Scooping her into his arms, he started to carry her to the big bed that was supposed to be his. But she stopped him, remembering Sorcha's promise: the bed sprinkled with flower petals and rare herbs that promised devotion, the scent of the water she'd bathed in, a magic elixir that would drive a man mad with love.
And she wanted Ciaran mad with love of her—wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. "Please... my bed. I want us to be in my bed tonight."
Wordlessly, he turned, and carried her into her chamber. A bridal chamber alight with banks of white wax candles, bundles of wildflowers, the coverlet turned back. Gently he laid her down on the sheets. Her body crushed the velvety petals, her warmth releasing their essence.
He kissed her mouth. Then stood, unfastening the breeches that strained over the hard ridge of his arousal. She'd seen him before, naked in all his glorious masculinity. But this time was different.
She tried to memorize the width of his shoulders, the cords of sinew, the dusting of dark hair that formed a perfect vee on his chest. His stomach was ridged with hard muscle above a soft line of dark down that arrowed from his navel into the shadows where his clumsy fingers worked the fastenings. It was as if he'd never seen buttons before. And maybe he never had. Embarrassment stained his cheekbones as he struggled.
Fallon smiled and caught his wrist, not wanting him to feel anything but thick, honeyed pleasure. "Let me do it," she echoed the words he'd said to her. "I want to savor you, the way you did me. Make you feel delicious."
"I don't know if I can... can stand much more. I want you too much."
She knelt before him, her hair a shimmering curtain about her shoulders, and stripped the breeches down his hips, past his straining erection, then down the length of his legs. She kissed him. His thigh, the inside of his knee. Awed by the beauty, the rightness of it all. Ciaran's lady. Ciaran's wife. Bride of the mist and the magic. But like the mist, this was so fleeting. The burning sun of reality threatened to snatch it away.
She circled her arms about his thighs, wanting to hold him forever, knowing she never could. The tousled silk of her hair swirled in a veil about his legs in the most intimate of caresses, and she pressed her cheek against him—the flat plane of his stomach, the hard ridge of his shaft. A low groan tore from Ciaran's throat at the intimate contact.
He gathered the mass of coppery curls in his hands and let them fall in a cascade of liquid flame. Then he stepped out of the breeches and drew her up—up the long, granite-honed landscape of his body, to where his mouth was waiting, fierce with hunger.
"Mary Fallon... beautiful... so beautiful. My wild fairy maid," he breathed, gathering her against him, soft, feminine swells and hollows pressed to a wall of muscle as rugged and primitive as the sea cliffs where she had found him.
Even now, the ancient tales she'd loved spun silken rainbows about her. Was this what Deirdre of the Sorrows had felt when her forbidden lover Naosi had taken her in his arms? This wild need, this power beyond the earth and sky and sea? If so, Fallon could understand why the Celtic beauty had turned her back on Connor MacNessa, the king of Ulster, to run away with her love.
For this was a feeling beyond right or wrong. Two souls crashing against each other like the waves below the Castle of the Dancing Mist, battling for an instant then blending into one in a glorious flash of shimmer and foam.
Every part of her trembled as she smoothed her palms up the thick caps of muscle that formed his shoulders, then along the cords of his throat to the thick waves of his hair, dark as the night in which he'd come to her.
She thought she'd die of wanting before he lowered his mouth to hers, but then he took her lips in a kiss so hungry, a moan rose in her throat. His hands were everywhere, charting the delicate ridges of her spine, smoothing down the flare of her hips, cupping her bottom and pressing her tighter against that part of him that throbbed between them, hard as the shaft of Cuchulain's enchanted spear.
He eased her back down on the bed where she'd lain alone so many years, dreaming. Now she was alone no more. He followed her there, filling his palms with the creamy bounty of her breasts and feasting on the berry-red tips as if they were the cherries that had lured him to immortality. Hot, wet, eager, he tasted her, suckling her nipple in his mouth. A shower of sparks ignited beneath his lips, driving down into her woman's core, setting it burning.
And she wanted him. Her husband. Her lover. Her dream. Wanted him to be a part of her forever. For no matter what happened in the future, nothing—not Redmayne's plotting or reality's cold blaze, not fairy kings or memories reawakened—could ever steal away from her the beauty of this one night when Ciaran belonged to her. Only to her.
His fingers played her body with the awe of an ancient bard touching the harp strings for the first time, plucking at her nipples, strumming the delicate ridges of her ribs, circling the slight swell of her belly. Her breath caught as his fingertips stirred the dark auburn curls of her femininity.
"Open your thighs for me. I want to touch you, Fallon. Let me..."
Swallowing hard, cheeks burning, she eased her legs apart, knowing she'd open her soul for this man if he but asked it of her. In a way, she already had. She'd surrendered pieces of herself she'd never shared with another person. The surrendering of her body was far easier. She fitted her hand atop his, and pressed it, tight against the place that was afire for him.
She gasped as those strong fingers threaded through warm ringlets at her urging, then dipped deeper still to sleek satin. One callused tip brushed a tiny ember where all sensation seemed centered.
"Soft." Ciaran groaned, exploring her, teasing her, learning her secrets by touch. And she was shaken to the core by the wonder of his discovery. His first time. Hers.
"I never knew a woman was so soft and damp. I want to bury myself in that heat. In you."
"I'm your wife, Ciaran. I..." Love you, her heart confessed, but she dared not give voice to the words, words that might well wound this honorable man, make him desert her for fear he'd leave her heart bleeding when he walked away. "I... feel so empty, deep inside. I need you."
"You need to be ready—ready to take me inside you. There'll be pain the first time you lie with a man."
"I don't care. I need you too much."
"I wish I could take that pain for you."
They weren't idle words, Fallon knew, her heart full. This was a man who would suffer any anguish for those he loved, bear any burden, sacrifice with joy. It humbled her, made her love him all the more. She rose up, kissing the pale shadow of bruise just visible beneath the silky fringe of his hair.
A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. His mouth contorted in pleasure as his fingers followed that satiny path down to where the wet wanting was centered. Gently, so gently, hand trembling, he eased his finger into her tight passage to open her, ready her for what was to come.
The joining. His body buried in the softness of her own, reaching deep, to the mouth of her womb.
"Hot," he breathed. "You're so hot and tight and damp with wanting."
"You. Only you."
"Passion. I saw it in your eyes from the first... craved it. I'm so damned lost now, Fallon." His eyes blazed with desire, glittered with a vulnerability that wrung her heart. "Find me."
She did. Her fingers curled delicately around the white-hot length of his shaft, guiding him to the portal of her woman's body. He hesitated, the blunt tip nudging the burning center of her. "Fallon, are you certain? I don't even know who I am. What I am."
"I know. You're my husband. My first lover. My only." She rolled her hips upward toward him, a silent plea, a reaching out of years of heartbreak, years of hope.
Then, with a low growl of surrender, Ciaran drove his shaft deep. She clenched her jaw against a cry of pain, but his mouth closed on hers, his kiss drowning it in thick, hot pleasure.
He was a warrior—from whatever time, whatever place, whatever magic had brought him here. A man fierce in his honor, his passions, his
needs. She could feel the urgency to take, to conquer, the raw, physical power his instinct demanded that he unleash. But he held it in check, clinging to some fragment of gentleness for her.
"Fallon," he rasped, his arms trembling, holding most of his weight off her body. "Are you all right?"
Tears stung her eyes. How could she ever tell him how she felt? He filled her completely—her body, her heart, the aching places in her soul.
Not trusting herself to speak, she closed her eyes, and glided her legs about his hips, moving against him, drawing him deeper.
"Please, Ciaran," she begged. "Please..."
With a growl of eagerness, hunger, he thrust, setting a powerful rhythm that stirred her blood. It was the wild, sweet throbbing of Celtic dreams, of the bodhran, the battle drum from ancient days that now pounded out the beat of the dances where feet flew and spirits soared. It was the throbbing of the hearts of lovers whose passion was so great it spilled through the centuries. And she couldn't get enough of it, enough of his loving as it spun her deeper and deeper into a whirlwind of magic.
"Everything, Ciaran," she pleaded. "I want everything. All of you." She strained against him, her own hips meeting his in a desperate quest for fulfillment, her mouth nipping gently at his shoulders, his chest. By sheer accident, her tongue skimmed the hardened point of his flat male nipple, and she was stunned at the shudder of exquisite pleasure that racked him.
Remembering the pure heaven of his mouth suckling her breast, she fastened her lips about that small nub, nibbling at it, soothing it with her tongue.
A fierce cry tore from Ciaran's lips as he drove himself into her body harder, faster, as if he could split the hard shell she'd built around her heart, send it crumbling down like the battered walls of the castle he'd built beside the sea.
Something cinched tight, low in her belly, squeezing her in a vise of pleasure, of need, a questing for something that shimmered within the mist. Something she'd always sensed was there, if she had the courage to reach out, to take it. A searing ball of flame that might consume her.
But she didn't care as the wild creature within her rose up, eager to embrace it, no matter what the cost. She could feel her passion enveloping Ciaran as well, the elemental part of him rising to match all that was untamed in her.
"No," he ground out. "I don't want this to end. Don't want it ever to end." But they could no more slow the force between them than they could catch the mist in its flight across the hills.
Her fingers dug into the flexing muscles of his buttocks, urging, taking, giving. And then she shattered. She was drowning, rivers of molten silver rushing through her, carrying her to a place where heroes never died, where love burned eternal, where no one was ever lost or alone.
He thrust once more, as if he would embed himself in her soul. He flung back his head, the tangle of midnight hair glistening around features harsh with agony sweeter than any pleasure could ever be. Waves of fulfillment racked him, again and again, a guttural cry of ecstasy breaching his lips as he spilled his seed deep inside her.
Ciaran buried his face against her hair, fine tremors still echoing through his powerful body, his arms shaking as he clutched her tight.
She wanted to hold him there forever, stroking his broad back and the sweat-dampened tangle of his hair as his breath slowly eased, his heartbeat steadied. But at last he rolled to one side, flung one arm over his face.
He was suddenly so still. So quiet. Joy faded, concern making her catch her lower lip between her teeth. Did he regret what had happened between them? Or had she done something wrong? Had she been too eager? Ciaran MacCailte, high champion, most honorable of all the knights of the Red Branch, would have nothing but scorn for a wanton.
But he was her husband. She had wanted to give him all of herself, holding nothing back.
"Ciaran?" she said softly. "What is it?" He shook his head, his face still hidden from her gaze. Dread tightened inside her. Anything was better than this uncertainty. She slipped her fingers into the cup of his hand, drew his arm away.
She couldn't breathe as she gazed down at him. His eyes were closed tight, dark lashes fanned against his rugged cheekbones. His jaw clenched, his mouth still reddened from their kisses. But what stunned her, moved her, was the tiny trickle of moisture that charted a trail from the corner of his eye to the fine hair at his temple.
A tear?
He'd probably be furious that she caught a glimpse of such stark vulnerability. This strong, powerful man, with his honor and his fierce pride, his courage and his confusion.
She didn't know what to do. Should she pretend she didn't see it? But then it would lay between them forever, a tiny, aching secret. No. This was one time she couldn't pretend. She remembered his words before they'd made love, tender words that she'd carry forever in her heart.
I'd kiss your tears away. All of your tears.
No one understood the pain of solitary tears better than Fallon did. Or the danger in them.
Leaning over Ciaran, she pressed her lips to the glistening trail. He tasted of salt air and broken dreams, the secret sorrow of a wanderer who yearned for a place to belong. But wasn't it possible—just possible—that he could find it in her arms?
A harsh moan rose in his throat.
"Ciaran, what is it? What's wrong?"
"I've lost so much along with my memory. Know so little. But now I know this, Mary Fallon," his voice cracked. "If this is madness, I never want to be sane again."
He opened his eyes, and they seemed to plumb her very soul. "Tell me, Mary Fallon, about the world I glimpse in your eyes. Your dream places, where everything is as color-bright as your fiery hair and heroes shine, even their defeat glorious. Where love echoes, untouched even by the grave."
"You mean—"
"I know it's impossible, but I almost wish that I could be your hero."
She cupped his jaw in her palm, the faint roughness of his beard warm against her skin. "You already are. You gave me tonight. A gift so beautiful—one I never expected to have."
"You're the one who gave me a gift. My first time and yours. Perfect. It almost made me believe—"
"What?"
"In the tales you spin, my weaver of dreams." His lips curved into a smile, astonishingly tender, beautiful in its vulnerability. "Can you tell me how the story ends? The tale of your warrior Ciaran?" His fingertips caressed the full curve of her lips. "When his quest is finished, does he win his lady love?"
Such a simple question.
Such a painful truth.
The words snagged in her throat, and for the first time she wished he were right: that she was blinded by her vivid imagination, that he was nothing but a mortal, simply a man who could belong to her.
She buried her cheek against his chest, unutterable sorrow clenching her heart. "It ends just as it began. Ciaran walks into the mist." Her voice quavered, broke. "Into the mist, alone."
Chapter 10
Stripped to shirt and breeches, Lionel Redmayne lounged in the chair before the fire, staring into the flames, the rustlings of his aide-de-camp, Kenneth Barton, irritating as the incessant scraping of a wind-shaken branch against a windowpane.
"Captain, sir, is there anything else I can do for you before I retire?"
Redmayne arched one sardonic brow and cast a glance from the shards of his broken shaving bowl to the gold braid torn from his uniform. "No, Barton. I believe you've done quite enough for one evening."
The young man flushed, even the faint blond shadow of his beard seeming to take on a pinkish cast in embarrassment. In the month since Barton had come to him, Redmayne had mused that it was a pity the army didn't give a medal for blushing. The twenty-year-old Barton would have been sure to win it.
"Captain, I'm sorry I was so clumsy tonight. I can't think what came over me, sir."
The same thing that seemed to come over everyone when in the presence of the unnerving Captain Redmayne, Lionel thought wryly. He had only to enter a room for people to begin dr
opping things, breaking things, stammering and stumbling.
He usually found such bumbling far more amusing than he had tonight. It seemed his sense of humor had gone a-begging sometime during the moments when Mary Fallon Delaney had become a bride.
Lionel glanced at the unopened bottle of fine claret he'd intended to use to toast yet another victory once he'd broken the woman's resolve, gotten her to admit—what? That her absurd tale of a secret betrothal and a bastard in her belly was a lie? That for some reason she was struggling to protect this Ciaran MacDonough? Perhaps because he was the criminal Redmayne was seeking.
It had seemed such a simple plan, there in the street with the crowds all around. Easy enough to outwit one headstrong female with a temper far too easy to stir, and every emotion painted on her face as brightly as the rouge on a ha'penny harlot's cheeks.
Yes, it should have been as simple as teaching a raw beginner a lesson in swordsmanship. Cut past all the pretty trappings of loyalty, generosity, and even patriotism until one struck that most elemental need in the center of any living creature—the will to survive.
Self-preservation. He'd seen men barter their own souls to grasp it. Watched them betray their comrades, their mothers, their wives and children when they felt the kiss of the blade on their own throat. Mary Fallon Delaney was no different.
He'd been so very certain. Give Miss Delaney enough rope, and she would hang herself—and her companion, too. It had been rather entertaining, toying with his prey when he'd been sure of victory. There had been times he could almost taste her fear, her indecision, her panic, and the hot fire of anticipation had risen in his body, a feeling akin to passion.
He'd even made certain the woman couldn't rationalize her actions away. No, nothing so simple that she could unravel it when the time suited her. He'd made damn certain it was a marriage by the laws of man and her nuisance of a God. A true marriage, with one of her Catholic priests presiding, and her claim that she was carrying a child driving away any possibility of annulment.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 17