"Beggin' yer pardon, me lord," the crone pleaded. "I didn't mean to frighten yer horse, I didn't."
She looked afraid, as if he might strike her. The realization sickened Ciaran. "I won't hurt you. Don't be afraid."
"Quiet, now. It's no matter," Fallon soothed. "Are you hurt?"
"The blasted horse all but ran her over," Ciaran snapped, unable to quell the panic in his chest. "Of course she's hurt! Lie still," he ordered gruffly. "I'm going to check for broken bones." He gathered the old woman up in his arms, steadying her, running his hands down fragile limbs. This was familiar, this pounding anxiety, this knowing what was injured and what was not.
Eyes bright as ripe blackberries stared at him as if he had just risen out of the mist. "Just a wee bit shaken. 'Twas me own fault, not payin' attention. Me mind was jest flitterin' on other things."
"What is your name?" Fallon smoothed a lock of white hair back from a face wrinkled and sweet as a dried apple.
"I be Maeve McGinty."
"What the devil are you doing out alone, so late at night?" Ciaran said. Why did he feel this awful, crushing sense that he was responsible somehow for her fall? "Can't you see there's a storm brewing?"
"That's what Bridie would say. But take more than a few thunderheads to keep me at me own hearth tonight. Me girl, she's givin' birth to her first babe, and I wanted to be there to hold her hand."
"Your daughter sent for you on a night like this?" Ciaran growled. "What was she thinking of, expecting you to walk—"
"Nay. She's not so careless with her mama, is Bridie. Not a word did she send. She didn't need to. The girl beat her way to life beneath me heart. I jest know 'tis her time here." Maeve pressed a gnarled fist to her breast.
"You're not from Misthaven lands, are you?" Fallon asked.
"Mary, Joseph an' Jaysus, no, miss. If I was, you can be sure I'd not be trekkin' along dressed like this." Maeve brushed one birdlike hand along her tattered garments. "'Tis jest that grateful I am that me girl's come to marry one o' Mr. Hugh's tenants. She'll not ever be wanderin' in rags not fit to keep out the tiniest breeze."
Ciaran looked up at her. "We'll see you to your daughter's."
"No!" Fallon cry startled him. "We can't."
"Sir, ye're most kind, but I can hardly be expectin' a lady o' quality to be carryin' Maeve McGinty atop her pretty saddle."
"It's not that at all," Fallon stammered, dismay shadowing her features. "I would be happy to help if I were riding any other horse in the stables. But Cuchulain would never endure it." She turned to glare at Ciaran. "It's a miracle he'd carry you riding double. But it was worth the risk. We both know how hard your head is. But if he threw Mrs. McGinty she'd shatter into so many pieces even the great and powerful Son of the Mist couldn't put her back together."
Ciaran glowered at Fallon, wanting to shake her. "Damn it, that's not amusing."
"Me feet'll get me there right enough," the old woman insisted. "I was just catchin' me breath when ye came upon me. The wind—it has a bite in it tonight." A shiver worked through her.
"Little wonder you're cold with what you're wearing," Fallon said. Ciaran helped Mrs. McGinty up, brushing leaves from her threadbare plaid shawl. His face crumpled into a scowl. "I'm not about to just let you walk away, shivering."
"I have a few coins I could offer—" Fallon began, but Ciaran cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand.
"They'd hardly keep her warm now." At that instant, the wind tugged at the velvet cloak around his shoulders. He hesitated, recalling he had nothing on beneath the blue cloth. He stood there, torn. What kind of a fool would give away the only garment he had? A borrowed garment at that. But then, hehadtaken a blow to the head. His fingers went to the fastenings of the cloak. "Here," he said gruffly. "Take this."
"Oh, no, sir." Maeve thrust her hands behind her back, like a child tempted to filch sweetmeats. "I couldn't."
"But Ciaran," Fallon protested, "you're... you're n—"
Naked? The woman didn't need to remind him. He'd be freezing off his hind parts.
"It doesn't matter," he growled, his hands clumsy, his cheeks burning at the prospect of baring himself yet again. "I can't let an old woman go wandering off, cold, when I have this infernal cloak."
His jaw hardened as he slipped the blue velvet free.
Old Mrs. McGinty's eyes went wide as tea plates. "Lad, forgive an old woman fer mentionin' it, but yer clothes seem to have gone missing."
Heat surged into Ciaran's cheeks. "I, uh—" Lies obviously came hard to him. Fallon was far more adept at spinning wild tales.
"He had a bit of an accident," Fallon filled in hastily. "He was bathing in one of the streams—"
