The next thing he knew there was something warm and sweet-smelling and damp gliding over his face: woman's hands plying a washcloth. Why was it that a touch—the touch of another human—was so precious it made his chest ache? He came fully awake with a start, staring into the vulnerable oval of Fallon's face.
"Wh-what the blazes are you doing?"
"Helping you wash."
He grabbed at the washcloth, his cheeks burning, but not from embarrassment, rather from chagrin that her touch had felt so soothing, so right. And that he knew he had no right to accept it. "I can do it myself."
"You're bruised all over. It must hurt to move. Besides, you can't even see where your head is gashed. You might break it open again. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but I hate obstinate men."
She surprised a smile out of Ciaran. "I thought that was exactly the kind of man you admired—bullheaded stubborn hero types who would endure any amount of pain for their lady fair."
"I'm not your lady, and bullheadedness isn't heroic. It's annoying." Was that a smile playing about her lips? "I've already seen you wearing nothing but mist. And my brother always insists that I have a rare gift for refusing to see things that are right before my nose if I don't want to. I definitely don't want to see you."
With a groan, he surrendered the cloth again. "All right, you can help around the gash, but that's all." It seemed such a simple thing, a sensible thing for her to do, and surely the pain would distract him from any stirrings of response. It wasn't as if he was attracted to Fallon. She wasn't the type of woman he favored. He grimaced. Of course, he hadn't the slightest idea what type of woman he did find appealing.
She knelt beside the tub, angled so her hands could reach his face easily. Candlelight played across her features—cheekbones astonishingly elegant, a slightly upturned nose sprinkled with a faint dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles, fine black brows accenting eyes deep and luminous as rain-washed violets. She was so earnest as she cupped his jaw in one palm and dabbed at his face with the other hand.
Slow, careful strokes, warmed by the heated water. It felt too good, soothing the battered places on his face, reaching deeper still to bruised places, lonely places inside him.
He was almost glad when she grazed close enough to the gash to cause him pain. A breath hissed between his teeth, and he clenched his jaw, holding himself rigid as she gently probed at the wound.
"I'm sorry. I know this must hurt."
"Heroes feel no pain."
"You're mocking me. Don't. I'm afraid that this is my fault. I got impatient and threw a stone."
"You really did hit me in the head with a rock?" His eyes popped open, a surge of hope making him sit up, suddenly eager. If that was true, then maybe he wasn't the lascivious cad the maids had gossiped about. Maybe there was some other, far less repugnant explanation for the predicament he'd awakened in. A grim laugh echoed inside him. An explanation for a grown man running about the countryside stripped to his skin?
"I didn't hit you with the rock. Not exactly. When I placed the magic cloak pin on the hearth and tried to summon you, nothing happened at first. No one ever told me how long it would take you to answer the call. I was so disappointed, so frustrated, that I..." She swallowed hard and continued, "I picked up a stone and hurled it at the brooch. That's when it happened—the fire from the jewels, the moonlight shifting, and then you walking out of the mist, your head gashed and bleeding. It's my fault you were hurt."
There was such remorse in her features that Ciaran bit back an oath of bitter disappointment. Damn her for staring down at him, a plea for forgiveness in her eyes.
"You didn't cause this cut. None of this is your fault. It's my own accursed stupidity that landed me in this disaster. If I'd never—" He stopped.
"Do you remember something?" Exhaustion vanishing from her eyes, she plunked the washcloth into the tub, managing to splash a wave of soapy water across the front of her nightgown.
She looked so beautiful, so fragile despite her outward strength. There was no way he could tell her the ugly truth he'd unearthed from servant's gossip. Not even to drive away the guilt that racked her features. The possibility of seeing her hero worship crumble into disgust was more than he could endure.
"No. I don't remember anything. It's just that I'm certain you didn't cause this." He was stammering, tripping all over himself. It was true enough: he didn't remember what had happened at Vanessa Fyfe's bedchamber. But he didn't have to remember it for it to be glaringly true. And it was a truth Fallon must never discover.
Why the devil it was suddenly important to him to keep that light in her eyes was beyond his comprehension. Hadn't he been doing his damnedest to make her face reality from the first moment she'd spun out this impossible legend and pitched him in the middle of it?
She sighed, then dipped the cloth back into the water and freshened it with more soap. Leaning closer, she began on his chest, slick sweeps along his collarbone and down his ribs, sweeps that distracted him with the accidental brush of a fingertip, the side of her hand, against him, skin to skin.
Each slight contact made him edgy, made him want, made him wait for the next touch, the next brush of her breath across his skin, the next teasing whisper of her silky hair feathering against him.
He should stop this. Nothing that felt this good could be right. He would stop her, after just a moment more—a moment to store up the feeling of being touched.
"You will remember everything soon. I just know it." Was there a tightness in her voice? The tiniest tremor? "And once you do, everything will be fine."
"Fallon, I don't think—"
The tender flesh of her inner arm grazed his nipple, sensations jolting through him like a lance. Pleasure. Need. Hunger. It stole his breath away, along with his will to end this subtle torment.
"You must have been some kind of warrior. There are scars."
"There are a hundred less noble ways I could have gotten them." Like leaping out windows to avoid jealous husbands.
