His eyes, those green eyes she had seen glittering with rage, eclipsed with confusion or softening with vulnerability, now darkened to the hue of a primeval forest as he gazed down into her face. Confused. Hurting. Desperate to do right. Knowing that somehow he had failed her.
The image seared into her heart, ached there. And she wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him everything would be all right. Because it was him that she was marrying, as if their union had been destined before time began.
How could she begin to explain that she finally understood why she'd never dreamed of wedding rings and bridal trips, or kisses beneath the rose arbor?
When other young girls had been in a romantic dither over the county's most handsome beaux, thrilling to fox hunts and waltzes and the dashing tilt of high-crowned beaver hats, Fallon had been curled up in the topmost tower of Ciaran's castle. Hour after hour she'd listened to the waves piercing their breasts on the cliffs below, hurling themselves against the rocks in an effort to possess something they could never have.
She'd felt one with those waves as she devoured the tales in books whose pages were near worn thin. She'd dreamed of bold Celtic heroes in horse-drawn chariots, spears flying, magic swirling, immortality beckoning with gossamer wings.
She'd fallen in love with the idea of Ciaran there, perched on the crumbling ledge of his castle, and once she had, no man of flesh and blood could ever challenge his hold upon her heart.
And now, she was to be his bride. She would have the right to touch him, to share his body, his bed, his inmost thoughts for as long as the fates allowed. A dream come true. If, a voice whispered inside her, if he is truly the Ciaran of legend.
"Mary Fallon?" Father Gerrard's voice made her start, and she turned her gaze back to the priest who had offered Margaret Delaney such comfort during the weary years of illness. He was as familiar to Fallon as the tiny chip in her front tooth, and she paid as little attention to him. Yet the good father had baptized Fallon and done his best to offer spiritual guidance to a girl far more intrigued by the pagan than the saintly.
The priest's face had always reminded Fallon of an old shoe, misshapen and leathery, the scuffs of countless years' journeying gouged into its surface. Yet it was a face oddly more comfortable than anything shiny and new and stiff.
Somber new lines now carved about his mouth, and she knew she'd been the one to put them there. "This is a very serious step you are taking, albeit a necessary one for the coming child," Father Gerrard said. "Yet I fear you haven't heard a word I've spoken."
Heat stung Fallon's cheekbones. For an instant she feared he'd demand that she repeat whatever he'd said, as he had while attempting to get a wild, wayward girl to attend to her catechism. "I'm sorry, Father. I'm just so... happy it's hard to think of anything else." As a child she'd always felt as if God had put an invisible window in people's foreheads so that Father Gerrard could see inside. She prayed now that she'd been wrong.
"Mary Fallon, I wish you would send for your brother. Let Mr. Hugh share in your joy. A wedding is a time for family."
"Now, Father Gerrard," Redmayne chided. "I thought we'd discussed all this before you even came upstairs to meet with our bride. The couple is somewhat shamed by their circumstance. They wish to be wed before they face her brother. It is understandable, I think. In your ministry, I would imagine you've stumbled across irate fathers or brothers, ready to revenge themselves on the rake that had seduced an innocent young woman. And explain it as you may, the fact is that Miss Delaney is carrying this man's bastard."
"It's none of your blasted business, Redmayne," Ciaran snapped.
Redmayne's taunts had been infuriating enough to Ciaran when only the three of them were present to hear them, but now, with Father Gerrard here, they were intolerable.
Always, the priest's goodness had shone through—unshakable faith, nobility of spirit, unfailing compassion. That this decent man should think Ciaran capable of an act so vile obviously seared like acid.
She could sense how much Ciaran wanted to proclaim the truth to the priest. That he'd never seduced her. That he would rather have died than taken a woman's honor when his own was so precious to him. But he was helpless to do so.
"Captain Redmayne," Father Gerrard said, "I must ask you to keep your comments to yourself."
Redmayne's eyes narrowed a fraction. In grudging admiration for the priest's courage in reprimanding an English officer? Fallon wondered. Or had Father Gerrard just made a dangerous enemy?
But the priest had turned back to Ciaran, his voice gentling. "As for you, my son, your anger does you credit. It's obvious you are angry with yourself and you regret that you have sinned. But you must forgive yourself for your mistake. I've always felt that showing our love with our bodies as well as our souls is a gift God gave us. In return, he asks only that we use that gift reverently. Wisely. Appreciating both its beauty and power. There are those who would disagree with me, I know."
Disagree? Fallon was certain there were those who would have Father Gerrard defrocked for such a view. And yet, her affection for the old man grew, for he stared full-faced into reality, loving the earth with all its wonderful flaws, instead of trying to mold his parish into a replica of heaven.
The priest smiled. "In a perfect world, we would have the patience to wait until vows were spoken. But we are none of us perfect, I fear. Perhaps you were not patient, my son, but you are making it right, giving your child your name. You love Mary Fallon, and in the face of that love, God will forgive you. You must forgive yourself also, no matter what others might say."
"Hugh Delaney, for instance," Redmayne observed. "If Miss Delaney were my sister—"
"But she is not." Father Gerrard frowned. "And Hugh Delaney is not just any man! He understands human frailty, that people make mistakes. And he's never attempted to make them pay for it. He deserves better than this, to be banned from his only sister's wedding. Mary Fallon, child, I beg you to reconsider."
"No, Father. Miss Delaney and Mr. MacDonough have made it perfectly clear that they do not wish Hugh Delaney's presence. Now, will you begin with the vows, or should we wait until Miss Delaney's belly swells big enough for all of Glenceo to see?"
White-hot violence. She could feel it rise in a wild tide inside Ciaran. Lightning fast, he spun, his fist knotting to smash into Redmayne's smug face, but Father Gerrard lunged between them. The priest had spent seventy years gauging the emotions hidden in men's souls. His voice rang out, clear, sharp. "Mr. MacDonough!"
Ciaran froze at the last moment, and Fallon could feel every muscle in his body vibrating with the force it took to rein in his fury. "Enough! Mr. MacDonough, would you have blood spilt at your wedding?"
As long as the blood was Redmayne's, Fallon was certain that nothing would please her bridegroom more.
"This is God's house," Father Gerrard warned. "Show proper respect. I've never believed in caning unruly schoolboys, but considering your behavior, I might be tempted to try it if you don't stop this nonsense."
"Not another word, Redmayne," Ciaran snarled, "or I vow, I'll drive them down your throat with my fist, wedding bedamned."
Redmayne flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the gold braid decking his uniform. "Miss Delaney, your bridegroom shows a distressing lack of manners. And this tendency to fits of temper. Most unappealing. Perhaps you should reconsider."
Fallon shook as she grasped Ciaran's arm, dragging him back. Lord, at this rate, Redmayne wouldn't have to prove Ciaran was a smuggler to hang him—the man was a heartbeat away from murder. "Please, Father. Let's just get on with it. You can see that everyone's nerves are on edge. And as for my brother—you must know that Hugh and I are... are not close."
It had chafed her when those aged eyes had been soft with gentle disappointment, astonished her when they sparked with anger. Now a very real mourning stirred beneath sparse gray lashes. "It would grieve your mother so very much to know that, child. Before I offered her last rites, she sent for Hugh. Her l
ast words to him before she died were a plea that you would love each other, take care of each other for her sake."
The priest might as well have shoved a thorn beneath Fallon's skin. It stung and burned. Mama had sent for Hugh, wanted to see him, speak to him one last time. But she'd left Fallon without even saying good-bye. "A pity Mama never mentioned her wish to me," she said. "But it's a bit too late to worry about it now, I'm afraid. I wish to get married. At once."
The aged priest had seen that stubbornness in her features often enough to realize that imploring her further would be futile. She could see the surrender in his eyes, and the regret. With an almost imperceptible sigh, the priest turned the full light of his saintly eyes upon Ciaran.
"And you, sir. Do you wish to be married as well?"
Oh, yes, Fallon thought with grim irony. Her bridegroom was so eager he was all but grinding his teeth to dust. "Yes," Ciaran grated.
"And your faith?"
The quiet question raked Fallon's already battered nerves. Blast, more tangles? Fallon grimaced. What faith was Ciaran? Most likely a pagan who had reveled in the mysticism of the druid's sacred groves long before St. Patrick ever set foot upon Irish shores. But she could hardly tell Father Gerrard that. The poor old man would never recover. The theology of this wedding was beyond comprehension.
"My faith?" Ciaran echoed. Anger faded just a little, and he cast a wary, bewildered glance down at her.
It took more effort than she could imagine to force her most mischievous smile. "What do you think, Father? That he is a pagan?"
The old man flushed. "This is not a joking matter, Mary Fallon! I must know..." She felt crushing guilt when the priest gave a rare chuckle. "Child, you are incorrigible. All right then. I'd best marry you before you get into even more trouble, or your gentlemen friends turn the sanctuary into a boxing salon."
Clearing his throat, fumbling with his prayer book, the old man took his place at the altar. "Come, young sir," Father Gerrard beckoned Ciaran. "It is time for you to decide what you wish more—to fight with the captain, or to make this lovely young woman your bride."
For a moment she couldn't breathe. There was no question in Fallon's mind which Ciaran would prefer. He seemed to consider for a long moment. But in the end, he stepped up beside her.
Clearing his throat, Father Gerrard opened his worn prayer book. Fragments of rainbow danced across the tarnished crucifix above the altar and the faded black folds of the priest's cassock, bits of color glimmering like those that had flared from the ancient moon-struck brooch what seemed a lifetime ago.
Words that had joined lovers into one flesh for all eternity wove about them. She'd told Ciaran that they were words, just words. But from her earliest memories, Fallon had sensed that words held their own special magic. And none were more powerful than those she was about to exchange with this man beside her.
I promise to love, to honor, to cherish until death do us part. But death wouldn't part them. Their bond would be broken by the return of his memory, when he'd go back to his former life, or on the day he finished his quest here and disappeared back into the mist of legend.
It shouldn't have seemed so real. The ceremony. The vows. Her heart shouldn't have thundered, her gaze clinging to the fierce warrior's face beside her. But as Father Gerrard gently guided them through the rite he'd performed countless times, the old priest infused it with a fresh new wonder, a sense of timeless beauty, a beauty Fallon suddenly wished she could draw deep into herself, to treasure forever.
"I, Ciaran, take thee, Mary Fallon, to my wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, to love and to cherish—" His voice roughened, torn upon the vows.
His eyes seemed to probe to the deepest reaches of her soul. Asking for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? A hundred answers she didn't have. But suddenly she wished she did have them, could give Ciaran whatever he was seeking.
"Do you have the ring?" Father's query made her start.
"Ring?" Ciaran echoed. He looked so tense, so bewildered. Whatever faith he was—if he was any—Fallon was certain it wasn't Catholic.
The troubled crease deepened in Father Gerrard's brow. "The wedding ring. As a symbol of your love for each other."
"This was all so sudden. We... we didn't have time to get one." Fallon started to stammer.
But at that instant, Redmayne swooped near, his lips curling into that hawkish smile she wanted to smack from his face. "I was so concerned that this wedding take place without any... unfortunate snags, that I took the liberty of securing a ring." He extended his long white fingers, a wide gold band caught in their grasp.
"The blazes I'll take his—" Ciaran started to snarl, but Fallon's fingers clenched so hard on his it was a wonder she didn't draw blood.
"It will do until... until we can get our own, Captain Redmayne. Thank you." The words might have choked her if she hadn't been so preoccupied with keeping Ciaran from throttling the officer. Not that the image wasn't tempting. At least it would shut Redmayne's infernal mouth.
For the blackguard had shattered the dreamlike haze that had warmed the ceremony, made it beautiful, almost real. Ciaran did as the priest bid, said the proper words and shoved the ring on her finger. But the tenderness, the uncertainty, the reaching out that had been in his gaze had vanished.
Did Father Gerrard see it? Sense it? Why was there sudden sadness in his voice as he spoke the words, "I now pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
Shaken, aching somewhere deep within, Fallon looked down at her finger, the ring glittering there. And she tried to think of something to say.
The angels themselves must be shaking their heads over this union, St. Peter adding these latest sins to the endless, blotted tally beneath Mary Fallon Delaney's name. Not to mention the fact that she doubted the fairy king would be amused that she'd married his high champion. Doubtless, she'd broken some cosmic rule, and Irish fairies weren't the gossamer-winged, nectar- sipping kind that granted children's wishes. No. They could be a damnably spiteful lot.
She supposed it was a good omen, though, that the roof hadn't been split by lightning, Father Gerrard hadn't been transformed into a goat, and Ciaran hadn't disappeared in a puff of smoke.
"MacDonough, are you going to kiss the bride?" Redmayne drawled. "Or have such pursuits lost their appeal now that they're under papal sanction?"
There might have been another fray, but before Ciaran could move, the chapel door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Fallon wheeled toward it, the other men following suit. What she saw there made her stomach plunge to her toes.
Disheveled from riding, her brother raced into the room, his eyes wild and haunted. "Thank God I got here before it was too late! Stop this... this wedding at once! I object! Isn't that the way of it? If anyone objects—"
"Yes. The wedding must be halted," Redmayne purred. "However, I'm afraid we're well past that part, Mr. Delaney. You are just in time to kiss the bride."
Hugh staggered, gripping the edge of one of the pews with a white-knuckled hand. "Fallon. My God, what have you done?" It was the anguish that made her furious. How dare he pretend to care so much when she knew the truth: that she'd been nothing but one more burden to him, to be endured since their mother had died?
"I'd think it obvious, Hugh. I've gotten married."
Hugh's gaze darted hopelessly to the priest's somber face. "Father Gerrard, this can't be. Surely there is some way to undo it. An annulment! There is still time! The marriage hasn't been consummated."
Redmayne chuckled. "I should love to hear you plead your case. Perhaps if you convince the pope there is to be another virgin birth?"
"What the devil?" Hugh blazed.
"My son, there is something you should know," Father Gerrard said gently. "Mary Fallon is expecting this man's babe."
The words seemed to age her brother twenty years. His gaze flashed to Ciaran, loathing, fury, helplessness warring in his features. A cry tore
from Fallon's throat as Hugh swung his fist at Ciaran's face. Ciaran didn't even attempt to deflect the blow. It connected with a sickening thud, making him stagger back a step.
"Hugh, for God's sake! Stop it!" Fallon shrilled, diving between the two men.
"You bastard!" Hugh roared. "What kind of cur are you?"
"He's my husband, Hugh! I love him!" It wasn't a lie. That fact suddenly terrified her.
"How... how could this have happened?" Hugh demanded, dazed. "I've never even seen him, didn't even suspect you were involved with a man."
"Perhaps you thought I was playing pattypans up at the castle all this time," she fired back. "You're gone all the time. I got tired of being alone."
Hugh flinched. "Fallon, this can't be... I can't believe—"
"I'm a woman grown now. Is it so impossible to imagine that a man could want me?"
Hugh looked as if she'd slapped him. "No! Of course not! It's just... I never even knew this man existed. I know nothing about him at all. Why didn't you tell me?"
She was stinging with guilt, hurting inside, raw with regret and the fresh wound of loving Ciaran, a wound that opened countless other gashes left on her lonely heart. "You've always seemed far more concerned with your estates and your ships and your infernal ledger sums than with me. I didn't think it would be of any importance to you."
"Fallon, that's enough!" A hard hand gripped her arm, and Ciaran whipped her around to face him. A bruise was purpling the side of his jaw. Damn, he'd been so anxious to fight with Redmayne, why the devil didn't he pound Hugh back? But there wasn't even anger in his features when he looked at her brother, only fierce intensity and burning shame. She wished they'd both pound each other to pulp. That way she wouldn't have to see what a disaster she'd wrought.
"Your brother has every right to be angry," Ciaran ground out. "He feels responsible for you."
"Well he's not. Not any more! I'm a married woman now.”
She might as well have been yelling at the stone walls of Ciaran's castle for all the attention either man paid to what she'd said.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 14