Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  Why can't he be mine? A voice cried in her heart as his lips skimmed over her temple, down the curve of her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth.

  His finger hooked under her chin, raising her mouth to his, and he kissed her with such tenderness, her knees melted, her heart burst. She delved her fingers back into the dark thickness of the hair at his nape, and with a wounded moan made fierce love to his mouth, as if this were the last kiss they would ever share.

  She could taste the passion in him, the pain, the yearning, and the fear—the same fear she herself knew: that the time they had left was slipping away.

  She wanted him to drag her down onto the mossy bed in the lee of the stone, wanted to strip away the layers of clothing that separated them, wanted him to make love to her with such passion even the fairies across the divide in Tir na nOg would weep at its beauty. The heartless, greedy creatures would be unable to part them, even when his quest was past.

  She slid her hands into the opened front of his shirt, felt the ripple of hot muscle, the soft swell of her belly cradling the hardening evidence that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Then, suddenly, Ciaran's whole body stiffened, his mouth stilled.

  She gave a tiny cry of protest as he drew away. "Fallon, wait."

  She couldn't bear it if he turned away now. She tightened her fingers in his hair, strained on tiptoe to meet his mouth. But he only shook his head, his voice roughened with unappeased passion.

  "We're not alone."

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Had Redmayne or his minions followed them? Had they led the Englishman here? She wheeled. What she saw stunned her. Heat spilled into her cheeks, and she pressed her fingertips to her kiss-stained lips.

  No soldiers emerged from the faint wisps of mist that always seemed to cling about the castle. Rather, beloved, familiar figures—the country folk from around Glenceo.

  The Dunnes were the first she recognized—gawky stair-step boys who never backed down from a fight—Dermott Mahon with his flock of pretty daughters, old Brian Loughlin who had buried his wife and children and grandchildren when fever had swept through their cottage eight months ago, Siobhan Moynihan, her stomach swelling, a toddler's hand in each of her own. And others—a dozen others.

  What could have driven them to come here? Some catastrophe? The soldiers raiding the countryside as they had so many times before, sweeping up supposed rebels to fill their jails and wet their whipcords with blood?

  "What is it?" Fallon ran toward them, sick with apprehension. "Is something wrong?"

  "Not at all, miss!" Tom Dunne cried as she reached them, his uilleann pipes tucked beneath one beefy arm, a grin on his face. "Caitlin and me, we thought ye and yer husband should have a proper weddin' celebration," he said. "So we summoned up the lot of those who love ye, and brought 'em here fer a charmin' time. Except it seems as if ye had other plans." A merry twinkle lit his eyes. " 'Tis a fine place fer a lover's tryst, though ye'd have to be careful not to get pebbles in yer..."

  "Thomas!" Dunne's blushing wife jabbed him with one elbow. "That's enough of such talk! Nothin' like a wedding, Miss Fallon, to bring out the bawdy in a man."

  "Shoes! I was just goin' to say shoes, woman!" Tom pretended to be indignant. "It isn't my fault that yer mind runs wicked!"

  Fallon stammered something, she couldn't remember what. But even embarrassment at being caught in such a compromising position faded next to the glow of happiness, of affection in these people she loved so well. They were people of the earth, with an innate understanding, respect and awe for the seasons of life—death and birth, courtship, marriage and mating.

  "Thomas," Ciaran said gruffly, his gaze flicking to the bundle of food Oonagh Dunne was busily spreading on a flat stone. "You shouldn't have gone to such trouble." Fallon glanced up at Ciaran's face, saw how deeply he was moved.

  Little Caitlin swept up, still resplendent in Ciaran's cloak. "I wanted to wait until Mammy made up me dress all shimmery. Then Miss Fallon could sit on the Lady Stone, like it was a throne, and we could bring our presents, and I'd be so pretty me brother's eyes'd all pop out of their heads like they do when I punch 'em in the belly."

  "I think that's a grand idea, treasure," a stooped figure slipped from the crowd, wise old eyes shining, her slender shoulders wrapped in the cloak Ciaran had given her. "Not the punchin' o' yer poor brothers, mind. But perhaps Miss Fallon's husband would take her to the stone."

  A smile spread over Ciaran's face. "Maeve! Maeve McGinty."

  "Aye, 'tis me, lad. Wouldn't be missin' this fer the world. Now, do as young Caitlin says, and take yer bride to the Lady Stone.

  "Lady Stone?"

  "The man who built this castle long ago, he never had a love because of a fairy spell. But many is the lady would've given her very soul away for a chance to win his heart. Not wantin' the ladies to suffer the pain he did, Ciaran did three impossible tasks for a fairy maid. In exchange, the fairy placed an enchantment on a stone where the wind whispers most sweetly, and the sea sings its song. And any lady who sits upon it will dream of her one forever-love."

  Fallon saw the shadow cross Ciaran's face at Maeve's tale, felt the yearning in him. But he did as the old woman bade. He took Fallon's hand and led her to the stone Maeve pointed to.

  The Lady Stone. Even Fallon had courted its magic once, lowered herself upon it to watch the sea roar and the mist dance. But no dream of a true love had spun out inside her head. Instead, as always, her imagination had filled with images of Ciaran of the Mist.

  Her eyes locked with Ciaran's for a long moment. Then she eased down onto the stone almost gingerly. His hand, so strong, so warm, so vital and real, curved atop her shoulder. And in that instant, it was as if a jolt of something shot through Fallon, a sense of Rightness, of destiny, of fate.

  But she didn't need the stone to tell her. This man was her husband. Her love.

  Maeve placed a crown of wildflowers on Fallon's curls. Their fragrance filled her senses—yarrow and fairy grass, cherry blossoms and tiny sprigs from a rowan tree.

  Family after family came forward, dressed in their shabby finest, their faces alight with anticipation and joy. Work-roughened hands pressed humble gifts into her grasp. Moira MacConaghy brought a baby dress stitched from her wedding gown: "Had enough cloth fer two, and the one I made for my first babe was so pretty, I couldn't resist sewing up the other. Was savin' it fer somethin' special. And now, I'm so glad I did."

  Caitlin brought her family's offering, a twig with a few straggly leaves on it, the roots wrapped in a damp cloth. " 'Twill be a cherry tree when it grows up, like the one in the story ye always loved. The one with the 'chanting cherries and the fairy king. And someday, if ye're lucky enough to have a girl like me, ye can sit under the tree and tell her, oh, everything magic."

  Fallon cradled the seedling in her hands, such a small, fragile thing on which to hang a legend, such a tenuous link to a dream—the dream of a daughter with Ciaran's glen-green eyes, his beautiful smile.

  The last to approach was Siobhan Moynihan. She glided up, took something from her pocket. A lumpy bundle of soft, heather-colored homespun, a piece of sugar loaf inside. "My grandmother gave me this on my wedding day." A soft rose stained her cheeks. "She was a healer. She said..." Siobhan's voice broke a little. "She said it was a charm to help me remember the sweetness of love when trouble came. And there is sweetness," she said fiercely. "I only hope my man remembers it some day."

  Fallon wondered if the Madonna had looked thus before her son had died—lovely, fragile, yet so strong, the hope of the world shining through the pain in her eyes.

  How could she begin to thank these people who had opened their hearts to her? Their generosity, their selflessness, their courage humbled her. They had sacrificed so much, had so much stolen from them. But not their dignity. Not their warmth. Not their innate beauty. And Ciaran understood.

  Fallon's eyes filled with tears, until their faces blurred before her, their gifts as hazy as images from the oth
er world. But no fairy treasure could have been more precious to her. And no memory could hold more beauty than that of Ciaran, his handsome face flooded with emotion, his eyes grave with gratitude as he thanked Siobhan and little Caitlin, Tom and Dermott, pausing to press the women's hands with gentle chivalry, ruffle the curls of the children, talk to their men.

  It was so beautiful, tears burned Fallon's eyes. It was Tom Dunne who saw her swipe one surreptitiously from her cheek.

  "Here now, we can't be havin' this, Miss Fallon. It is for joy only, this day. Time for a bit of music, I'm thinkin'." He turned to Ciaran. "Ye may not know it, but yer bride can dance like the wind. Never saw anythin' more wondrous than Miss Fallon dancin'. It is pure pleasure to watch her, it is."

  Ciaran's gaze found hers. "Would you, Fallon? Dance for me?"

  There was such hunger in his eyes, a need to know all of her, every facet, every secret, every sorrow and joy before it was too late. Fallon sensed it implicitly, for she felt the same driving need.

  But was it possible to dance with suppressed tears in one's throat? When all one's emotions were far too tender and close to the surface? Wasn't there a danger of revealing too much? Everything she needed—from Ciaran, only Ciaran.

  But it was Ciaran who asked this of her, his ageless eyes beckoning her from a thousand dreams.

  Slowly she stood. Tom Dunne perched on a ledge of stone, cradling his set of uilleann pipes with the same infinite tenderness he lavished on his little daughter. Fallon saw her beloved glen folk fall back into a circle, smiling delight, encouragement. The first notes spun out, sizzling down Fallon's spine, igniting some irresistible force within her with their hauntingly beautiful strains, quivering there for a long moment, before Tom Dunne made the melody dance.

  Since time began, the Irish had poured joy and sorrow, passion and pain into their music and dance, distilling life to its purest essence. She closed her eyes and embraced it, letting it flow through her. Her feet moved in the steps of the dance.

  How many times had she done this? Shared this with the country folk? Delighted in it? Yet this time was far different. She'd watched others courting, wooing through the movements, watched passion ignite in the eyes of other lovers as the freedom of the dance unleashed inhibitions, overcame shyness. And some secret part of her had envied them for having something she could never know—the freedom to love.

  But this time she was the one dancing for her beloved, feeling his gaze hot upon her, as certainly as she'd felt his caress the night before.

  Someone brought out a bodhran, and the ancient Celtic war drum kept a beat as primal as the pulsing of the earth's very heart. Fallon felt vulnerability—stark, terrifying, and yet oddly exhilarating as well—born of complete trust, absolute surrender, a crashing down of inner walls that had protected her heart since the day her mother had died.

  Her blood quickened, raced, her steps became faster, as she dared to let her lashes flutter up. She knew the others were there, but she saw only him, Ciaran, standing so tall, so proud, his eyes hot as coals, his mouth fierce with hunger and yearning. Her gaze locked with his as she poured everything she was into the dance.

  The dance... Ciaran couldn't breathe, couldn't move as he watched her whirl about, her skirts caught up to her knees, her trim ankles flashing, white-stockinged, delicate, lovely. Light as will-o'-the-wisps, her feet darted to the rhythm. She moved as if the merest gossamer threads bound her to the earth.

  Her hair tumbled down from its pins, a luminescent, silken cascade, and Ciaran felt as if the wind itself had plucked the pins free, unable to bear any trappings of cold civilization, prim English ways that might taint this wondrous, fey creature. Ireland seemed to be claiming this woman as its own.

  But she was his, Ciaran thought with savage possessiveness. His bride. For now, this enchanted moment, Mary Fallon belonged to him.

  Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed rose. Every movement of her supple body beckoned him, seducing him, enthralling him. He glimpsed Maeve nudging one of the bold crofter's lads. With a smile, the young man came into the circle and began to dance facing Fallon, a strong, handsome youth, as much a part of this place as Fallon was. Ciaran felt a hot tide of jealousy, unreasonable anger at both Maeve and the other man. Before he could stop to consider, Ciaran strode into the ring of clapping glen folk. The youth took one look at his face, and backed away. Ciaran saw Maeve's winsome dried-apple face smiling at him then she turned in a swirl of blue cloak and started down the mountain.

  Blast the old meddler! Where the devil was she going? But there was nothing to do but brazen this out. A hush of expectancy hung over the crowd, the only sound the dancing of the pipes and the rhythm of Fallon's steps.

  Defiantly, resolutely, Ciaran stared down at Fallon's feet, not giving a damn if he made a complete fool of himself, wanting only to share this with her, this rite of earth and sky and wind, this melding with things ancient and eternal.

  Hands on his hips, he forced his feet to move. Awkward, clumsy, he felt like a plodding plow horse beside an ethereal butterfly. Yet the stomp of his boot heels against the ground caught the rhythm. Heat flooded his cheeks, sweat beaded his brow as he fought to keep up with the relentless beauty of Tom Dunne's piping.

  Then his gaze caught Fallon's, and he drowned in the fey blue depths. And in that instant, Ciaran believed in the power of enchantment. Like a swift current, she swept up his soul, shaking free every inhibition, awakening something that had been sleeping within him. Steps that had seemed impossible were no longer so. His was no dance of air and sunbeams, his was one of earth and fierce masculine desire, the pulsing of battle drums and the primal need to protect one's mate.

  Gasps of awe rose from the crowd, but he barely heard them. He only saw the rising tide of pride and joy in the eyes of his bride. Something sizzled between them, a challenge as old as the first wild mare that had tossed her mane—teasing, tempting—and raced away across the hills from the stallion she desired.

  Fallon's neck arched at a proud angle. Impossible as it seemed, her feet flashed even faster, the steps intricate as the web of lines in the interlacing she'd shown him in the pages of her treasured book. Breathtaking, beautiful, she paused for an instant, daring him to echo her dance.

  He wanted to grab her, crush her in his arms, bury his lips in hers. He wanted to lay her down on the moss, bunch her skirts up about her waist and take her with all the primitive passion that had been building between them.

  Instead, he matched her step for step, move for move, his boot heels pounding in answering rhythm to the tightening in his loins. Astonishment lit her face, drove her to dance faster, leap higher as the pipes worked their enchantment, but he'd not let her outstrip him, pushed her to greater lengths, until their breath rasped, their skin glowed with sweat, their hearts raced, and their eyes answered each primal call in a language neither could mistake.

  When her tongue flicked out to lick a tiny bead of sweat from her upper lip, Ciaran couldn't bear the torment any more. He had to touch her. In a heartbeat, he lunged, sweeping her into his arms. She cried out in surprise and delight as he tossed her high above him, the flower crown flying from her hair in a shower of petals, her skirts rippling, her face glowing. He caught her as she came down and whirled her around and around in his arms until they were both so dizzy that he collapsed on the turf, taking her with him.

  The firm curve of her bottom landed on his rigid staff. Her breasts heaved with the exertion, trembling against him where his shirt hung open. He remembered suckling those soft globes, watching her nipples respond to his touch.

  The world stopped, nothing existing in that instant but Fallon's face, turned up to his, love luminous in her eyes, her lips dewy and ripe with hunger for him—only for him.

  No force on earth could have kept him from claiming her. His mouth devoured hers, drinking in the flavors that were Fallon's alone, bewitching, intoxicating, wild.

  His wife—his bride. Could words spoken by any holy man ever forge
the bond that joined them together? Or was this something beyond the grasp of mere vows, something so fiercely exquisite that it broke Ciaran's heart? He kissed her, every vulnerability stripped raw, every need throbbing at the surface, nothing held back from her, nothing concealed. Nothing existed except the two of them, and the power and the passion between them.

  He didn't notice the hush fall over the crowd, the sudden stillness. Only the low purr of a voice that pierced through him: "Such deplorable lack of finesse, MacDonough. Much more enthusiasm, and I fear you'll suffocate her."

  Redmayne.

  Chapter 15

  Awareness of the Englishman slid beneath Ciaran's skin like a cold blade. He jerked away from Fallon and glared up into the faintly amused eyes of his nemesis. Where the devil had the man come from? It was as if he'd appeared in a puff of brimstone, like the devil he was.

  In a heartbeat, Ciaran was on his feet, Fallon drawn up beside him. He stepped in front of her in an effort to shield her as she shook her tangled skirts into place, and tried to conceal the vulnerabilities so stark on her face.

  Ciaran's gut churned at the knowledge that the English bastard had witnessed such an intimate moment—between Fallon and her beloved glen folk, between the mist and the castle, between Ciaran and his bride.

  But now the darkness crawled with Redmayne's soldiers, prowling like a pack of wolves. How could he have been such a fool, not noticing Redmayne's minions all but surrounding them? He'd been too intoxicated by Fallon, the lithe movements of her body, the invitation that had driven every instinct from his mind except the need to mate with her. If Redmayne had come to massacre these people, he'd have been oblivious until the first pistol shot rang out.

  "What are you doing here, Redmayne?" he snarled.