He supposed he should be grateful. He might have been if Maeve hadn't piped up.
"Bathin' on a night like this? Are ye tryin' to catch lung fever, lad?"
"I happen to like a brisk swim," Ciaran insisted with as much dignity as he could muster.
"He left his clothes on the bank and some animal stole them," Fallon finished. "I found him wandering around without a stitch on, pure begging for help." Damn, she was making him sound three kinds of a fool.
"Did ye, now?" Mrs. McGinty's eyes narrowed, a merry smile dancing across her lips. "With a lad so handsome as this, I'd wager me mam's holy medal 'twas no animal stole his clothes. No, more likely it was a maid such as yerself, eager to catch a glimpse of such a fine specimen of man."
"I-I didn't! I wouldn't! I mean, I've seen quite enough of him already." Fallon tossed those sunset curls as if he were far beneath her notice, but even her thick locks couldn't hide the fact that she was flustered for once.
Ciaran felt a surge of unholy pleasure at her discomfiture. It was about time she took a turn feeling like a prize idiot.
"I'd be lookin' to the lass, here, ye want to find the culprit," Mrs. McGinty repeated. "But whoever robbed ye, I can't send ye off wearin' nothin' but yer smile, lad, no matter how bewitchin' it might be."
Gnarled old fingers unfastened the threadbare shawl. "This'll keep ye a trifle modest. Though ye've no call for shame, if ye ask Maeve McGinty. And me, havin' raised seven boys up to be men." She barely reached the middle of his chest, but she wrapped the shawl around his hips, as deftly as if he were one of her sons.
"I can't take this," Ciaran started to pull the shawl aside, but Maeve's chuckle stopped him.
"Ah, so ye're enjoyin' the effect ye have on the lady, then. Maybe I wronged the girl. Did ye hide yer own clothes a-purpose?"
"No! I—"
Maeve gave the knotted shawl one last tug then patted Ciaran's cheek. "There, now, don't mind me teasin' ye, the two of ye. 'Tis all we old folks can do when ye put us in mind o' our own young love."
"We're not lovers!" Fallon's outraged cry nettled Ciaran, urging him to indulge in torment of his own.
After all, Mary Fallon Delaney had had the upper hand ever since he'd stumbled into this nightmare. Turnabout was fair play.
"Come, now, Fallon, no need to squawk just because Mrs. McGinty has guessed the truth." And yet, he didn't enjoy the jest nearly as much as he should have. The words had barely left his mouth when a sadness ghosted through him, an aloneness too great to bear. A longing never fulfilled. It surprised him, left him raw.
"I'll leave the two of ye to settle yer spat in private. That's always the best way," Maeve said. "But afore I go, lad, I want to say ye're passing kind."
Why did the old woman's words chafe at him so? "No," Ciaran insisted. "I'm completely selfish. I prefer not to spend the next three weeks wondering if you've frozen to death somewhere along this path."
The Irishwoman's work-worn hands grasped the edges of cloth so lush its worth would feed her family for a year, and she gazed up at him as if he were this hero Ciaran of the Mist Fallon kept insisting he was, and he'd just appeared in all his legendary splendor.
"May the dust of yer carriage wheels blind the eyes of yer foes," she blessed him. "May ye get the reward in heaven that's been denied ye for yer goodness on this earth. And may the sons of yer sons smile up in yer face." Her eyes twinkled as she gave him a winsome smile. "And once they do, make certain ye take 'em home to see yer own mam."
His own mother. Pain, wistfulness, it stirred unexpectedly in Ciaran's chest. Was there a woman like this, a mother somewhere, waiting for him, worrying?
He strained, groping into the mist of his mind, but only the most fleeting of sensations, impressions, danced just beyond his reach: tears unshed in beautiful eyes, a smile of farewell so brave it broke his heart, a hand letting go of him, when he sensed it wanted to cling tightly, to draw him back. To what? To the boyhood he'd left behind?
Fallon's voice drove back the images, but not the ache of loneliness, of loss. "Mrs. McGinty, let me send one of the grooms back for you. They can take you to your daughter's in a cart."
"Go on with ye now, and don't be worryin' yer pretty head," Mrs. McGinty said. "I'm so heartened by yer kindness that I'll be trippin' up to Bridie's doorstep before I can say three Hail Marys."
With that, Mrs. McGinty set out again, looking amazingly spry, as if the exchange had worked some sort of enchantment upon her. Ciaran stood, watching the old woman, shaken by the odd sensation stirred up inside him. As if his gaze could clear the path, make it safe for her. As if he should. Should what? Send the storm clouds fleeing? Smooth the path with one sweep of his hand? Fallon's fantastic stories were addling his wits.
"Ciaran," Fallon touched his arm, the awe in her voice raking against his frayed nerves. "Do you realize what you've just done?"
"Raised my odds of catching some sort of fever? I don't know what madness possessed me."
"I do!" Her lips parted, ripe with idealism and innocence. "Giving the cloak away is what you were born to do!"
"I can die a happy man," Ciaran groused. "My life's work is complete."
"Don't make a jest of it. Don't you see? This proves you're Ciaran of the Mist. You're one of the Red Branch knights!"
