Ciaran should have carried her back to Misthaven House, the safety of her brother's walls. He wasn't certain what force guided him onto a different track, winding upward along the cliffs.
Why? There was a warm bed, a fire, waiting in the room where he'd first made love to Fallon. And the truth that he was not the hero of legend she'd sought still left him feeling oddly raw.
She nestled against his chest, the only thing in his life that was real. He couldn't help remembering the tale she had spun for him—the tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows and her lover, Naosi. Had Naosi held her in his arms thus as they fled from the high king's wrath? Had he been uncertain of his powers to protect her? Feared that he would disappoint her somehow? Fail her?
But Ciaran had fulfilled the quest Fallon had set for him. He'd made certain the castle was safe, hadn't he? Why did he feel that something vital was unfinished? Why was he restless, disappointed in himself? Why did he suddenly need the healing power of jagged, stone walls reaching up into the sky, of sea spray and gull cries from the ocean crashing beneath the cliffs? And why did he need Fallon there, in his arms?
This was insane. The place had been crawling with soldiers when he'd left it the night before. Beneath the castle lay a den for smugglers, Silver Hand and his men. Why did it feel as if the tumbledown castle belonged to him? Now, when he was finally certain that Fallon's whispers of magic and legend were what he feared—the beautiful imaginings of an embattled people?
Or was it that he needed to be as close to Mary Fallon as possible just once before he traversed the labyrinth alone?
She said nothing, but he sensed when she realized where he was going. She melted even closer against him her breathing soft and light, as if the castle had the power to calm her spirit the way the hand of Mannan MacLir, the Celtic god of the sea, could smooth out the most raging of waters.
Ciaran reined his horse to a halt just beyond the wall, his cheeks heating with embarrassment and confusion. "I must have lost my mind as well as my memory, bringing you to this place. What if Redmayne has set men to watch it?"
"No one is here. The spirits would whisper warning."
She sounded so certain. But how much trust could one place in things unseen—in intuitions and in dreams, in things you couldn't touch? Yet something had compelled him to ride to this castle. His heart? Or an enchantment spun out like a fairy's thread, drawing him to the cliffs and the age-worn stone?
"I just... had to come here. I don't know why."
"But I do." Her warm breath feathered across his jaw. She drew away, shifting in his arms until she could gaze up into his eyes. And he knew in that instant that if the goddess of enchantment had a face, it looked exactly like Mary Fallon's—delicate features filled with possibilities, eyes brimming with the power of believing, lips impossible not to taste. The silky waves of her hair brushed against his throat, her scent—meadow blossoms and sea wind and peaches in new cream—filling his senses.
"Come with me." She slid to the ground, held out one hand, small and white in the light of the moon.
"Fallon," he grated. "I don't think—"
"This place isn't about thinking, Ciaran. It's about feeling—so many things. Joy and pain, despair and triumph. And love, Ciaran. Always the power of love. Ciaran of the Mist's love for his people, the love that drew him to build this place to shelter them. The love of freedom that began countless rebellions. The love of the mist for the sea. Now, it holds something even more precious to me. This is where I found you. I feel... want... I need..." her gaze flickered away for a moment, and in the moonshine he could see a blush stain her cheeks.
"What, Fallon?" Ciaran's voice roughened. "What do you need?"
"You. Your arms around me. Your heat against my skin. Your mouth and your hands." Her gaze found his, and his heart wrenched at the hint of uncertainty that made her voice tremble. "I was so afraid tonight that I would lose you forever. Make love to me, Ciaran. Here, in this place where I've dreamed forever."
His whole body hardened, the passion he'd battled to keep in check since their wedding night jolting through him in jagged streaks like lightning.
Blast, he'd sworn he wouldn't touch her again. He still didn't know who he was. His past hovered out there somewhere in the mist—something that could be dark and ugly, a past he might find on Tuesday when he descended into the labyrinth alone.
But her words reverberated through him, soft, tremulous with a trust that lanced his heart. I was so afraid I would lose you forever. Mary Fallon, woman of courage and dreams. She had been alone for so long. And she wanted him. His lady of the mist. She was everything brave and beautiful, nurtured here, in the shelter of these stones. And tonight, he felt it, too. The power of this place. Tonight the spirits of Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo would hold the shadows at bay for the daughter of the magic here.
Ciaran peered down into Fallon's eyes, then dismounted, tying the horse to a low-hanging branch. Then he swept her up into his arms. "Where?" he murmured into the fall of her hair. "Where should I take you?"
"The tower. That way." She waved her hand. He moved toward the ancient stairs that ascended the curve of wall.
He was certain that the stones of the castle must still be jagged, the walls half tumbled down. But as he cradled Fallon against him, he saw the place through her eyes, in all its former glory—bold towers thrusting skyward, thick walls defying enemies, the souterrains beneath newly carved, offering haven to the weak.
And he wished, as he bore Fallon skyward, that he were Ciaran of the Mist, bringing home the bride who had broken the cruel enchantment and won his hero's heart.
Skyward he carried her, up stone steps that seemed to soar to the darkened heavens. The arms of Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo reached out to embrace them. At the crest of the stairs, the single tower room stood intact, its circular walls pitted but unbroken, the sky it's only ceiling. It seemed right to be here, in Ciaran's arms. He carried her into the chamber where she had played as a child, dreamed as a woman.
Slowly, he lowered her to her feet. Her breath caught at the sight of him: the billows of the saffron shirt accenting his broad warrior's shoulders, the glow of the brooch holding his rippling mantle, the cabochons seeming to hoard ancient mysteries. He looked as if he had strode out of another century, daring to breach the gates of time to find her.
He said nothing, but she could feel the heat of desire emanating from his every pore. A desire magnified by her own need for him.
Tangling his hand in the silky cascade of auburn at her nape, he tilted her head back on the delicate stem of her neck and drank of her lips with the tenderness of the first awe-touched man who had ever made love to a woman. Fallon melted, pulsed, her breasts afire where they brushed his chest, the place between her thighs aching with emptiness only Ciaran could fill.
Her fingers went to the brooch, working the heavy fastening free. The cloak started to slide from his shoulders. Ciaran broke their kiss, caught the woolen fabric then knelt to make them a bed. And Fallon was certain she would be happy forever, with nothing more than this—an Irish sky above her, the music of the sea below, a crumpled mantle for a bed and Ciaran's kisses.
Her heart lurched as he shifted, kneeling before her, like a knight. Scooping up one of her feet, he placed it on his upraised knee. With deft fingers, he worked the ribbons that held her slipper in place. His dark head bent over the rose-colored satin enclosing her foot. After a moment, he slipped his fingertips beneath the slipper's opening and eased it from her foot. Then, his eyes burning, intense, he trailed his fingers upward, along the silken trail of her stockings, until he found the tender, secret velvet of her inner thigh.
The ribbon garter slipped free, and he rolled the stocking downward, pressed between his two hot palms, his thumbs skimming thigh and the sensitive skin behind her knee, down her calf, to the dainty bones of her ankle, then off her foot. She could scarcely bear the sensations racing through her, but he wasn't finished with his tender torture. He cupped her foot in his two ha
nds, brought it to his lips. Then he began again, conquering the intimate curves of her leg, but his mouth now seemed hungry for the taste of her. He raised the hem of her skirt, and pressed hot kisses on the inside of her knee, the soft white of her thigh. "Beautiful," he murmured.
Her hands tugged at his shirt, longing to unveil his magnificent body. But he stopped her, his voice low, pleading. "Not yet, mo chroi. Not yet. Let me."
He rose again, so tall, so proud, his big hands impossibly deft as he stripped away her clothes layer by layer, treasuring each part he unveiled, soothing her nakedness with his mouth and his hands.
There was something excruciatingly sensual as he peeled away her chemise, letting the last of her garments drift to the floor. He was still fully garbed, yet she stood before him, naked except for the moonlight. But she needed nothing to warm her except the wild heat in his warrior eyes.
He stared at her, as if to burn her image into his memory. Her nipples pearled, her knees trembled, a heavy, thick pulse beat in the wind-stirred auburn down nestled between her thighs.
His hands skimmed the line of her collarbone, dipped into the hollow at the base of her throat and then he filled his palms with the lush globes of her breasts.
"I've dreamed of you touching me there," she confessed. "Your mouth suckling, as if... as if you could draw life from me somehow."
"Don't you realize I have? Drawn everything I am from you, my lady? Everything good and beautiful, until there are times—" He broke off the words, creases forming between his brows.
"Until what, Ciaran?"
"Until I never want to know any life but this—the one I found in your arms."
"Is that so terrible?"
"It might be. For you. What if—damn, who knows what kind of man I used to be? My past—"
"Don't you see? It doesn't matter who you used to be. What matters is who you are now. My husband. The man I..." she hesitated. "The man who convinced me that it might be possible—that we might be able to have a future together." Her voice dropped low. "That is, if you want one."
"Do you think I haven't thought of it? Dreamed of it? I can't stop. I imagine your belly swelling with my babe. Children with your fiery hair, your courage, your generosity of spirit. But even if I dared, I'd come to you with nothing, Fallon. No money to provide for you. No home to shelter you. No name, and no memory."
"But I had all those things—wealth and a grand house, a name I could trace back generations, and so many memories, I only wished I could forget some of them. But none of that mattered. What I came to you with was far sadder than a lost memory, Ciaran. I came with an empty heart."
"Empty? Your heart is brimming full with courage, with generosity, with the love of this place and these people."
"But that was safe, that love. Different. I didn't have to trust just one person, believe in just one person. The castle would always stand here. And the people—there were so many villagers, they would never all leave me. You awakened me, so I could care for something, someone real, instead of pretending my life away. I know that you never intended to stay, but isn't it possible that instead of being lost, Ciaran, you were meant to be found? Maybe you could be happy here."
His face contorted in anguished longing. "Fallon, there is nothing I want more than a future with you. But—"
"Hush!" She laid her fingers across his lips, stopping him. "You're the one who gave me life, brought me out into the world again after years of living in a land of dreams."
"It was a beautiful world, Mary Fallon."
"But a lonely one. I'd not go back to it again. Would you? Return to that other life? The man you were before?"
"I don't know who I was before, but one thing I can tell you." He traced her cheek with his fingertips, gazing at her. "If I were Ciaran of the Mist, with all eternity before me, I would trade immortality in a heartbeat for just one lifetime to love you."
His face was so raw, so vulnerable, so tender. If he had stood before the fairy king, striking this bargain before him, she couldn't have felt his sacrifice or his passion more keenly.
"Ciaran," she whispered. "Ciaran, I love you." Something ignited in his eyes, as if he'd waited twenty lifetimes to hear those words. The emotions in his face were so strong she nearly stumbled back beneath the force of them. Then he was stripping away the billows of his shirt, casting it away. Naked, he gathered her against him, the hot lance of his arousal pillowed against the soft swell of her belly, his mouth devouring hers, his hands skimming across her hip, her back, her breast, her buttocks as though he wanted to touch her everywhere at once.
And she gloried in it—the silky hair spanning his chest rasping against her nipples, the sinewy bands of his arms, the hot satin of his skin, so different from her own. This was the honeyed elixir Deirdre had cast aside a kingdom to taste. This was the primal magic that had made Naosi, the warrior, betray his king. A power beyond reason, an intoxication of the spirit, a fierce pull of destiny, of fate that no laws of man or of heaven could deny.
Gathering her up, he laid her on the nest of mantle he'd made for her. "Do you know how much I wanted you while you danced? It all but drove me mad—the music pounding, your body swaying, swirling, taunting me."
"I wanted to drive you mad—make you crave my touch the way I craved yours. I was dancing for you, Ciaran. Just for you."
With a low growl of need, he trailed kisses down her throat, found the burning point of her nipple and took it in his mouth, suckling, nipping, soothing the tiny sting with the sweep of his tongue. His fingers charted a path downward, along the faint ridges of her ribs, into the tiny dimple of her navel, then down, into the silken lace of auburn curls. She parted her thighs, and the callused tips of his fingers found silken petals. When he dipped into her core, she arched, cried out.
"Ah, Fallon... so hot, so damp... needing me..." he groaned.
She tugged at his bare shoulders, trying to squirm under his body, craving the hard contours of muscle and bone and sinew melding with her own yielding softness. "Please, Ciaran," she begged. "Fill me... I need you to fill me..."
But he resisted her—hateful man. His voice was low and rough and ragged. "Patience... Don't want it to be over... so soon. Your Ciaran of the Mist had... eternity. Never thought to envy him... until now. Fallon. Ah, Fallon. Want this... to last forever."
Then he was kissing her—the vulnerable underside of her breast, the sensitive skin of her belly, and then lower. Moist warmth stirred her secret curls. A tiny cry of surprise breached her lips as he pressed a hot kiss there, in the place that was nearly wild with wanting him.
Pleasure broke over her body in crashing waves that tossed her higher, ever higher, until she felt as if she would shatter. Until she wanted to shatter—craved it, as Ciaran worked his spell upon her with his forbidden kiss. She tossed her head, her hands clutching at the midnight silk of his hair, but just as the crest nearly carried her away, he rose over her, his shaft plunging deep. A cry tore from Fallon as he buried himself inside her, filling her with thrusts that seemed to pound at the very gates of her heart. Again and again, he came into her body, murmuring hot words of love, of passion, of need against her throat.
She could feel it building between them—quicksilver, a storm to sweep them both away. But it was his words that shattered her, hurtled her into a world beyond mist, beyond magic, beyond believing.
"Fallon, I love you." He plunged deep, spilling his seed into her body, and his heart into her hands.
He collapsed atop her, breath rasping, heart thundering, then rolled to one side, carrying her with him. Tenderly, he drew the folds of the mantle about her.
So precious, the gift she'd given him—not only her passion, the bounty of her lovely body, but far more than that. Something that glittered in unbearable beauty just beyond his grasp. A future to replace a past he no longer cared about. A love powerful enough to banish any ghosts. A chance to begin again.
He stroked her hair, his gaze on the sky. Thunderclouds scudded toward
them from the sea. He would make one last effort to discover who he was—journey into the labyrinth that wound its way beneath this enchanted castle. He'd find out whether he was the smuggler Silver Hand. And if he was, he'd put an end to it, once and for all.
After Tuesday, he would stop searching for his past. Instead, he would look to the future. A future with Fallon, a future of believing in the happily-ever-after she'd dreamed of. He'd grasp the gift the fates had given him—a chance to be born anew in the love that graced his lady's eyes.
Chapter 17
Ciaran watched the candlelight trickle in shimmering rivulets down Fallon's hair to pool on the velvety bank of her collarbone. Her brow was creased with concentration, her gaze earnest as she stitched at the shirt in her hands. It was for him, Ciaran knew, his heart squeezing.
There was no logical reason why she needed to prick her fingers until they bled, laboring over the fine piece of linen.
A small army of seamstresses had been employed to make him a decent wardrobe at Hugh's behest. And Fallon was as ill suited to the task of stitching as a woman could be. He couldn't help but smile. He'd never know how she'd learned to sew in the first place, restless as she was. But he'd never forget the shy gleam in her eyes when she'd confided to him that she wanted to make him something with her own hands, a gift of love from a wife to a husband.
Precious. So infinitely precious was every moment he'd spent with her these past few days.
Nights filled with lovemaking so fierce and tender, as if both he and Fallon had been trying to make up for too many years alone.
Days when his hungry gaze couldn't get enough of watching her, eagerly drinking in every nuance of emotion that crossed her animated face, the lilt of her voice as she read to him from her treasured books of legends. The sparkle of her humor as she gave him riding lessons that ended most often in both of them tumbling to the heather, where they schooled each other in lessons of another, more primal kind—a kind that ended in the beauty of his name on her lips when she cried out in fulfillment.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 26