"I know you will. That's why I summoned you back."
He wanted to kiss her wistful mouth, wanted to draw her into his arms, to keep her safe, the dreams in her eyes untarnished. Instead, he turned to the stones.
"Have you ever ventured beneath the castle? Through the souterrains?" he asked then grimaced. What a pointless, absurd question. "Never mind. Just show me the entrance and I'll go down into the labyrinth."
Her chin tipped up at that resolute angle he was coming to dread. "Not unless I come with you."
"Blast it, Fallon, what if we stumble across someone dangerous?"
"If there is someone hostile down there, they wouldn't need to bestir themselves to do away with you. You'd just bumble around until you fell through one of the holes or stepped from a hidden drop off. The one thing I can guarantee you is this—you'd never find your way out."
"And Fiachra might lure me to break my body on the cliffs?"
"He might. Ciaran, I had started to hope... believe you were beginning to understand. The magic of this castle, the magic that summoned you was entrusted to me. This is my quest, too."
Ciaran wanted to deny it. There must be a dozen ways to keep one obstinate woman out of the labyrinth and safe. Any sane man would make use of one of them. And yet, she'd been so determined, so brave from the very beginning, a lonely and desperate young woman who had known too little love in her life, a dreamer with the courage to test a legend, have faith in magic—not realizing that the real magic lay in the fact that after all she'd seen, all she'd suffered, all she'd endured, she was still able to believe so fiercely in the power of good over evil, right over wrong, love over hate.
She stood before him, magnificent in her strength. And he knew that to leave her behind now would be a betrayal of the worst kind.
Besides, Ciaran reasoned, wouldn't she be in as much danger out here, with Redmayne and his men prowling about? Perhaps she was safer beside him.
Ciaran peered down into those lake-blue eyes. "You're right. This is your quest, too."
Despite the tension, the uncertainty, the possibility of danger, her face glowed, suddenly incandescent. Ciaran's heart lurched. She'd offered him so many gifts since he'd staggered into her life. He was certain that this act of his—trusting her abilities, acknowledging her strength—had returned a small measure of what she'd given him. He wanted to smooth his fingertips over the soft curve of her cheek. But if he did, he might never have the strength to pull away again. He curled his fingers into his palms and turned away.
"Show me the way," he said quietly, realizing she'd been doing just that, time and again.
She crossed to an overgrown section of the castle, where vines laced the wall. Fallon knelt down, her slender fingers easing into a crack outlining a stone block. She slid it free, revealing a nook beyond. He marveled at what it contained: a length of rope, several torches, a bundle of candles and a battered tin candleholder, a tinderbox containing flint and steel. She lit the torch within moments, and he eased the stone back into place.
Holding the flickering light before her, she led him to the secret door Ciaran of the Mist had fashioned centuries before. He followed her, his enchantress with the fire of ancient Celts still coursing in her blood. And if she'd guided him through a window in time, to this place, this Tir na nOg she'd spoken of, he'd not have been surprised.
Ciaran felt at his waist for the hilt of his dagger. He would find answers here. He had to uncover his past life before he could hope for a future. He had to find some way to shelter the time-worn stones, the fairy rings, the mist-touched souls of the people Fallon loved.
Once inside, he and Fallon sealed the entryway again, so none could follow. Darkness closed about them, held back only by the circle of golden glow from the torch. Down Fallon led him, through winding passages where, here and there, lay the treasures she'd spoken of.
An iron axe head from ancient times was tucked on a ledge of stone, part of its wooden handle still attached. A sword, its once sharp blade eaten away by time until it had the appearance of iron lace, lay on a bed of embroidered linen so fragile it looked as if a touch would make it disintegrate.
Perhaps the labyrinth was enchanted, for he could almost hear the whispers of all who had sought shelter here, feel their presence pressed into the stone.
Was this the kind of place Silver Hand would choose for his lair? It felt as if no man since Fallon's Fiachra the bard had dared these narrow passages.
Fallon's torchlight ran orange-gold rivers of light across the rough walls, and Ciaran saw carvings here and there. May God have mercy on our souls, the plea was etched in an uneven scrawl, names carved alongside—Aisling MacConnell, Michael Moriarty, Fr. John Donnelly. How had they chipped the names into the stone? It must have taken forever. Had they wanted to immortalize themselves? Leave the writings as a testament to their suffering? Or had they chipped into the wall slowly, painstakingly during the time they were trapped here, to keep themselves from going mad?
The path was leading downward, the man-made tunnels opening into caves carved by nature's hand. Fallon edged around gaping holes in the floor, guided Ciaran past ledges that beckoned to certain death—cunning traps, set by the desperate, who had tucked bits of crude gold jewelry on the far side of the openings to tempt the greedy.
As they wound deeper, Ciaran saw a cradle, carved with interlacing, tucked into one nook. Was it here the savior of Connaught had been rocked, taught the resourcefulness that would save at least a few from being crushed beneath Cromwell's boot? A kettle for boiling lay overturned, a gaping hole staved into its bronze belly. A primitive stone quern for grinding grain stood silent beside it. Ciaran wondered how grain had been brought to that quern—at what price in danger? Had it belonged to the woman who had rocked the cradle? Had her husband, her lover, stolen out after darkness to find food for her and the little one? Had he carried the horrible knot of terror in his gut, the agonizing question—what would become of his wife and child if he were killed?
The musty remains of a makeshift bed made Ciaran's chest hurt. What would it be like if Fallon were that woman? If the cradle held their child, and he was all but helpless to protect them? An enemy stalking, hunting them?
A sound shattered his thoughts, and in an instant the dagger was in his hand. But Fallon laid gentle fingers on his arm.
"It was only loose pebbles," she said. "You grazed them with your boot."
It was true. His heartbeat slowed, but that did nothing to calm his self-disgust. This time it had been only pebbles, but it might have been Silver Hand or his men, and he would have been caught completely by surprise.
Fool, he berated himself. No matter how the ghosts in these souterrains clamored for his attention, he had to remember there was more immediate danger. Redmayne. Silver Hand. Maybe his own undiscovered past.
He searched, his gaze newly focused as they continued, saw the print of a man's boot heel, a broken bottle that smelled of madeira, tufts of wool snagged on rough stone—the tiniest signs that someone other than Fallon's fairy spirits had wandered here of late.
He tried to concentrate, tried to fit this place into his memory, grasp something familiar. But all he got for his effort was a fierce throb that made his head ache again. He could hear a roaring in his ears.
No, by thunder! He could feel a sudden dampness in the air, and the roaring was the sea! Grabbing Fallon's hand, he charged toward the sound. A few minutes more, and they were standing in a high-ceilinged cave, a miraculously calm crescent of water lapping at its exit. Boats, pristine and well cared for, were overturned on the ground, neat bales of wool stacked in dry alcoves. Beside them were wooden boxes, unopened. Ciaran wondered what they were. Expensive laces or liquors so the rich could pinch a few more of their precious coins?
He stalked over to the boxes, grabbed a long iron bar, and pried off the nearest lid. Had a captive mermaid sprung from its confines, he would have been no more startled.
Fallon leaned over, bringing the light
with her. She gasped. "What... what is this? Simple crockery, foodstuffs, leather shoes. Surely no smuggler in his right mind would risk his neck to bring such things to Glenceo."
"Why? What should he smuggle in, Fallon?"
"Laces. Wine and brandy. French silks. Whatever the gentry might buy when the excise men have their backs turned. But this—not one grand family in the county would let such pedestrian wares cross their threshold."
"Then perhaps the wares aren't for anyone grand." His gaze met hers over the top of the box. "Blast, this is so strange. Smugglers ply their trade for money. They dare the noose for wealth, not for such paltry things as these."
"But there must be something here that can help us if we search hard enough. Ciaran, does anything here look familiar?" Abandoning the crate, Fallon began to look around. But there was nothing that could lead them to Silver Hand or give them any clue as to who might be lurking behind the elusive smuggler's carefully concealed identity.
Blast, it was just one more mystery. Their journey through the souterrains only raised more questions. Fallon was still searching doggedly through the last of the crates, and Ciaran was almost ready to curse the place to the blazes, when he noticed something white tucked beneath the prow of the farthest boat.
He knelt down, slid out a slip of paper and scanned the bold scrawl. Tuesday next.
A rush of triumph jolted through him. It must be mean some sort of rendezvous for Silver Hand and his men. He and Fallon would have to return Tuesday. He glanced at her, intending to share his find, but as his gaze locked on her face, he hesitated.
I was hoping you were beginning to understand, her voice echoed in his memory. This is my quest, too.
It should be so simple—Fallon deserved to know everything. She was brave, bright, resourceful, and she knew this land, understood these people better than anyone else living. She had traced the paths of this labyrinth countless times. Yet, could he really bring the woman he loved into danger? Gamble her life?
His jaw tightened, and he thrust the message back into place. He'd rather take a beating than tell a lie, but there were other ways to conceal—half-truths, things left unsaid.
"Enough, Fallon."
She turned, shadows from the torchlight flickering over her face. Guilt filled him. "Surely you want to keep looking."
"You were right. If we keep poking around, what will we find? More sturdy boots and cooking pots? There is nothing here that is familiar to me." It was true. The casks, the boxes, the boats—none of them whispered to him of all that he'd lost. Yet the souterrains themselves, the tunnels, the things fugitives had left behind—they resonated, plucked chords deep inside him.
Shoving a wisp of hair away from her brow with the back of one hand, Fallon gazed at him intently. "I'm sorry you didn't find anything to help you here. I know it must be difficult, feeling as if you've lost yourself."
Could she make him feel any more the bastard, Ciaran wondered. She did. She reached out, touched his hand with the slightest butterfly's wing of a touch, her mouth sweet with sorrow. Something in that mouth made him realize the truth. Yes, he was worried about Fallon's safety. No, he didn't want to risk hurling her into the midst of a nest of angry, possibly vengeful smugglers. Even smugglers with such common wares to protect could get ugly when their lair was invaded. They might shoot first, ask questions later.
But there was another reason, even stronger, that had driven him to thrust the note back beneath the boat's prow. A reason that shamed him. To take a smuggler's bullet, to die in front of his lady's eyes would be terrible beyond imagining. But it wouldn't be half so chilling as watching Fallon's eyes flood with disillusionment, revulsion, if the mystical hero she'd summoned was transformed into a common criminal. To watch her dreams die.
No. Whatever he had been before he met her, whatever mistakes he'd made, however he'd failed, he'd been forever altered by the faith in those sea-blue eyes. When Tuesday came, he would find his way back to this cave, confront these men who might know his secrets. But he'd do it alone. And in the meantime, he'd do what he could to make certain Fallon and the people she loved, this castle with its secrets and its living soul, were protected.
And he would love her. For whatever time they had left. He would fill the empty spaces in his memory with every nuance of her expression. He'd memorize the warmth of her hand, the texture of her fiery hair, the sound of her voice.
Fallon tried to pry loose the torch she'd jammed between two stones. Ciaran crossed to her, tugging it free himself. "I'll find the way out," he said, hating himself for deceiving her.
"It's too dangerous—"
He forced a smile. "You're the one who claimed I couldn't do it. Come, Fallon, you don't think your hero of the mist could resist such a challenge."
"But—"
"You'll be right there to call out before I step into oblivion."
She sighed. "That's true enough. It's not as if you'd be attempting it alone."
Not this time, Ciaran thought grimly. But when Tuesday came...
With a warrior's instinct, he focused every fiber of his being, every sense and instinct he possessed to mark the path. What was it Fallon had claimed? No friend of Erin had ever been lost in the maze, and no enemy had ever returned alive.
When he returned, perhaps the legend would tell him what his memory would not: whether he belonged to the mist and the green hills, the singing winds and the delicate interlacing. Whether he belonged to Ireland, and to the woman who had invaded his heart.
Chapter 14
Thank heaven he hadn't attempted the labyrinth alone, Fallon thought, relieved as they neared the entrance at last. She'd pulled Ciaran away from the brink of disaster a dozen times as they'd wound their way back through the souterrains, and the strain was beginning to fray her nerves.
But what troubled her now was far more complicated than a mere journey through twisted tunnels. It was the labyrinth of her own emotions she was beginning to fear. Everything had seemed so simple when she'd taken the ancient brooch to Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo on Beltane.
Even after Ciaran had appeared she'd known what she wanted. Perhaps his memory was obscured. Perhaps he wasn't exactly what she'd expected. And perhaps there had been unforeseen complications to deal with. But the one thing Fallon had never questioned was the results that she had wanted. The castle safe. Redmayne stopped. For her life to go on as it had, year after year, filled with legends and bard song, the scent of heather and the warmth of the peat fires in the cottages she visited. Dreams that had always been far more real to her than the world of shipping ledgers and livestock and crops, ballrooms and military reviews and foxhunts. The ancient past had always seemed far more alive to her than the present. Because it was safe.
The realization struck her, astonishing her. She'd always considered herself an adventurer, like Maeve, the woman so strong she'd matched wits with Cuchulain, had been his greatest adversary, or Grainne O'Malley, queen of the pirates, who'd bedeviled England's Elizabeth I. Was it possible that she'd been hiding, as deeply in her own way as Hugh was when he buried himself among his ledgers and business affairs?
And yet everything had changed since Ciaran had come into her life. She knew what it was to love a man, to feel callused, eager hands on her naked skin instead of the caresses of mere phantoms, taste the fierce tenderness of his kisses instead of just imagining what it must be like.
Now she understood the real tragedy Deirdre of the Sorrows had faced. Deirdre hadn't cared about legends or the laments bards would sing about her one day—she'd only wanted Naosi's arms around her, wanted to sleep with her hand pressed against his chest so she could feel the precious beating of his heart.
Deirdre had never been given a choice between becoming a thread in the tapestry of legend and embracing the lot of a mere mortal woman—a woman who would awaken with her lover throughout a long life filled with simple joys and sorrows, aggravations and triumphs, arguments and the honeyed pleasure of healing the breach once tempers had
cooled.
Fallon's throat tightened as she watched Ciaran near the opening that led back out into the world of blue skies and mist, a place where destiny still awaited them and the fates held uncertain futures in their hands. She would be given no choice either—be it myth or reality—however the next weeks played out. But if she could choose—between Ciaran of the Mist, the magic that would protect what was irreplaceable to her people, and Ciaran the man, who had taken her to wife, who had awakened her to the glory of simple things, a rumpled bed, a drowsy smile, the possibility of a cradle of their own, filled with a child created out of their loving—how would she choose?
In her heart, the darkest, most secret places of her heart, she had betrayed the legacy of the brooch already. If he were only a man, he could love her.
Ciaran turned at that instant, reached for her hand. She clung to his strong fingers as they stepped back into the light. It was only the glare after so much dimness that made her vision blur, her eyes sting, Fallon assured herself, not the battle even now taking place in her heart.
It took Ciaran mere moments to extinguish the torch and return it to its hiding place. Carefully he erased all signs of their presence, instinctively doing his best to protect the entrance to the souterrain from Redmayne's keen eyes.
Despite her most valiant efforts, Fallon couldn't drive back the tears, even when he turned around to face her. She needed so much for him to touch her—to know that, for this single moment, this tiny, infinitely precious window in time, he was real. He was hers.
She could see the emotions warring in his face, the need, the resistance, the surrender. Without a word, he came to her, gathered her in his arms. She clung to him, the wind whispering Deirdre's lament, the sea that had always sung to her, jeering now. If you could choose...
He never belonged to the fairies—they stole him. He never wanted to be their champion. Why shouldn't he be allowed to love?
But without the betrayal of the fairy king, without the enchantment of the cherries, there wouldn't have been the magic. The battles he'd fought through the centuries for those too weak to defend themselves, the castle, the souterrains that had offered haven, even when the greedy otherworld had kept him prisoner.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 22