"Fired a shot, but he was too fast for the barrister. They grappled, and then the lover leaped out of a second-story window."
"Saints afire! Who was it? Did he break his neck?"
"Nobody knows who it was for certain. Some stranger. But the fall didn't kill him nor the bullet either. Left a smear o' blood on the pavement. But by the time the barrister got t' the street, he was gone. Fyfe tore about the town, searching everywhere for 'im, but there was no sign o' Vanessa's lover anywhere."
"Probably just melted into the crowd. It would be easy enough to disappear, I guess."
A sly laugh trilled out. "Somehow, I doubt that, lass. See, when the gentleman leapt from the window he forgot something—his clothes. Vanessa's lover was naked as a newborn babe."
Ciaran's breath froze, every muscle in his body tight with denial.
"Go on! Ye're lyin'!" Emer gasped.
"I swear by the veil o' the Blessed Virgin 'tis the God's truth. Those who saw the whole happening did say he was a fine specimen, handsome as sin, with the broadest shoulders they'd ever seen and a shock o' black hair."
Throat thick with revulsion, Ciaran's numb fingers touched the shaggy ends of his own dark mane. No.
"But his face—what did he look like?"
"Ye know how particular Vanessa Fyfe is about her gents. Probably handsome as the devil an' twice as wicked. But as for what 'e looked like, well... th' only good description they could offer was o' the man's bum. A fine one it was, too. An' don't ye be gaspin' in shock, Emer Murphy. Tell me true, if ye'd been there on that street an' a bare-naked man had gone runnin' past, where would ye have been lookin'?"
Laughter swelled up again amidst a clank of metal. Ciaran felt ill. Was it possible that he was the man in the maid's sordid tale? He closed his eyes, envisioning the scene she'd described far too clearly—the vulgarity of it, the lewdness.
Bedding another man's wife, being caught by the husband, then not even having enough honor to face the man he'd wronged. Instead, leaping from a window and fleeing like the basest coward, naked, through the streets.
The mere thought he might have been involved in such a disaster made his skin crawl. Was it possible that he was the mysterious lover this barrister Fyfe had chased? He wanted to thrust the thought away, deny it, and yet, it was a far more likely explanation than Fallon's story that he was some nine-hundred-year-old hero come back from some mystical land.
If he'd been shot at and grappled with a cuckolded husband, then leaped from a window, wouldn't that explain how he'd injured his head? And if he'd been fleeing this Fyfe blindly, with no notion where he was going, wasn't it possible that he might have strayed up to that abandoned castle?
How he'd come to have the Celtic dagger he couldn't guess. Might it have been a letter opener or some such he'd grabbed up from a nearby table when he should have been grabbing his breeches?
He grimaced. He should have been relieved that his plight was making a trifle more sense, that this might be the rational explanation he'd been searching for. Instead, he felt soiled somehow. He wanted nothing more than to shun the thought and blot it from his mind.
In the hours since he'd found himself wandering the jagged cliffs, he'd been willing to sell his soul to find his own identity. It had never occurred to him that he might not like the man he found when he regained his memory.
He winced inwardly, feeling as if he'd failed Fallon already. It was so easy to recall the light in Mary Fallon Delaney's eyes when she'd looked at him, her Ciaran of the Mist, a legend come to life.
What would happen to the unshakeable faith in her animated features if she discovered the truth? If he was the man who had bedded Fyfe's wife, a wastrel whose attributes were loose morals, lust and cowardice, wouldn't it be best to leave Misthaven House as soon as possible and disappear before he could hurt her even more? Before he could endanger her brother and all who lived here?
He couldn't stop himself from flattening his palms on the sliding door, wishing he could just shove it aside, stalk past the astonished servants and leave before he ever had to look her in the eye again. But the fates weren't disposed to be that merciful.
"Miss Fallon," Sorcha piped up, suddenly a study in innocence, "is there anything in that bundle I can be helpin' ye with? Some mendin', or—"
"No." There was a hasty click of some sort of door, as if she were shoving whatever she held out of sight. "You needn't trouble yourselves."
He could hear the puzzled undertones in the servant's voice. "Your bath is ready. Let me just help with your gown, and we'll have ye plunged in there in a trice."
"No. I mean, no thank you. I don't need any help with my bath tonight. You can go now."
"But-but your gown—ye can't get it off without help."
"How stupid of me. You're right." Fallon hesitated, and Ciaran knew she was thinking of him, hidden away in the priest hole.
"Miss Fallon, are ye feelin' well? Ye look exhausted entirely."
He could sense Fallon gathering up her frazzled nerves, determined not to alert the servants that there was anything amiss. "I'm only tired. If you'll just help me slip into my dressing gown, I'll have a bite to eat first, then take my bath."
He heard a rustle of cloth, was able to imagine the maids making quick work of the fastenings of Fallon's gown, slipping the fabric off her shoulders, but no matter how he searched, there was no clear image to go with those actions, as if he'd never—what? Undressed a lady? If what the maids claimed was true, he'd doubtless disrobed more than his share.
"If you eat first, the water'll be cool by the time you're ready for it. I could bring some more hot.”
"I just wish to be left alone tonight," Fallon snapped. From the stunned silence on the servant's part, Ciaran knew it was uncommon for her to do so.
"Yes, miss. Forgive me for intrudin', miss."
"I'm sorry, Emer, Sorcha. But I..."
But I what? Ciaran waited with grim irony for her explanation. I have a nine-hundred-year-old hero locked up in the priest hole, and he's proving to be dashed recalcitrant.
There was a shuffle of feet, the soft closing of the door. Then, after a moment, he heard the metallic click of a lock being thrown home.
Footsteps marched quickly to where he was hidden then the panel slid wide.
He hadn't wanted to face her anyway, since he'd come to suspect the ugliness he'd been involved in. But it was even harder as he stared at her now.
The travel-stained gown had been swept away. A dressing gown of sea-foam green draped her slender body. His breath caught, a crushing yearning taking him completely by surprise. From the instant she'd barreled into his life, Ciaran had tried to shove her away, wanting nothing to do with her. It had been far easier to imagine she was touched in the head somehow, a wild, fey thing he needed to escape from.
But now that he was certain he needed to leave as soon as possible, she stood before him, as fresh and new and beautiful as the first blush of spring—vulnerable despite the stubborn jut to her chin, strong in spite of the fairy tales that dwelled in her eyes. He didn't want to hurt her. He knew that he would.
"It's safe to come out now," she said.
But Ciaran realized with a dull pain that it wasn't safe for him to be anywhere near her.
"There's a tray from the kitchen, a bath ready. Fetching as you look in Mrs. McGinty's shawl, I thought you'd need some other clothes, so I rummaged in the attic and found some of my father's. They won't be perfect, but they're far more likely to fit than Hugh's."
"Thank you." He stepped out into the chamber again, saw the hip bath steaming before the fire.
"I'll just... just step in here to give you some privacy," she said, collecting a book and starting toward the priest hole. Yet Ciaran sensed reluctance in her, as if there were ghosts inside the tiny nook she was too tired to confront. Hadn't she already endured enough discomfort because of him?
"It's cold in there, with enough dust to choke a dray horse."
"I don't mind."
"Don
't be stubborn, Fallon. After all, it's a little late to worry about preserving modesty between us. Crawl under your coverlets where you can be warm, and doze."
Filled with longing and discomfort she cast a glance at her bed. It must be damned odd for her, having a man traipsing about.
He forced his lips into a teasing smile. "I'll trust your word of honor you won't take any unseemly peeks at me."
She sighed, surrendered. "All right. I'll just wash up at the basin."
"I wish you'd take the bath."
"You're covered in blood and smell like a wet dog. You'll be doing me a courtesy to take a dip in the tub. Call it a gesture of chivalry."
She set down the book then started across the room to where a white china pitcher and bowl, edged in tiny meadow flowers, stood on a marble-topped stand.
Once her back was to him, Ciaran unknotted the shawl and let it drop to the floor, then lowered himself into the tub. Steaming water lapped against his aching muscles as he folded his long body so that as much as possible was submerged. A washcloth and soap lay near at hand. He should lather the cloth and begin washing away the grime coating his skin.
But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he doubted he would ever be able to wash away the things that were truly chafing him: the stain of the man he likely was, the ugliness he would probably find along with his identity, the feeling that he'd failed this woman, with her generous heart and that fierce believing he envied.
He was tired, sick at heart, dread sinking in his stomach like a stone. And he felt far more naked beneath Fallon Delaney's gaze than any stripping away of clothes could have made him.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub. Restless as his thoughts were, he shouldn't have been able to sleep. But he must have dozed off.
The next thing he knew there was something warm and sweet-smelling and damp gliding over his face: woman's hands plying a washcloth. Why was it that a touch—the touch of another human—was so precious it made his chest ache? He came fully awake with a start, staring into the vulnerable oval of Fallon's face.
"Wh-what the blazes are you doing?"
"Helping you wash."
He grabbed at the washcloth, his cheeks burning, but not from embarrassment, rather from chagrin that her touch had felt so soothing, so right. And that he knew he had no right to accept it. "I can do it myself."
"You're bruised all over. It must hurt to move. Besides, you can't even see where your head is gashed. You might break it open again. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but I hate obstinate men."
She surprised a smile out of Ciaran. "I thought that was exactly the kind of man you admired—bullheaded stubborn hero types who would endure any amount of pain for their lady fair."
"I'm not your lady, and bullheadedness isn't heroic. It's annoying." Was that a smile playing about her lips? "I've already seen you wearing nothing but mist. And my brother always insists that I have a rare gift for refusing to see things that are right before my nose if I don't want to. I definitely don't want to see you."
With a groan, he surrendered the cloth again. "All right, you can help around the gash, but that's all." It seemed such a simple thing, a sensible thing for her to do, and surely the pain would distract him from any stirrings of response. It wasn't as if he was attracted to Fallon. She wasn't the type of woman he favored. He grimaced. Of course, he hadn't the slightest idea what type of woman he did find appealing.
She knelt beside the tub, angled so her hands could reach his face easily. Candlelight played across her features—cheekbones astonishingly elegant, a slightly upturned nose sprinkled with a faint dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles, fine black brows accenting eyes deep and luminous as rain-washed violets. She was so earnest as she cupped his jaw in one palm and dabbed at his face with the other hand.
Slow, careful strokes, warmed by the heated water. It felt too good, soothing the battered places on his face, reaching deeper still to bruised places, lonely places inside him.
He was almost glad when she grazed close enough to the gash to cause him pain. A breath hissed between his teeth, and he clenched his jaw, holding himself rigid as she gently probed at the wound.
"I'm sorry. I know this must hurt."
"Heroes feel no pain."
"You're mocking me. Don't. I'm afraid that this is my fault. I got impatient and threw a stone."
"You really did hit me in the head with a rock?" His eyes popped open, a surge of hope making him sit up, suddenly eager. If that was true, then maybe he wasn't the lascivious cad the maids had gossiped about. Maybe there was some other, far less repugnant explanation for the predicament he'd awakened in. A grim laugh echoed inside him. An explanation for a grown man running about the countryside stripped to his skin?
"I didn't hit you with the rock. Not exactly. When I placed the magic cloak pin on the hearth and tried to summon you, nothing happened at first. No one ever told me how long it would take you to answer the call. I was so disappointed, so frustrated, that I..." She swallowed hard and continued, "I picked up a stone and hurled it at the brooch. That's when it happened—the fire from the jewels, the moonlight shifting, and then you walking out of the mist, your head gashed and bleeding. It's my fault you were hurt."
There was such remorse in her features that Ciaran bit back an oath of bitter disappointment. Damn her for staring down at him, a plea for forgiveness in her eyes.
"You didn't cause this cut. None of this is your fault. It's my own accursed stupidity that landed me in this disaster. If I'd never—" He stopped.
"Do you remember something?" Exhaustion vanishing from her eyes, she plunked the washcloth into the tub, managing to splash a wave of soapy water across the front of her nightgown.
She looked so beautiful, so fragile despite her outward strength. There was no way he could tell her the ugly truth he'd unearthed from servant's gossip. Not even to drive away the guilt that racked her features. The possibility of seeing her hero worship crumble into disgust was more than he could endure.
"No. I don't remember anything. It's just that I'm certain you didn't cause this." He was stammering, tripping all over himself. It was true enough: he didn't remember what had happened at Vanessa Fyfe's bedchamber. But he didn't have to remember it for it to be glaringly true. And it was a truth Fallon must never discover.
Why the devil it was suddenly important to him to keep that light in her eyes was beyond his comprehension. Hadn't he been doing his damnedest to make her face reality from the first moment she'd spun out this impossible legend and pitched him in the middle of it?
She sighed, then dipped the cloth back into the water and freshened it with more soap. Leaning closer, she began on his chest, slick sweeps along his collarbone and down his ribs, sweeps that distracted him with the accidental brush of a fingertip, the side of her hand, against him, skin to skin.
Each slight contact made him edgy, made him want, made him wait for the next touch, the next brush of her breath across his skin, the next teasing whisper of her silky hair feathering against him.
He should stop this. Nothing that felt this good could be right. He would stop her, after just a moment more—a moment to store up the feeling of being touched.
"You will remember everything soon. I just know it." Was there a tightness in her voice? The tiniest tremor? "And once you do, everything will be fine."
"Fallon, I don't think—"
The tender flesh of her inner arm grazed his nipple, sensations jolting through him like a lance. Pleasure. Need. Hunger. It stole his breath away, along with his will to end this subtle torment.
"You must have been some kind of warrior. There are scars."
"There are a hundred less noble ways I could have gotten them." Like leaping out windows to avoid jealous husbands.
The cloth moved from the hair-roughened wedge on his chest, inexorably down the flat plane of his stomach. It was as if she were on a mission of discovery, learning the shape, the planes and hollows of his body at the sam
e time he was. She was quiet now, so very quiet, as if the intimacy of what they were doing had stolen her voice.
Hastily, a little clumsily, she moved to the corded sinews of his calves, his thighs, and as she came to his feet, delicately dabbing at each toe, he was damned sure the woman had refined the art of torture to new heights.
But it was when she began to dampen his hair, to work suds through the longish strands that Ciaran's meager hold on his self-control threatened to snap altogether.
No cloth, now, between her fingers and his scalp, her full lower lip caught between small white teeth, her dewy soft forehead puckered in concentration as she stroked and smoothed the lather into his scalp.
The sensation—strange and new and precious—took his breath away, an odd reaction for a man so depraved he had just leaped from a wanton lover's window. Yet with his memory gone, this might as well have been his first time beneath a woman's hands. And a part of him needed desperately to savor it before all the tawdry, cheap lewdness of the man he had been came spilling back to taint his memory.
The scent of her filled his head as she worked. She was so close now that the fullness of her breast was mere inches from his lips. He tried to shove the sight of it from his mind, but his appetite wouldn't be stilled. He trembled with the knowledge that he only had to lean forward to taste her through the damp material of her nightgown.
His shaft hardened beneath the meager veil of water. Bloody hell, what kind of lascivious monster was he, lusting after this innocent woman who had taken him in, an angry and battered stranger? This woman who trusted him?
His fingers shot out, manacling her wrist, shoving her away from him. "That's enough."
"But your hair—we need to rinse it."
With an oath, Ciaran ducked his head under the surface of the water. Pity was, the tub was too shallow to drown himself in. Soapy water stung his head wound, but he was damned certain that if he were flogged to within an inch of his life he wouldn't have suffered enough for taking advantage of Fallon this way.
He levered himself out of the water as if it had suddenly started to boil. Turning his back on her, he grabbed up one of the generous towels and wrapped it around his waist.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 9