"Miss Fallon, is there something amiss?"
Fallon stiffened. There was something strange in Sorcha's voice—astonishment, a kind of questioning, and unabashed admiration.
"Yes! I mean, no. I-I just misplaced something." Fallon whirled to face her. The maid's keen gaze fastened on the shawl until it burned like fire in Fallon's hands. She fought the urge to stuff it behind her back like a guilty child.
Instead, she went to the bed and laid it on the tumbled coverlet. Tactical error number two. Could the maid tell Fallon hadn't slept alone? Two distinct outlines were etched in the feather bed—or was that just her own vivid imagination? Would she see Ciaran there from now on, his dark hair tousled on her pillow, his sun-bronzed body forever imprinted within her bed?
"I, uh, had a rather restless night," Fallon faltered, smoothing up the coverlets, as if by doing so she could obliterate her own imaginings, and any Sorcha might have entertained as well.
But she wished she'd gathered up the whole feather tick, coverlets and all, and stuffed them in the fire when she heard Sorcha's quiet inquiry.
"Miss, there's blood on the edge of the sheet. Did you hurt yourself?"
"No, I just... It's my time—" Blast, hopeless. Her flux had come just over a week ago, and there was no hiding such rhythms of the body from one's personal maid.
Disbelief registered in Sorcha's shrewd eyes, but the servant would never dare to question her, whatever she might think. Anyway, Fallon didn't have time to worry about what this particular maid thought of her. She had to get dressed, set out in search.
"I don't care for any chocolate this morning. Just help me dress. And hurry. I-I've misplaced something, and I need to find it as quickly as possible."
Chocolate was abandoned, a froth of petticoats and shift appearing as if by magic in Sorcha's hands. "Would you like me to help you search? If you can tell me what you've lost—"
Six feet four inches of legendary hero who spent the night in my bed—
"No. Thank you. He—" She winced at her slip. "It's a personal matter." Her cheeks flamed, and she dove under the folds of muslin, grateful for a few seconds to compose her nerves.
"I understand," Sorcha said, so noncommittally that Fallon was suddenly very afraid that she did. Nimble fingers garbed Fallon in a lilac pink walking dress then fastened the buttons up her rigid back.
As she jammed feet into stockings and half boots, she glimpsed Sorcha's piquant face and saw something new and unexpected in the maid's eyes. Was it admiration?
She barely bothered to brush her hair, just bundled it under a bonnet and then hurried to the door.
"Miss Fallon?"
She wanted to curse at the maid but didn't dare stir up her suspicions any more. She paused, turned, winced at the knowing evident in Sorcha's eyes.
"If I were going to search for what you're missing, I would go in the direction of the village."
"You mean you... you saw—"
Sorcha lowered her gaze and nodded.
Fallon had always heard the other servants muttering that Sorcha could smell a handsome man a mile away. She should have been appalled that a maid knew she'd had a man in her bedchamber the night before. She would be—later. For now, she could only be grateful she had somewhere to begin her search.
"One good thing, miss," Sorcha said. "Something that fine on the eyes could hardly just disappear without anyone noticing him... er, it."
That was true enough at least. Fallon turned and hastened out the door, racing toward the stables.
Fallon leaned low over her horse's neck, disheartened as the village of Glenceo rose up before her. Not a sign of Ciaran had she seen as she'd ridden along the road. She'd hoped against hope she would find him before she reached the town, aware that there would be countless places he could disappear in the maze of thatched cottages and stone buildings, places she might not be able to find him.
And to search for him there would unleash a nightmare of questioning faces, puzzled frowns and whispered rumors. The thought of questioning the townsfolk made her stomach clench.
Did you by any chance see a man breathtaking as a sea cliff in a storm? He left my bed last night, and I haven't been able to find him.
Any query she made about a man would start a deluge of gossip—gossip she could only pray that Sorcha wouldn't feel the urge to embellish.
Fallon shoved away the prospect grimly. She'd find some way to deal with all that later. Now the only thing that mattered was finding Ciaran. But where to start?
She urged Cuchulain forward, scanning the streets and windows. But only the honest, simple faces of the townspeople met her eyes. If a stranger the like of Ciaran had come striding through the village, wouldn't there be some sign of it? What if he hadn't come this way at all, and she'd wasted precious time on a wild-goose chase?
