He could sense Fallon gathering up her frazzled nerves, determined not to alert the servants that there was anything amiss. "I'm only tired. If you'll just help me slip into my dressing gown, I'll have a bite to eat first, then take my bath."
He heard a rustle of cloth, was able to imagine the maids making quick work of the fastenings of Fallon's gown, slipping the fabric off her shoulders, but no matter how he searched, there was no clear image to go with those actions, as if he'd never—what? Undressed a lady? If what the maids claimed was true, he'd doubtless disrobed more than his share.
"If you eat first, the water'll be cool by the time you're ready for it. I could bring some more hot.”
"I just wish to be left alone tonight," Fallon snapped. From the stunned silence on the servant's part, Ciaran knew it was uncommon for her to do so.
"Yes, miss. Forgive me for intrudin', miss."
"I'm sorry, Emer, Sorcha. But I..."
But I what?Ciaran waited with grim irony for her explanation.I have a nine-hundred-year-old hero locked up in the priest hole, and he's proving to be dashed recalcitrant.
There was a shuffle of feet, the soft closing of the door. Then, after a moment, he heard the metallic click of a lock being thrown home.
Footsteps marched quickly to where he was hidden then the panel slid wide.
He hadn't wanted to face her anyway, since he'd come to suspect the ugliness he'd been involved in. But it was even harder as he stared at her now.
The travel-stained gown had been swept away. A dressing gown of sea-foam green draped her slender body. His breath caught, a crushing yearning taking him completely by surprise. From the instant she'd barreled into his life, Ciaran had tried to shove her away, wanting nothing to do with her. It had been far easier to imagine she was touched in the head somehow, a wild, fey thing he needed to escape from.
But now that he was certain he needed to leave as soon as possible, she stood before him, as fresh and new and beautiful as the first blush of spring—vulnerable despite the stubborn jut to her chin, strong in spite of the fairy tales that dwelled in her eyes. He didn't want to hurt her. He knew that he would.
"It's safe to come out now," she said.
But Ciaran realized with a dull pain that it wasn't safe for him to be anywhere near her.
"There's a tray from the kitchen, a bath ready. Fetching as you look in Mrs. McGinty's shawl, I thought you'd need some other clothes, so I rummaged in the attic and found some of my father's. They won't be perfect, but they're far more likely to fit than Hugh's."
"Thank you." He stepped out into the chamber again, saw the hip bath steaming before the fire.
"I'll just... just step in here to give you some privacy," she said, collecting a book and starting toward the priest hole. Yet Ciaran sensed reluctance in her, as if there were ghosts inside the tiny nook she was too tired to confront. Hadn't she already endured enough discomfort because of him?
"It's cold in there, with enough dust to choke a dray horse."
"I don't mind."
"Don't be stubborn, Fallon. After all, it's a little late to worry about preserving modesty between us. Crawl under your coverlets where you can be warm, and doze."
Filled with longing and discomfort she cast a glance at her bed. It must be damned odd for her, having a man traipsing about.
He forced his lips into a teasing smile. "I'll trust your word of honor you won't take any unseemly peeks at me."
She sighed, surrendered. "All right. I'll just wash up at the basin."
"I wish you'd take the bath."
"You're covered in blood and smell like a wet dog. You'll be doing me a courtesy to take a dip in the tub. Call it a gesture of chivalry."
She set down the book then started across the room to where a white china pitcher and bowl, edged in tiny meadow flowers, stood on a marble-topped stand.
Once her back was to him, Ciaran unknotted the shawl and let it drop to the floor, then lowered himself into the tub. Steaming water lapped against his aching muscles as he folded his long body so that as much as possible was submerged. A washcloth and soap lay near at hand. He should lather the cloth and begin washing away the grime coating his skin.
But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he doubted he would ever be able to wash away the things that were truly chafing him: the stain of the man he likely was, the ugliness he would probably find along with his identity, the feeling that he'd failed this woman, with her generous heart and that fierce believing he envied.
He was tired, sick at heart, dread sinking in his stomach like a stone. And he felt far more naked beneath Fallon Delaney's gaze than any stripping away of clothes could have made him.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub. Restless as his thoughts were, he shouldn't have been able to sleep. But he must have dozed off.
