Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  Damn, what had he been thinking, letting her bathe him that way? By morning he'd be gone. This was his only chance to be touched by Mary Fallon.

  "Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?"

  "No." Ciaran ground out.

  She'd done everything far too right, and given him the sweetest pain he could imagine. More guilt to carry with him when he left—and yet, he couldn't regret it had happened.

  Damn, he needed to get dressed, to put sturdy, practical cloth between him and this fairy maiden before—before what? Before he kissed her? Tumbled her as if she had no more virtue than the likes of Vanessa Fyfe?

  Drying himself with another towel, he spoke. "You said you'd brought me something to wear?"

  "My father's clothes. I put them in the armoire." She crossed to the piece of furniture and opened its doors. Feminine things spilled out, holding the scent of last summer's wildflowers, as if the cloth itself had been steeped in the meadows she loved.

  Mary Fallon of the Mist—a woman with legends in her blood and magic stroked into every curve of her face. The name "of the Mist" suited her far better than it suited him.

  After a moment, she returned to him, facing him with eyelashes half-lowered and lips far riper than they had been before she'd put her hands on him in the tub.

  She'd been affected by it, too. The knowledge rocketed through him. How could she not have been—a woman with Fallon's thirst for life, her passion, her quicksilver emotions?

  He took the bundle of clothes, dragging on the shirt as if it were made of a chain mail that could banish the feel of her skin against his.

  "While I was downstairs, I stopped in the library. There were some medical books there."

  "Medical books?" Ciaran dragged on a pair of breeches. "Don't tell me. You're studying to be a doctor to wayward fairies?"

  "No. My father had them sent here when my mother first got sick. I think he hoped he could do something to cure her. When he found out he couldn't, he left Misthaven, left all of us and never came back."

  "He never attempted to contact you?"

  "I was eleven when we got word he had died."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. It should have been more painful than it was. But it was as if we'd already buried him the day we put Mama in her grave." She flushed, looked away. "Anyway, I looked up head wounds in the book, to find out how to treat them, and it says it's important that the patient not be allowed to fall asleep for long periods. Otherwise, you might slip into a stupor."

  Her resourcefulness amazed him, as did the quick intelligence that shone in her eyes. Was there anything the woman hadn't thought of?

  Yes, Ciaran thought grimly. She hadn't considered that the "hero" she'd rescued might be a lecherous cad.

  Fallon fidgeted with the rose ribbon tied at the throat of her nightgown, and Ciaran had to tear his gaze away from the silky hollow of her throat.

  "Reading about that reminded me of the time I fell out of a tree and landed on my head."

  "Ah, so that's what happened to you," he grumbled. "No wonder you woke up seeing fairies around every corner."

  "Nurse slept beside me all night, awakening me every so often to make certain I was still all right. Not that anyone could have slept, what with the way she snored." Fallon was blushing, suddenly nervous, yet determination was stroked into the line of her creamy jaw.

  "You need someone to awaken you tonight. I thought that if you and I slept... well, in my bed, that I'd be able to watch over you."

  Had the woman lost her mind? "Absolutely not!" Ciaran snapped, imagining all too clearly what a night beside Fallon would be like. Heaven. Hell. Her warm, sleepy body close enough to touch. Dream shadows flickering across her beautiful features. Dreams he could never have.

  "You're fully dressed, Ciaran. It's not as if there's any danger of anything happening. You're the most noble knight of the Red Branch Ireland has ever known."

  Ciaran winced. If she only knew the truth. No. That was the one thing Fallon must never learn. "I'll be fine in the priest hole. Just get under the coverlets, Fallon. You look tired to death."

  "I am tired. That's why I thought it would be better if you were close by, so I didn't have to trek to the priest hole and back so many times."

  "You don't have to take care of me any more. I'm fine."

  "No, you're not." She looked so sad and wise. "And neither am I. Is it so terrible not to want to be alone for just a little while?"

  What had it cost her to let him glimpse the sorrow inside her, the loneliness? This woman who was so brave, so proud, so giving?

  He should stay as far away from her dreamer's eyes and her innocent body as possible. And yet, she suddenly looked so small, so fragile, reminding him of everything he'd lost somewhere on those jagged cliffs, of what he would lose the instant he went to Vanessa Fyfe's. Borrowed honor Fallon had given him, a second chance at the innocence he must have squandered long ago.

  It would be for only a few hours, until he slipped away. Would it be so terrible to lie down with her for a little while?

  "I'll lie with you."

  She slipped between the coverlets and reached to blow out the candle.

  "No," Ciaran said hastily. "Leave it." So I can use it to slip out of here the instant you're asleep. Guilt stung him. What would she think when she awoke to find him gone? How would she feel? Hurt? Betrayed? Abandoned?

  He hadn't even asked why she'd summoned Ciaran of the Mist. That in itself should be proof enough that he was no hero. For an instant, the question hovered on his lips, but he silenced it. No. What could he do to help her anyway? He couldn't even help himself. And knowing what troubled her could only make it harder to leave.

  He lay down beside her, making certain a hand's width divided them, determined not to so much as brush her with the tip of a finger.

  "Fallon, I... I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me. It's a rare woman who would take in an injured stranger, especially one as surly as I've been."

  "It's the least I could do. I mean, I'm responsible for bringing you here. You belong to me in a way."

  Belong. Why did that word unleash such a hunger in him? Had he ever belonged anywhere? To anyone? The only thing he was certain of was that he could never belong to the woman gazing up at him with the light of angels in her eyes.

  "You deserve a Ciaran of the Mist. I wish I—" he stopped. Damn, there was so much he'd never be able to tell her, and yet he couldn't walk away without knowing she was safe. "You must have summoned this Ciaran for some purpose. You're not in danger, are you? In trouble?"

  "No. You could never be called for such a paltry reason. But of course, when you get your memory back, you'll remember that. Your magic is meant for a greater use than just one person's problems."

  Relief swept through Ciaran. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't some personal threat to her. She was safe enough, wasn't she?

  Fallon smiled, and Ciaran felt it like a lance to the heart. "When Mama gave me the brooch, she made me promise not to summon you to, shall we say, help slip toads into tea cakes. Calling you back isn't without its dangers. If my cause is not deemed worthy, I will have broken my trust, wasted a chance that won't come again for three hundred years. But worst of all, the fairies will be angry, and exact their revenge."

  Fairies again. And the woman simply glowed with earnestness. Damn if she couldn't almost make him believe... No. He didn't believe in anything so incredible. And yet, there was no question that Mary Fallon Delaney believed everything she'd told him. The fairies and curses and enchanted cherries were as real to her as the pert, freckle-spangled nose on her earnest face.

  He couldn't stop himself from probing deeper. "If it's so dangerous, and if you aren't in danger, then why—"

  "Why did I call you back? We've fought countless revolutions in Ireland. We've been trying to keep up our courage, our hope. And somehow, no matter what the English did to subdue us, we've managed to do so. But if Redmayne has his way, I'm not
certain we will still be able to. Redmayne has devised the most fiendish scheme of all, one that just might destroy the very soul, the will to fight, that we've clung to no matter what the English tried to do to crush us."

  "I don't understand. What plan?"

  "To destroy anything that might remind the Irish of their past strength. You want to know why I summoned you?" She sucked in a steadying breath. "To save your castle. Redmayne threatened to shove it off the cliff."

  "You mean that heap of rubble where you first found me?" He grimaced. "My castle is past saving. Even with my head broken open, I could see that. It looks ready to crumble into the sea of its own accord. What difference can one more tumbledown wreck of a ruin make?"

  She looked aghast. "But surely you must know what that castle means to people hereabouts. That's why you returned to build it—so they would never forget who they are, where they come from, that the blood of heroes flows in their veins."

  "Fantasies. Dreams."

  "When that's all people have left, it means everything to them. Those dreams and the Castle of the Dancing Mist is all they have, all I've had for so very long. Hugh thinks it's a great favor just to preserve their livelihoods. They need so much more. I've always felt as if... as if it was my duty to preserve something, too. As if I were the keeper of their dreams."

  Ciaran thought for a long moment then frowned. "Have you ever considered that it might be cruel to these people you love so much, making them cling to everything they've lost, a greatness they can never have again?" If he could have snatched the words back, he would have. Distress rippled across her face.

  "You're wrong about that, Ciaran," she said fiercely, but after a moment, the storm in her eyes calmed, understanding and empathy taking the place of dismay. "Don't worry," she soothed. "It will be all right. When you remember, everything will make sense to you." She gave him a brave little smile. "Ireland would not be Ireland without magic. Just think how empty a place it would be without you."

  Without him? Ciaran thought bitterly. It would probably be a damned sight better off. And yet, how precious would it be to have the power to believe as Fallon did? As these people she loved did? Tales stored up like riches, a treasure of the heart. Was it possible that such things could be more valuable to Fallon's simple Irish folk than full bellies and warm cloaks?

  God, how he wished he understood. But he didn't belong here, with Fallon, or with the folk who dreamed in the castle by the sea. He didn't belong anywhere at all.

  Despair rose inside him in a sobering tide, leaving him aching, more alone than ever.

  Fallon turned her face up to his, candlelight gleaming in her eyes—eyes that echoed the yearning in Ciaran's own soul.

  He gathered her in his arms, her head resting on his chest. He stroked her hair ever so softly, holding her as he sensed no one had held Mary Fallon Delaney in a very long time.

  She was asleep far too soon.

  Surprisingly reluctant, Ciaran disentangled himself from the sleeping lady and eased himself off the bed. He should have just grabbed up the candle and strode from the room. He should have escaped as quickly and quietly as possible.

  Instead, Ciaran surprised himself by leaning over Fallon's sleeping form and drifting a soft kiss soft across lips that tasted like every dream he'd forgotten.

  "Goodbye, Mary Fallon," he whispered. "Someday I hope you find your hero." Aching, he straightened silently and slipped from the room, leaving the legend behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Fallon jolted awake. Ciaran was gone. Only the hollow in the pillow beside her and the ragged heap of Maeve McGinty's shawl assured her that last night hadn't been a dream.

  The living satin of his bare chest beneath her cheek, the throb of his heartbeat and the soothing sweep of his fingers against her hair had been real.

  He'd been so warm with his arms circled around her, his breath stirring the wisps of her hair. She'd needed to feel his arms around her. And somehow, she'd sensed, he needed her as well.

  She should have scrambled to her feet, searched for him, hoping against hope he'd gone back to the priest hole, but she didn't bother to do so. There was no point. She knew he was gone in a way that supplanted sight.

  Now, with morning light streaming through the window and the room empty except for the echoes of his voice, his touch, his pain, Fallon felt as though some irreplaceable part of her had been torn away.

  Had she made some sort of mistake? Broken some sort of fairy rule? Had Ciaran only been hers for that one brief night—and she'd wasted it, lying in his arms? No. He'd managed to build the castle on one of his previous visits. Surely that had taken months—years.

  Had the quest she'd offered him been judged unworthy? Her heart sank as she recalled his confusion, his disbelief when she'd tried to explain how important the ruined castle was to the people of Glenceo.

  She climbed out of bed, painfully aware that the faint scent of wind and sea, fresh soap and a masculine essence all Ciaran's own clung to the folds of her nightgown. She stumbled to where the heathery shawl lay and scooped it into her arms, pressing it against her breasts. Tears stung her eyelids. "You promised you'd stay, you'd help me, Ciaran. The legend—"

  "Miss Fallon?"

  Fallon all but leaped out of her skin as the bedchamber door swung open and Sorcha appeared with a tray of steaming chocolate in her hands.

  The door was unlocked! Last night she'd secured it from the inside. That could only mean Ciaran had left that way. Relief and irritation warred inside her at the knowledge that no magic had swept him away. Damn the man. He'd gone of his own free will. But why? And where had he gone to?

  She rushed to the window and peered out, hoping... for what? To find that he'd left her a trail of polished stones to follow? There was no trace of him—only Hugh's precious green fields flowing on forever.

  "Miss Fallon, is there something amiss?"

  Fallon stiffened. There was something strange in Sorcha's voice—astonishment, a kind of questioning, and unabashed admiration.

  "Yes! I mean, no. I-I just misplaced something." Fallon whirled to face her. The maid's keen gaze fastened on the shawl until it burned like fire in Fallon's hands. She fought the urge to stuff it behind her back like a guilty child.

  Instead, she went to the bed and laid it on the tumbled coverlet. Tactical error number two. Could the maid tell Fallon hadn't slept alone? Two distinct outlines were etched in the feather bed—or was that just her own vivid imagination? Would she see Ciaran there from now on, his dark hair tousled on her pillow, his sun-bronzed body forever imprinted within her bed?

  "I, uh, had a rather restless night," Fallon faltered, smoothing up the coverlets, as if by doing so she could obliterate her own imaginings, and any Sorcha might have entertained as well.

  But she wished she'd gathered up the whole feather tick, coverlets and all, and stuffed them in the fire when she heard Sorcha's quiet inquiry.

  "Miss, there's blood on the edge of the sheet. Did you hurt yourself?"

  "No, I just... It's my time—" Blast, hopeless. Her flux had come just over a week ago, and there was no hiding such rhythms of the body from one's personal maid.

  Disbelief registered in Sorcha's shrewd eyes, but the servant would never dare to question her, whatever she might think. Anyway, Fallon didn't have time to worry about what this particular maid thought of her. She had to get dressed, set out in search.

  "I don't care for any chocolate this morning. Just help me dress. And hurry. I-I've misplaced something, and I need to find it as quickly as possible."

  Chocolate was abandoned, a froth of petticoats and shift appearing as if by magic in Sorcha's hands. "Would you like me to help you search? If you can tell me what you've lost—"

  Six feet four inches of legendary hero who spent the night in my bed—

  "No. Thank you. He—" She winced at her slip. "It's a personal matter." Her cheeks flamed, and she dove under the folds of muslin, grateful for a few seconds to compose her nerve
s.

  "I understand," Sorcha said, so noncommittally that Fallon was suddenly very afraid that she did. Nimble fingers garbed Fallon in a lilac pink walking dress then fastened the buttons up her rigid back.

  As she jammed feet into stockings and half boots, she glimpsed Sorcha's piquant face and saw something new and unexpected in the maid's eyes. Was it admiration?

  She barely bothered to brush her hair, just bundled it under a bonnet and then hurried to the door.

  "Miss Fallon?"

  She wanted to curse at the maid but didn't dare stir up her suspicions any more. She paused, turned, winced at the knowing evident in Sorcha's eyes.

  "If I were going to search for what you're missing, I would go in the direction of the village."

  "You mean you... you saw—"

  Sorcha lowered her gaze and nodded.

  Fallon had always heard the other servants muttering that Sorcha could smell a handsome man a mile away. She should have been appalled that a maid knew she'd had a man in her bedchamber the night before. She would be—later. For now, she could only be grateful she had somewhere to begin her search.

  "One good thing, miss," Sorcha said. "Something that fine on the eyes could hardly just disappear without anyone noticing him... er, it."

  That was true enough at least. Fallon turned and hastened out the door, racing toward the stables.

  Fallon leaned low over her horse's neck, disheartened as the village of Glenceo rose up before her. Not a sign of Ciaran had she seen as she'd ridden along the road. She'd hoped against hope she would find him before she reached the town, aware that there would be countless places he could disappear in the maze of thatched cottages and stone buildings, places she might not be able to find him.

  And to search for him there would unleash a nightmare of questioning faces, puzzled frowns and whispered rumors. The thought of questioning the townsfolk made her stomach clench.

  Did you by any chance see a man breathtaking as a sea cliff in a storm? He left my bed last night, and I haven't been able to find him.