"Hurry," she urged, leading him through the shadows toward the house. "We can creep in the garden entrance. I always leave it unlocked when I go out wandering. That way, no one will see us."
"Your brother almost did."
Fallon stiffened. "I wasn't worried for a moment," she lied. "Hugh never sees anything that isn't glued to the end of his nose."
They wound through the gardens, redolent with the scent of hawthorn blossoms, holly hedges and boxwood greening. Every shrub and flower was shaped and molded and civilized by the gardener's shears. Yet as Fallon glanced back at the half-naked man shadowing her steps, the trimmed perfection of their surroundings only made him look all the more untamed, as primitive and unpredictable, compelling and perilous as a lion being led about on a blue satin leash.
And as likely to bolt at any moment.
Her brow furrowed, and she cast a nervous glance at Ciaran. The man had been on the verge of running off from the time they were at the castle, in some misguided notion of honor, to preserve her safety. After seeing Hugh and overhearing their conversation, weren't the odds far greater that Ciaran would charge off for the woods the instant he got a chance?
She grabbed his hand, realizing how futile the gesture was. If Ciaran decided to bolt, she'd no more be able to hold him than she could turn the tide. And there was something about feeling that callused palm abrading hers, those long fingers encircling hers that was intimate, stirring heat beneath her skin. A low buzz of tension passed from his hand to hers, tightening her already strained nerves, leaving them humming with discomfort.
At the door, Fallon signaled him to silence then pushed the panel open. The way her luck had been running, she half expected to find the downstairs maids industriously scrubbing this corridor despite the late hour. But it was empty.
Fallon turned to beckon Ciaran inside. She glimpsed his features, so handsome, so still. His gaze was unreadable.
Cautiously, Fallon slipped along the back stairways, astonished at how silently Ciaran traveled along behind her with the stealth of a cat, or was it the hush of a ghost? An odd chill prickled her nape, but she quelled her unease.
Of course he moved quietly. He was barefoot—there were no bootheels to click against the floor. Yet there was something almost unearthly about the way he moved. And something disturbing about his eyes searching as she guided him through corridors with doorways locked shut. Whole wings of the once-elegant manor house were closed up, as quiet and solitary as her mother's grave.
What was he thinking? She felt oddly vulnerable, as if he could draw impressions from the walls, could feel the unease she had felt as she crept into the chambers as a small girl, certain they were haunted—the Holland covers that draped the unused furniture turning into ghosts in her imagination. But not ghosts that rattled chains and delighted in terrorizing little girls. No, just shapeless forms that waited as the whole house seemed to wait for Fallon's mother to return and breathe life into them again.
Blast, this was all Hugh's fault. Their rare arguments always made the stillness of the house louder, the emptiness more suffocating, the loss she tried so hard to forget more real.
She bumped into a small table to her left, her nerves leaping at the rattle of china. For pity's sake, she upbraided herself. She had to keep her wits about her. What if they ran afoul of a servant while she was woolgathering?
At that instant, she heard a sharp hiss of breath behind her, felt the tension crackling from Ciaran in waves hot as lightning. Panic jolted through her as she wheeled toward him, all but dropping the candle.
She expected to see him surrounded by an army of servants—vigilant footmen with the sights of their pistols trained at his heart, ready to shoot them both as housebreakers.
But the hallway was empty except for her and Ciaran, the glow of the candle, and their reflections doubled in the floor length mirror.
Fist raised as if ready to strike out at some attacker, Ciaran stood frozen, staring at the image of himself—a pale, black-haired stranger glaring back at him from the mirror.
In those astonishing moments at the castle, she'd seen all there was of Ciaran MacCailte—every sinew, every bone, every sleek bit of skin—naked, in all his masculine glory. Yet somehow, the sight of him now made her feel as if she'd intruded, torn back some sacred veil.
She'd seen him angry, seen him confused, filled with pain. But as he stared at his reflection, his long fingers ghosting over the planes of his own face, his eyes raw and searching and hopeless, his very soul seemed laid bare.
The blade-straight nose, cheekbones slashed high like those of a pagan king, square jaw so stubborn, and a mouth that was full and sensitive, sensual and compelling—all might have been carved upon a statue he'd never seen before.
He was a prisoner within that mirror, his very identity held just beyond his reach. And she wondered if he'd looked just so when he'd awakened from eating the enchanted cherries to find himself captive inTir na nOg.
"Ciaran," she breathed his name, drifting one hand down on his rigid arm. "It's just you—you in the mirror."
His gaze flashed to hers, drowning in hopelessness. "I don't... don't remember." The words tore, ragged-edged, from his chest.
Fallon slipped her hand into his, astonished at how cold he'd suddenly grown. "You will remember. Soon. I'm certain of it. Now, we have to hurry before someone hears us."
It was fortunate they didn't see another soul on their trek to her bedchamber, they were both so shaken by what had just happened.
No maid, no footman, not even a stray mouse stirred anywhere in this wing of the house. She should have been relieved, but the silence only brought home to her how barren the place was. How dead.
At last, she pushed open the door to her room, and Ciaran followed her in, the dim shadows broken only by the glow of a cheery fire in the hearth.
Fallon locked the door then fumbled to light a branch of candles, setting the chamber aglow. But the instant the wicks blazed with light, she felt an unreasonable urge to douse them.
It seemed to be a night for stripping the soul bare.
