Cuchulain stumbled, and Ciaran all but fell off, but he persevered with the fold of cloak. Maybe it would be a good thing for him to crash headfirst into a few rocks. Drive some sense back into him. At least it would shatter these thoughts, these feelings, these echoes in a body that didn't even seem his own.
He concentrated on his pain, embracing it, feeding its fire, the jarring of the horse grinding hot spirals deeper into his joints, intensifying the aching, until it drove back the astonishing sensations Mary Fallon Delaney had stirred in him. He gave himself up to the red burning gratefully.
It didn't bode well for the future, Ciaran thought just before the haze engulfed him. All he could remember was the past hour. And already he had something he needed to forget.
Chapter 3
He was holding her. Tight. The warmth from his body seeped into hers, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing in her own veins, the moist whisper of his breath tickling the back of her neck. With every strike of Cuchulain's hooves upon the turf, Ciaran melded closer to her, until she could feel the uncertainty in him, the bewilderment, the anger, the pain.
God in heaven, what was she going to do with him?
It had sounded so simple when Mama spun the tale in the garden, playing games with the bright, ripe cherries. Take the enchanted brooch, summon Ciaran, hand him his quest the same way Hugh handed his steward orders to build a new fence.
It should have been as fated and lovely and magical as Arthur pulling the sword from the stone, recognizing his unique destiny in a blaze of glory. Arthur hadn't made any trouble. He'd merely sharpened up his new trophy and embraced his fate. All that the sorcerer Merlin had had to do was nod with approval as the once and future king trotted obligingly off to marry Guinevere, befriend Lancelot and send Galahad on the Grail quest.
Could her crusade have been so simple? No. Ciaran MacCailte, Son of the Mist, had the innate stubbornness of all the Irish race. Doubtless, he would have taken one look at the sword in the stone and refused to give it so much as a tug. He was already determined to be uncooperative. What would Ciaran say when she told him the reason she'd drawn him out of the mist: to save a castle that was already half-ruined, lead the glen folk to preserve a hope few had the courage to believe in anymore?
How could this man lead anyone when he didn't even believe in himself?
And what if he is someone else? a voice inside her whispered. What if he's not Ciaran of the Mist at all? No. That was unthinkable. Who else could he possibly be? Anybody, the voice mocked her. The world is full of people wandering about. Isn't it possible one lone man could end up at the Castle of the Dancing Mist? After all, hadn't Redmayne?
Fallon suppressed a shudder, remembering the captain's eyes, so piercing, leaving secrets nowhere to hide.
The Englishman had come to the castle searching for something, someone—perhaps the man whose arms were now around her. But why was he naked? Why did he carry the ancient dagger unless...
No. He was Ciaran. She was certain of it.
And now she was taking him to Misthaven House. Fallon chewed at her lower lip. Ever since Mama had died, Misthaven had seemed to be hushed, waiting for her return. Servants haunted the rooms like ghosts, careful not to be seen as they polished and swept. Hugh barricaded himself in his study, only striding off with a preoccupied frown on his face, riding crop in hand, when it was time to survey the lands and the countless business interests that were his only passion.
Few guests ever braved Misthaven's doors, the manor house never hosting the convivial dinner parties or musicales or balls that drove the ennui from the neighboring gentry.
But even Hugh with his single-mindedness would notice if he tripped over Ciaran in the hallway. And she doubted the servants would suddenly believe she'd taken to eating an entire rack of lamb by herself at dinnertime.
Why hadn't she thought this whole escapade through before she'd trotted up toCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceoand dug the cloak pin from its hiding place? Why hadn't she realized that the possibilities for disaster were endless?
Because no one had ever warned her that even legends have to be fed. It had never occurred to her that she would have to make provisions for Ciaran—simple things, infinitely difficult ones such as what he would eat, the clothes he would wear, where he would sleep. Exactly where did one hide six feet four inches of angry, bewildered male?
She could hardly keep him hidden in a bandbox beneath her bed, the way she had an injured fox pup when she was eight. The man was dangerous—a powder keg ready to explode, a runaway coach hurtling down a cliff's edge.
Was she making a terrible mistake bringing him to Misthaven at all?
She forced back the doubts. So things hadn't turned out the way she'd expected. What did it matter? All the snarls she'd encountered thus far would smooth out as soon as Ciaran regained his memory. Then he would turn into the Ciaran of legend—invincible, cunning, the noblest of warriors and the bravest. She just had to muddle through until then and stave off as many disasters as possible. Imagine how contrite he'd be for causing her so much trouble.
Forgive me, my fairest lady. I shall carry the shame of my oafish behavior toward you throughout eternity.
The image of this towering, powerful man kneeling before her, head bowed, hand outstretched, started a fluttering in her breast. She'd find it in her heart to forgive him, she decided. Once he had groveled enough.
"Ciaran?" She reined in the horse, felt Ciaran start, his body stiffening against her.
"What is it? Is someone coming?"
"No. I-I just... we're nearing Misthaven, and I wanted to explain to you—" She paused, gathering surprisingly scattered thoughts. Apparently her wits were more affected than she'd imagined by thoughts of Ciaran on his knees.
"I'm going to have to keep you hidden for a while."
He breathed a sigh that could only be relief. "That should be easy enough. I'm not likely to hold any dinner parties. Can't remember anyone to invite."
"It's just that my brother, Hugh, is... very protective of his situation. He dislikes anything that interferes with his business interests, or tending his estates. That is why I think it would be best if we kept you hidden for the time being. From the servants. And, uh, from my brother."
