Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  She sounded as shaken as if Redmayne had just fired a cannonball into her chest. And who the devil could blame her? Ciaran felt as if a whole battalion of artillery had just thundered across him.

  "How could we possibly thank you?" Fallon asked a little faintly.

  "By allowing me the pleasure of watching your faces as you take your vows." Perfectly chiseled lips spread into a lethal smile. "After all, it is not every day one has the chance to make a dream come true. Then, after the ceremony, I will ride with you to Misthaven House, to help smooth things over with your brother, Miss Delaney. With luck, we can all raise a toast to the newly wedded couple before the night is past."

  Ciaran could feel Fallon's panic. Her face was ice-pale. "Kind as your offer is, I don't think that would be a good idea. My marriage will come as quite a shock to Hugh. Better to face him in private."

  "I must insist on having my way, Miss Delaney. Trust that I know what is best. The presence of a stranger in such a crisis will serve as a calming influence upon your brother."

  Did Redmayne see the tiny spark in Fallon's eyes—heartbreak, hopelessness? It wrenched at Ciaran. "Again we are in your debt," she said. "I only hope someday we can repay you."

  "I shall be looking forward to my just reward, my dear. Now, forgive me. I have some pressing business to take care of before Crimmins and Dalton return. There is a washbasin in my adjoining chamber. You are welcome to tidy up a bit if you wish." Redmayne's uncannily piercing gaze skated over the tendrils of Fallon's hair, wild and windblown. "After all, this is your wedding day. A day you'll remember the rest of your lives. A bride should look her best. Allow me to lock the door to assure your privacy while you prepare yourselves."

  Ciaran gritted his teeth. No doubt the bastard allowed prisoners to prepare for hanging as well. Wouldn't want one's hair mussed when the noose was slipped over one's head.

  With a crisp bow, Redmayne exited the room. The instant the door clicked shut, Ciaran charged to the single window, hoping to find some avenue of escape. He couldn't marry this woman. No, fleeing this place would be better. Whatever had estranged Fallon from her brother, Ciaran had seen the love in Hugh Delaney's features. Her brother would help her somehow.

  But as he peered through the glass panes, his heart sank. Curse Redmayne to hell, the devil had thought of everything. If there had been one guard, even two or three below the window, Ciaran might have risked a fight. But just as in the village, a half dozen men lounged about, pretending to clean their weapons while they stole surreptitious glances at the window.

  Fury and helplessness raged through Ciaran. He rounded on Fallon. "There's no way out. Damnation, you've gotten us into one hell of a disaster with your accursed lies!"

  Color flooded her cheeks, her eyes over-bright. "If you hadn't run away from Misthaven like a brainless idiot, I wouldn't have had to lie! Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

  "I've been trying to do nothing but leave you ever since I met you, woman! But no. You think I'm some accursed hero—some stupid myth. A legend you were going to keep like a pet dog to perform tricks at your command. I'm not Ciaran of the Mist or the Sea or the Cow Dung! I'm just some poor sonofabitch who got cracked on the head. Damn it to hell, why couldn't you just let me leave?"

  Her eyes widened, a wounded light flickering in their depths. "If I hadn't found you, you wouldn't be in Redmayne's office, you'd be in a gaol cell, or Crimmins and Dalton would be trying to beat answers out of you!"

  "I would have preferred an honest lash to Redmayne's brand of torture! The man damn well knew what he was doing—stalking us, trapping us in your web of nonsense strand by strand. By God, you made it so easy for him."

  "So this is all my fault, is it? I'm sorry that things got so tangled, but I couldn't think of any other way to calm his suspicions."

  "Tangled? That's the understatement of the century. We're not talking about ruined hair ribbons here, madam. We're talking marriage. How the devil can I marry you? I barely know you—hell, I don't even know myself. What if I have a wife somewhere? Children?"

  She looked as if he'd slapped her. "Nowhere in the legend is there a wife mentioned. No children. Ciaran was always alone."

  He wanted to throttle her. "Damn it, I'm not—"

  "If you're not Ciaran and you have another wife"—she paused, swallowed hard—"then whatever happens between us in the next hour won't matter. The marriage won't be valid."

  "But you'd have me make the vows anyway? Sacred vows taken upon my honor? Knowing I will discard them?"

  "Why should it matter so much? To hear you talk, you don't even know if you have any honor. You're no one. Nothing. But perhaps you've discovered something you loathe in addition to Redmayne even more than my hero tales—the mere idea of marriage."

  He wished it were that simple, wished that it were true. But as he glared down into the soft oval of her feminine face, all peachy tints, ripe and sweet with the scent of new cream, he knew with sudden certainty that he had always been alone.

  As alone as her precious Ciaran of the Mist had ever been.

  Ciaran probed beneath the dark veil that was his past. Had he chosen to be solitary of his own free will? No. He could feel the tug within him, an ache more familiar than his own face.

  He'd wanted a bride. He'd wanted to hold a woman's hands tight in his, feel them tremble as she pledged her love to him, the souls of their unborn children dancing dreams in her eyes. He'd imagined taking her to his bed, stripping away her garments piece by piece, unraveling the mysteries of their bodies together.

  He could remember nights that seemed to stretch out forever—the sweat dampening his skin, the yearning in his body so fierce it all but drove him mad, the need to touch, to hold in his arms someone who belonged to him, only to him. He knew the stark despair, the feeling it was forever beyond his reach. He'd stared up at the stars, raging... at what? At whom? The fates or his own idiocy?

  And now this fresh-faced woman who had braved so much for a dream stood before him, willing to cast her future into his hands. Didn't she know she'd be giving him the power to destroy her?

  Anger drained away, leaving desolation. "Fallon, I can't let you do this thing. I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me. What if I'm some kind of monster? Someone more evil than Redmayne?"

  Her voice was small, broken, and yet, so very, very sure. "Don't you know, Ciaran? Honor shines, like the armor of the knights in the Arthur tales. It can't be hidden by darkness, or danger, or doubt. You are a hero."

  "The kind of hero who could get you killed if we're not careful. If I am proved to be this smuggler, this Silver Hand person, and you are my wife, what the devil would happen to you? If I am involved in some kind of skullduggery, you'd be in it up to your neck."

  Her gaze met his, valiant, innocent. "I'm not afraid."

  "You should be. No matter what happens with Redmayne, I would destroy you. I can't stay here, Fallon. I don't belong here. That's the only thing we both know for certain. A marriage between us wouldn't be any more real than your pretty myths and legends. I don't love you. You don't love me." The simple truth shouldn't have made him ache so much. "I will leave whenever this is over. If you were my wife, pledged to me, bound to me, you'd be alone for the rest of your life. There could be no husband to love, to fight with, to grow old beside. No children."

  One delicate shoulder shrugged, and she smiled up at him. It was a brave smile, and it hurt his heart. "I never expected to marry anyway."

  He frowned, feeling an unexpected twinge. It couldn't possibly be disappointment. "You didn't want to marry?"

  A flush pinkened her cheeks. "I didn't say I didn't want to. But some things just aren't destined to be. You might want to pluck the moon as if it were a silver lily. That doesn't mean you can reach into the night sky and do it."

  "You're a beautiful woman, Fallon. Brave, resolute, generous to a fault. Why should marriage be impossible for you?"

  "I'm a lot like you, really. There's no place I fit. Hugh a
nd I are loathed by the other landowners, though they pretend to tolerate us. Our Irish blood is sin enough. The fact that I refuse to grovel at their feet is unforgivable. The way they abuse their tenants—they sicken me. They are gluttons for pleasure no matter what it costs the crofters who work their land."

  "Like the twins in the drawing on your bedchamber wall?"

  She flushed. "They know how I despise them—all of them. I'd rather die than wed one of the English, an enemy. It would make me a traitor to everything I believe in. And, though I love the crofters dearly, they are a little afraid of me—fairy-kissed from my cradle, the landlord's daughter. Not even the bravest among the young men would dare even think of loving me the way a man loves a woman. I belong to them. But not with them."

  Pain, yearning, and resignation rippled through her voice, echoed in the glistening of her eyes. Ciaran wanted to touch her cheek, offer comfort. He understood. By every river that tumbled through Ireland, he understood the loneliness she felt.

  "Even you don't quite know what to do with me, Ciaran." Her smile wobbled and she gave a little laugh. "You think I'm mad. Not the most attractive quality in a prospective bride."

  "Mad is too strong a word. You have a unique view of reality, I'll admit, but at least you remember your own name." Ciaran meant it as a joke. He'd never felt less like laughing. He cupped her cheeks in his palms, as if she were the moon-lily she'd spoken of, to be treasured, longed for, impossible to possess. Soft, petal-soft, her skin warmed his hands, tendrils of coppery hair kissing his knuckles. "You deserve better than what I can offer you, Mary Fallon. I wish—"

  Wish what? That he could give to her all the dreams hidden in the rosy curve of her lips? That he could open his arms to her, gather her against his chest and give her a place to belong? Or were his motives far more selfish? Did he want this woman who had already given him so much, risked so much for him, to teach him that sometimes fairies did make magic, and heroes could walk from the mist? That sometimes moon-lilies could be gathered by a mortal's hand?

  Tears glittered, diamond-bright, on the thickness of her lashes. "Be very careful of wishes, Ciaran," she said, with such sorrow his chest ached. "I wished you here, and there's been nothing but pain for you ever since."

  "Not all pain, Mary Fallon," he whispered, knowing it wasn't true, because it hurt so damn much to want, to wonder, and not to taste. But she was hurting, too. Alone. If only there were fairy-kisses that could drive away the hurting, drown the ache. But there were no fairies here, no magic. Only the two of them, lost and alone.

  If she were to be comforted, it would have to be his lips that touched hers. She'd kissed him before—that fleeting moment when she'd used her mouth to stop up his words, to keep him from betraying their lies. He'd been stunned, angry and ready to throttle her.

  This time was worlds different.

  Slowly, he lowered his mouth, saw her luminous eyes widen in surprise and then flood with fierce emotion. Thick lashes fluttered down, concealing summer-sky blue. Her lips parted, sought his, eager. A tiny cry rose in her throat. And the knowledge that she wanted this kiss as much as he did humbled him, inflamed him.

  She tasted of the nectar of the wildflowers she'd wandered in. She offered herself up with the generosity of the mother goddess who had once given life to all Ireland. Her hair burned red with the immortal fire of bard song, her courage and strength as humbling as that of Deirdre of the Sorrows, who had risked everything for the love of heroic Naosi.

  Why was it that the mere thought of that ancient tale filled him with such sadness, like a wound still raw?

  A shiver of surprise rippled through him. He remembered the story. Bits and pieces that tantalized, asking far more questions than they answered. Love, that greatest of all beauties, the most lethal weapon of destruction, the bronze blade that could cleave comrades in arms, brothers in spirit, into factions of enemies.

  Had he ever tasted of love before? Ever understood its power? He didn't love Mary Fallon Delaney. Couldn't possibly love her when he didn't even know himself. But the forces her kiss unleashed in him were the most honest, most potent power he'd ever known.

  His tongue traced her lips then slipped between them, tasting her deep inside. But even that wasn't enough. Not for him. Not for her. Sounds filled the chamber, kittenish, hungry, as her hands glided over the taut muscles of his arms, the cords of his neck, the planes and hollows of his chest.

  Was danger an aphrodisiac? Or was there something else at work here? Fallon's own unique brand of magic?

  He drove the fingers of one hand back into the lustrous cascade of her hair, his other arm catching her about her waist, dragging her closer, until her breasts flattened against his chest. Her skirts tangled about his legs.

  She was soft, delicious, exotic. He reveled in all the things that made her a woman, exploring her as if she were some creature spun of his own restless fantasies.

  He was aware of the twin pearls of her nipples, hardened at the center of her pillowy breasts, the musky hollow where her femininity was hidden, the soft swell of her belly igniting a living fire in that part of him suddenly rigid with an arousal so fierce he couldn't breathe.

  He shut his eyes tight, but that didn't stop him from wanting to scoop up a handful of soft muslin, slide it up the slender column of her thigh and the lush curve of her hip, bunch the fabric around her waist so that his fingers could go questing for secret, satiny places beneath.

  Places he'd yearned to discover. Places he was suddenly certain he never had discovered.

  There had been no other woman. Not ever.

  Why? The question reverberated through him.

  Was there something wrong with him? Some fatal flaw he couldn't remember? Was there a sacred vow barring him from this devastating pleasure? Or a past mistake so terrible that he'd turned his back on the possibility of feminine softness filling his arms, hot, eager, honey-tinged lips filling his senses? He couldn't be certain.

  He should break away from Fallon, surrender the magic of her body beneath his hands. He had no right to touch her. But did he have the strength, the courage to let her go? Her hero of the mist would have done so. Her hero was a damned fool. And yet, Ciaran felt his kiss gentling, hunger shifting to tenderness, passion to a reluctant yielding. To honor? He didn't know. But Fallon was certain he possessed it.

  He drew back because of her belief in him, not his own. And when the moist heat of her lips came away from his, something tore in his chest. Reality spun into focus again—the sterile room, the voices of guards beneath the window, the suffocating scent of danger.

  "Blast it, Fallon," he ground out. "I must have been out of my mind."

  She flinched, for an instant the mask of bravado slipping away to reveal the girl who believed that magic and fairy tales and heroes truly existed. But there would be no happily ever after for her. And Ciaran hated himself for putting the shame and the hurt in her eyes. "You can always blame your sudden impulse to kiss me on the blow to your head. After all, why else would anybody—"

  "Damn it, it's not because I kissed you," he tried to amend. "I mean, I had no right. And—"

  "And it's against the code of heroes with amnesia to kiss women they think mad?"

  "I don't think you're mad, just a trifle... hazy about reality now and then. And right now our reality looks dashed grim. What if Redmayne had walked in while you were in my arms?"

  Rose-petal lips, still swollen with his kisses, tipped into an ironic smile that almost obscured her pain. "Then the insufferable captain would be far more likely to believe all the lies I told. In fact, maybe we should listen for his footsteps and stage the whole kiss again."

  "The hell we will!" Ciaran roared. He'd rather let Redmayne flay the skin off his body one knife stroke at a time than allow the Englishman to witness something so intimate, so forbidden, so... beautiful.

  The word echoed through him, reverberating like the shaft of a spear that had suddenly pierced his chest. And he knew that he'd made a ter
rible mistake when he'd succumbed to the temptation of kissing Mary Fallon. Every fiber in his body was still sizzling like a lightning bolt, damned uncomfortable in its intensity. And she looked so bruised, so tired suddenly, so sad.

  He groped for the right words to make her understand. It was too dangerous, too painful, this quickening in his heart. If he cared for her, loved her, it would give Redmayne yet another weapon to use against them. And what would happen in the end, when Ciaran had to walk away, back to the life he couldn't remember? "Blast it, Fallon, listen to me—"

  "We don't have anything more to say to each other," she said, a catch in her throat. "Except wedding vows."

  She turned, walking into Redmayne's chamber. Ciaran could hear her splashing water from the washbasin as she bathed her face. But he could have told her it was hopeless.

  Nothing either of them could do would wash away the danger that had glittered like an assassin's stiletto in Redmayne's cunning eyes. And there was no way to scrub away the taste of the kiss that had altered Ciaran forever.

  Chapter 8

  Fallon stood in the shaft of light beneath the stained glass window, the fragments of color filtering down over her in a chaos of broken rainbow, that wild disorder reflecting the anarchy in her heart.

  It was as if she'd stepped into a bizarre dream—the musty chapel, Father Gerrard intoning gentle warnings about the sanctity of marriage, Redmayne hovering near, with the fiendish patience of a spider enjoying the struggles of the prey trapped in its web.

  The whole improbable scene unfolding here was so unreal it might have been woven during the time when the triple goddess still ruled in Ireland and hero tales were new, and anything from sorcery to sea monsters to star-crossed love was possible.

  She was marrying Ciaran of the Mist, becoming the bride of a legend. But the man who stood so rigid, so grim beside her, his hand closed protectively over her own, was real. She could feel his pulse beneath her trembling fingers, the scent of him—sea wind and uncertainty and reckless honor—filling her senses.