He should tell her not to be absurd. The whole story she'd spun was ridiculous. No sane man would believe it. Instead, he turned away, loving her, wanting to be a hero for her, fearing he never could be.
"I don't know what I believe anymore," he said with searing honesty. "But I don't have to believe it, Fallon. As long as they do."
Chapter 12
She'd married the stubbornest man in Ireland, Fallon thought grimly. And if he didn't fall off an obliging cliff or get his throat slit by some amiable smuggler, she just might murder him herself. Once she managed to catch up with him, that is.
She urged her horse to a faster pace, eyes searching the dirt road for signs he'd passed this way.
Blast the man. He'd lulled her into thinking he was going to lock himself away with Hugh to discuss his plans. She'd relaxed a little then. By the time Hugh, the ever-cautious, decided to go after a nest of smugglers, the thieves would have died of old age. But Ciaran had only used the ruse as an excuse. In reality, he'd slipped outside to the stables when she wasn't looking. The insufferable wretch! The High King of Brainless Honor, Sir Noble-Peat-in-His-Head had ridden off without her.
She might still be pacing the garden, trying to sort out the wild tangle of emotions Ciaran MacCailte had unleashed in her if young Taliesin, the groom, hadn't slipped away from his tasks long enough to warn her.
"While I was readying his horse, yer husband said he's that determined to be wrenching information about Silver Hand from the first crofter he meets. I warned him it wasn't a wise idea," the groom had said. "People hereabouts are still stinging suspicious of anyone poking about, asking questions, ever since the Sassenachs put down the rebellion. Plenty of people still see the whippings, the hangings when nightmares come upon them. And now, with that new devil, Captain Redmayne, about—got everyone on edge, he does."
The groom hadn't needed to say more. Anyone desperate enough to take up smuggling wouldn't shrink from silencing one meddling stranger to protect their secret.
She'd rushed to the stable herself and ordered up her horse. Within a quarter hour she was mounted and searching. But even the riding that had once freed her mind and soothed her spirit had been invaded by Ciaran MacCailte. She shifted her weight in the saddle, a slight tenderness in the delicate places between her thighs reminding her all too vividly of the night before.
Her cheeks burned at the memory of her complete abandon in Ciaran's arms. Who would have believed that the mere touch of a man's hands, that possession by a man's body, could alter her so? Could make her crave his bed, his arms, the unforgettable fire of his passion? But he had turned his back on their lovemaking and vowed not to touch her again. A distraction, he'd called it. The pain at his rejection had been fierce, but she'd clung to the emotions she'd glimpsed in his eyes: desperation, need—love?
The possibility was too precious to bear. He'd been raw with that torrent of emotions. They made a man ready to lash out, heedless. And such recklessness now could mean his doom.
She suppressed a chill and eyed another crescent shape cut by a horse's hoof. Who knew what she'd find when she finally ran him to ground. She could only hope that the fates were with her and that he hadn't stumbled across anyone yet.
But that hope was dashed as she suddenly saw someone approaching. Burly Tom was carrying one of his nine children in his brawny arms. Almost from birth, Caitlin's escapades had kept the whole parish in gales of laughter. "Pleaded wi' the Blessed Virgin to give me one daughter, after havin' eight sons," Tom would say fondly, shaking his head. "Man craves a touch of gentleness, says I to My Lady. But seems the mother of our Lord has a sense of humor they don't catch in the holy statues, 'cause she sent me a girl who could whip all eight of her brothers, an' me atop it."
Now, little Caitlin's blond hair straggled about her deliciously naughty face, the child wet as a half-drowned kitten. Fallon might have feared she was hurt if it wasn't for the brazen smile displaying a winsome gap where one front tooth had been.
"Top of the mornin' to ye, Miss Fallon," Dunne called, but Fallon scarcely heard him. Caitlin was smirking like a cat in the cream pot as she stroked the shimmering green cloth that bundled her slight body. Ciaran's cloak. At least she was on the right track, Fallon thought.
"Caitlin, what happened?"
"There was a man askin' Da questions forever an' ever, an' I got in-patient, so I creeped away. There were diamonds on the water an' I tried to catch 'em an' falled in. An' it was terrible cold. But the man wrapped me up. He gave me this to keep." She flicked reverent fingers across the elegant fabric.
Ciaran. Fallon's heart squeezed. Her nerves calmed just a whisper. He obviously hadn't clashed with Dunne. Perhaps he wasn't racing into calamity after all. At least not the one she'd anticipated. She shook her head, a pulsing of tenderness washing through her. Of course, by the time she found him, he'd probably be wearing nothing but an old shawl again.
"And what did ye learn from yer mischief, ye disobedient miss?" Caitlin's father demanded.
Caitlin gazed up at him with sparkling blue eyes. "That I should've been wicked sooner, 'cause Liam O'Hara got the sparklies from the man's shirt first."
Dunne tried and failed to stifle a laugh, and Fallon couldn't help but smile at the audacious little mite.
"An' what would you be doin' with a gentleman's shirt studs, I'd like to know?" her father demanded.
"I certain-sure wouldn't waste 'em tradin' for new boots like Liam is, even if I was a peddler walkin' monstrous far. I'd poke holes in my dresses to stick the sparklies through when I went to mass of a Sunday, an' then Francis an' Joseph an' Kevin would all be jealous enough to burst, I'd be so fine." Her brow crinkled, and she nibbled on her plump bottom lip. "Papa, I think I must be wicked much more oftener if I want another pretty."
Fallon didn't even hear Tom's chuckled reply. Her throat tightened with envy at the child's utter confidence in her father's acceptance, his love, the certainty that even "wickedness" would never make Tom turn away from her. How many times had Fallon wondered if she might have changed things with her own papa. If she'd been pretty, like the daughters of his hunting friends, if she'd been sweet and biddable, and never wicked, might he have stayed?
"What direction did the man who gave you the pretty go?" she asked, suddenly wanting desperately to get away from the loving father and the child who took him so for granted. As it should be, Fallon knew. As it should be.
"That way." Caitlin gave an airy wave of her hand. "I liked him, Miss Fallon. Da says he's yer husband. Could you ask him to wear a red cloak next time? I'm berry partial to red."
"Ye're incorrigible, lass! I'm that ashamed of ye," Dunne said, but he took the sting from the words by smacking the child's cheek with a hearty kiss.
Fallon felt a sting of regret. Had her own papa ever kissed her? Carried her in his arms? If he had, she couldn't remember. She could only remember him riding away, turning his back on all that was painful, drowning it in drink and dissolution until he died of it. He'd wanted to make everything he'd left in Ireland disappear. And it had worked. He had made Fallon and Hugh disappear from his life.
But if Ciaran MacCailte ever loved, he would never walk away from his wife, his child, Fallon knew intuitively. He'd be their strength through whatever tragedy they faced, and if death came to one of his family, he would hold their hand, so that even as they slipped into eternal sleep, they wouldn't feel alone.
"Miss Fallon," Caitlin's voice intruded. "Da says there won't be any wedding party. Is that true?"
Fallon flushed, glancing from Caitlin to Dunne, wondering if the crofter had heard the story of her unusual marriage. She winced at the vision she had of whispers around firesides, the sorrowful shaking of heads, the disappointment. For doubtless the story of her wedding had flown through Glenceo, along with the story that she was pregnant with Ciaran's babe. But even worse than the embarrassment that stung her was the sudden longing for what might have been.
What might it have been like to wed
Ciaran with these people who loved her looking on? The liquid sparkle of fiddles dancing cares away, the yearning cry of the uilleann pipes filling the soul to bursting? Tin whistles seducing until no one's feet could stay still, while the rhythm of bodhrans stirred the blood? A night to remember forever, with cakies for little Caitlin Dunne, and dreams of a future for Fallon to treasure.
Fallon swallowed hard. How was it possible to feel the loss of something you'd never thought you'd have? Marriage vows wreathed in beauty and awe instead of forced by the hand of a master strategist, dancing and celebration instead of a grim scene in her brother's study. A day of enchantment, where every time her eyes met Ciaran's, they filled with anticipation of the time when they'd be alone at last, when he would come to her, and make love to her, with no shadows, no doubts between them.
"There wasn't time to have any sort of celebration," she faltered. "No time to plan one, I mean."
Caitlin heaved a sigh. "Then I'll get no cakies this week, I s'pose. It's most dis-tressing."
"I'll have Cook send over a basket full of cakies next time she bakes them," Fallon promised.
She started to spur her horse on its way, but Dunne managed to catch the reins, his eyes kind and wise. There was no judgment in them, Fallon realized, only deep affection. "I only wish we'd been able to sail you off into marriage the way the folk hereabouts always wanted to—with the grandest bridal celebration ever to grace Ireland's shores."
"It doesn't matter," Fallon lied. "It would just have been a lot of trouble. It's most likely better this way."
But Dunne peered up into her face, and she was certain she hadn't fooled the man for a moment. "Ye're our own kind o' princess, ye know. Ye're the closest we'll ever get to Maeve the Fairy Queen."
But I'm failing you, a voice inside her cried. What if I can't stop Redmayne from destroying the castle? The standing stones? What if...
"I have to go," she said, the tiniest of quivers in her voice. "My husband is probably halfway to the castle by now."
"The castle? Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo?"
"Captain Redmayne was searching for signs of the smugglers there. That's where my husband is headed."
Dunne frowned. "Miss Fallon, some things shouldn't be meddled with. It's not always good to be pokin' into things. Sometimes ye find things ye wished ye never had."
"I know."
"Miss Fallon," he said again, his frown softening. "It's not me place to say, I know. But it's glad I am ye're not alone anymore."
Fallon nodded, urged her horse away, wondering if Thomas Dunne, with his loving wife, Eileen, and bevy of children, realized how dangerous that could be. She'd been alone forever, had almost embraced her solitude. But now, now she'd tasted what it was like to let someone into her heart. What would it be like once the inevitable happened, and she was alone again? When there was no one to answer the most secret echoes of her soul?
She'd ridden past three more rolling hills and around a ruined abbey when she reined her horse to a halt, the dread she'd managed to calm during her talk with the Dunnes returning full force. She groaned as she saw the spur of road Ciaran had taken. He couldn't have chosen a worse place to begin his prying if the devil himself had whispered in his ear.
Once upon a time, Ferghall Moynihan had been famous hereabouts as the hardest worker in three counties, a wizard who could fix anything that broke, cure any lamb that was sick, coax music out of the most battered fiddle in Glenceo. But all that had changed when he'd collided with something he couldn't make right, no matter how desperately he'd tried.
Grief had banished his legendary patience, rage at the English had sharpened his temper, and helplessness had burdened his spirit until he did his best to drown his pain in drink. But all the whiskey in Ireland couldn't blind him to the anguish in his wife, Siobhan's, eyes, or make him forget the two empty spaces at the family fireside.
Two of their large brood had been sacrificed to the ill-fated rebellion: Samuel gunned down at Vinegar Hill on his seventeenth birthday, nineteen-year-old Michael transported to the convict colonies across the ocean, most likely a slower, more tortuous path to death.
Sickly, pale and rail-thin with mourning, Siobhan was expecting another babe despite the fact that she was well past her forty-first birthday. The doctor Hugh had sent out was grim, and Ferghall was nearly out of his mind with worry. The last thing the Moynihans needed was someone prying about after Silver Hand. Even the gentlest probing could bring disaster. For if, by some chance, Ferghall thought Ciaran was one of Redmayne's informers, God alone knew what might happen.
Digging her heels into her mount, Fallon started down the road at a dead run. She wasn't certain what she expected—Ciaran's hands clamped around Ferghall's throat as he tried to shake loose the information he sought, Fergall swinging the wicked blade of a scythe at Ciaran's stomach, Siobhan and her brood terrified. But no such dreaded image met her eyes.
She drew her horse to a halt, her heart squeezing as she peered down at the scene below her. Ciaran the warrior who had stalked from her bedchamber with fire in his eyes was transformed. He was on foot, all signs of his gentleman's garb vanished, his dark hair gleaming, his shirt hanging open to bare a slice of his chest.
He led his horse toward the Moynihan cottage, his handsome features softened, while atop his mount sat Siobhan Moynihan, her stomach so swollen it seemed ready to burst, exhaustion lining her once lovely face. Still, she managed to have the dignity of a queen. A toddler was perched in front of her, sporting the handsome frock coat Ciaran had worn this morning. Balanced between Ciaran's other arm and his hip was a rough-woven basket brimming with freshly washed laundry.
Fallon watched as he drew rein at the cottage door, set down the basket, then lifted down the child and pressed coins into his hand. The few coins Hugh had doubtless given him the night before.
Sioban started to struggle down herself, but he stopped her, and, gentle, reverent, sorrowful as if she were the Holy Mother herself, Ciaran lifted Siobhan into his arms and gently set her on her feet.
In that instant, he glimpsed Fallon watching on the path, and the expression on his face awed her, stunned her, broke her heart. It was as if all the tears shed, all the pain endured, all the dreams lost on this embattled island gathered into the soft green of Ciaran's eyes. Understanding—stark, complete. A sudden meeting of souls more intense in its way than any physical union of their bodies could ever be.
Without a word he carried the basket into the tiny cottage. Fallon watched as he went to the well, drew up a fresh bucket of water, and took it inside.
Then he mounted his horse and came toward her. He'd never looked so strong, so honorable, so beautiful.
"I was afraid you would get into trouble," she said, her voice unsteady. "Searching for Silver Hand."
"I meant to find him. But then—"
"Then you found Caitlin and her da, and Siobhan and her babies."
"I looked around me, and I saw..." He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I couldn't even remember why I'd ridden out. I could only... How do they survive, Fallon? All those children—and this soil so harsh, so barren, for all its beauty. How can they believe in fairy songs and bard's hero tales?"
How could she ever explain? She looked down at the tiny cottage. Its thatch gleamed, rose vines clambering up to weave among the straw. "The stories feed their souls. The tales are their lifeblood. Every time they trace the ogham script carved into a standing stone, every time they enter a fairy ring of stones, they remember that they're part of something greater, more powerful, more beautiful than anything their conquerors have known."
Ciaran's voice dropped to a soft murmur, his solemn gaze meeting hers. "That's why you called me back."
She trembled at the enormity of what he'd said. "Called... called you... Does that mean... Ciaran, do you remember something?" She hovered on the brink of something wonderful, something terrible.
"I'm not certain. It's just... impressions. Bits and flashes. Feelings. But I have to go back to where
it all began. The key has to be there, Fallon. Whether it's tangled with Silver Hand's smugglers, or wrapped in your dreams." His eyes darkened, the mysteries of the ages in their depths. "Take me there, Fallon. To the castle."
She nodded and turned her gaze toward the hills, to where limitless possibilities lay waiting. Wasn't this what she'd wanted? For him to believe in heroes that walked out of the mist, in fairy rings and magic. And yet, she'd never imagined what that belief might cost her. For if he was the Ciaran of legend, nothing could hold him. Not the chains of marriage vows, not even a woman's love.
Chapter 13
Mist snagged on one green hilltop, a shimmering island of mystery floating in the heartbreakingly blue sky. It was as if Eire had polished and preened and garbed herself in her finest raiment to welcome Ciaran of the Mist home.
Ciaran's horse picked its way to the top of the hill, where the tower castle still stood sentinel after so many years, and he wondered how many times over the centuries beleaguered Irish had turned their gaze toward the stone walls, drawing courage from a past almost more real to them than their present. Was he a part of that legacy? Or was he sinking ever deeper into Mary Fallon's fantasies?
He glanced at her, so regal atop her own mount that she might have been Maeve the Fairy Queen herself. Her hair glowed, the red highlights burnished by the sunlight, her chin tipped up, neck arched with an innate pride no mere mortal could humble. And her crystal blue eyes shone with the dreams of ages past and the hope of the future to come. A hope hard-won, Ciaran now realized. Wrested from the crushing grasp of those who had conquered this island so many generations ago.
His throat tightened, his fingers clenching on the reins. Where was she leading him, his fairy queen? One thing he was beginning to be certain of: destiny had cast him into her arms. Perhaps it didn't matter whether or not he was the legendary hero she believed him to be. There was something in these people that echoed through him with the exquisite resonance of a familiar tune plucked from the strings of a harp.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 20