem to have gone missing."
Heat surged into Ciaran's cheeks. "I, uh—" Lies obviously came hard to him. Fallon was far more adept at spinning wild tales.
"He had a bit of an accident," Fallon filled in hastily. "He was bathing in one of the streams—"
He supposed he should be grateful. He might have been if Maeve hadn't piped up.
"Bathin' on a night like this? Are ye tryin' to catch lung fever, lad?"
"I happen to like a brisk swim," Ciaran insisted with as much dignity as he could muster.
"He left his clothes on the bank and some animal stole them," Fallon finished. "I found him wandering around without a stitch on, pure begging for help." Damn, she was making him sound three kinds of a fool.
"Did ye, now?" Mrs. McGinty's eyes narrowed, a merry smile dancing across her lips. "With a lad so handsome as this, I'd wager me mam's holy medal 'twas no animal stole his clothes. No, more likely it was a maid such as yerself, eager to catch a glimpse of such a fine specimen of man."
"I-I didn't! I wouldn't! I mean, I've seen quite enough of him already." Fallon tossed those sunset curls as if he were far beneath her notice, but even her thick locks couldn't hide the fact that she was flustered for once.
Ciaran felt a surge of unholy pleasure at her discomfiture. It was about time she took a turn feeling like a prize idiot.
"I'd be lookin' to the lass, here, ye want to find the culprit," Mrs. McGinty repeated. "But whoever robbed ye, I can't send ye off wearin' nothin' but yer smile, lad, no matter how bewitchin' it might be."
Gnarled old fingers unfastened the threadbare shawl. "This'll keep ye a trifle modest. Though ye've no call for shame, if ye ask Maeve McGinty. And me, havin' raised seven boys up to be men." She barely reached the middle of his chest, but she wrapped the shawl around his hips, as deftly as if he were one of her sons.
"I can't take this," Ciaran started to pull the shawl aside, but Maeve's chuckle stopped him.
"Ah, so ye're enjoyin' the effect ye have on the lady, then. Maybe I wronged the girl. Did ye hide yer own clothes a-purpose?"
"No! I—"
Maeve gave the knotted shawl one last tug then patted Ciaran's cheek. "There, now, don't mind me teasin' ye, the two of ye. 'Tis all we old folks can do when ye put us in mind o' our own young love."
"We're not lovers!" Fallon's outraged cry nettled Ciaran, urging him to indulge in torment of his own.
After all, Mary Fallon Delaney had had the upper hand ever since he'd stumbled into this nightmare. Turnabout was fair play.
"Come, now, Fallon, no need to squawk just because Mrs. McGinty has guessed the truth." And yet, he didn't enjoy the jest nearly as much as he should have. The words had barely left his mouth when a sadness ghosted through him, an aloneness too great to bear. A longing never fulfilled. It surprised him, left him raw.
"I'll leave the two of ye to settle yer spat in private. That's always the best way," Maeve said. "But afore I go, lad, I want to say ye're passing kind."
Why did the old woman's words chafe at him so? "No," Ciaran insisted. "I'm completely selfish. I prefer not to spend the next three weeks wondering if you've frozen to death somewhere along this path."
The Irishwoman's work-worn hands grasped the edges of cloth so lush its worth would feed her family for a year, and she gazed up at him as if he were this hero Ciaran of the Mist Fallon kept insisting he was, and he'd just appeared in all his legendary splendor.
"May the dust of yer carriage wheels blind the eyes of yer foes," she blessed him. "May ye get the reward in heaven that's been denied ye for yer goodness on this earth. And may the sons of yer sons smile up in yer face." Her eyes twinkled as she gave him a winsome smile. "And once they do, make certain ye take 'em home to see yer own mam."
His own mother. Pain, wist
fulness, it stirred unexpectedly in Ciaran's chest. Was there a woman like this, a mother somewhere, waiting for him, worrying?
He strained, groping into the mist of his mind, but only the most fleeting of sensations, impressions, danced just beyond his reach: tears unshed in beautiful eyes, a smile of farewell so brave it broke his heart, a hand letting go of him, when he sensed it wanted to cling tightly, to draw him back. To what? To the boyhood he'd left behind?
Fallon's voice drove back the images, but not the ache of loneliness, of loss. "Mrs. McGinty, let me send one of the grooms back for you. They can take you to your daughter's in a cart."
"Go on with ye now, and don't be worryin' yer pretty head," Mrs. McGinty said. "I'm so heartened by yer kindness that I'll be trippin' up to Bridie's doorstep before I can say three Hail Marys."
With that, Mrs. McGinty set out again, looking amazingly spry, as if the exchange had worked some sort of enchantment upon her. Ciaran stood, watching the old woman, shaken by the odd sensation stirred up inside him. As if his gaze could clear the path, make it safe for her. As if he should. Should what? Send the storm clouds fleeing? Smooth the path with one sweep of his hand? Fallon's fantastic stories were addling his wits.
"Ciaran," Fallon touched his arm, the awe in her voice raking against his frayed nerves. "Do you realize what you've just done?"
"Raised my odds of catching some sort of fever? I don't know what madness possessed me."
"I do!" Her lips parted, ripe with idealism and innocence. "Giving the cloak away is what you were born to do!"
"I can die a happy man," Ciaran groused. "My life's work is complete."
"Don't make a jest of it. Don't you see? This proves you're Ciaran of the Mist. You're one of the Red Branch knights!"
Alarm stirred in his gut. He was unsettled enough. The last thing he needed was another heaping spoonful of Fallon's fairy-tale dreams. He ground one hand against his brow. "You promised you wouldn't harp on that nonsense anymore!"
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 6