The quiet question raked Fallon's already battered nerves. Blast, more tangles? Fallon grimaced. What faith was Ciaran? Most likely a pagan who had reveled in the mysticism of the druid's sacred groves long before St. Patrick ever set foot upon Irish shores. But she could hardly tell Father Gerrard that. The poor old man would never recover. The theology of this wedding was beyond comprehension.
"My faith?" Ciaran echoed. Anger faded just a little, and he cast a wary, bewildered glance down at her.
It took more effort than she could imagine to force her most mischievous smile. "What do you think, Father? That he is a pagan?"
The old man flushed. "This is not a joking matter, Mary Fallon! I must know..." She felt crushing guilt when the priest gave a rare chuckle. "Child, you are incorrigible. All right then. I'd best marry you before you get into even more trouble, or your gentlemen friends turn the sanctuary into a boxing salon."
Clearing his throat, fumbling with his prayer book, the old man took his place at the altar. "Come, young sir," Father Gerrard beckoned Ciaran. "It is time for you to decide what you wish more—to fight with the captain, or to make this lovely young woman your bride."
For a moment she couldn't breathe. There was no question in Fallon's mind which Ciaran would prefer. He seemed to consider for a long moment. But in the end, he stepped up beside her.
Clearing his throat, Father Gerrard opened his worn prayer book. Fragments of rainbow danced across the tarnished crucifix above the altar and the faded black folds of the priest's cassock, bits of color glimmering like those that had flared from the ancient moon-struck brooch what seemed a lifetime ago.
Words that had joined lovers into one flesh for all eternity wove about them. She'd told Ciaran that they were words, just words. But from her earliest memories, Fallon had sensed that words held their own special magic. And none were more powerful than those she was about to exchange with this man beside her.
I promise to love, to honor, to cherish until death do us part.But death wouldn't part them. Their bond would be broken by the return of his memory, when he'd go back to his former life, or on the day he finished his quest here and disappeared back into the mist of legend.
It shouldn't have seemed so real. The ceremony. The vows. Her heart shouldn't have thundered, her gaze clinging to the fierce warrior's face beside her. But as Father Gerrard gently guided them through the rite he'd performed countless times, the old priest infused it with a fresh new wonder, a sense of timeless beauty, a beauty Fallon suddenly wished she could draw deep into herself, to treasure forever.
"I, Ciaran, take thee, Mary Fallon, to my wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, to love and to cherish—" His voice roughened, torn upon the vows.
His eyes seemed to probe to the deepest reaches of her soul. Asking for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? A hundred answers she didn't have. But suddenly she wished she did have them, could give Ciaran whatever he was seeking.
"Do you have the ring?" Father's query made her start.
"Ring?" Ciaran echoed. He looked so tense, so bewildered. Whatever faith he was—if he was any—Fallon was certain it wasn't Catholic.
The troubled crease deepened in Father Gerrard's brow. "The wedding ring. As a symbol of your love for each other."
"This was all so sudden. We... we didn't have time to get one." Fallon started to stammer.
But at that instant, Redmayne swooped near, his lips curling into that hawkish smile she wanted to smack from his face. "I was so concerned that this wedding take place without any... unfortunate snags, that I took the liberty of securing a ring." He extended his long white fingers, a wide gold band caught in their grasp.
"The blazes I'll take his—" Ciaran started to snarl, but Fallon's fingers clenched so hard on his it was a wonder she didn't draw blood.
"It will do until... until we can get our own, Captain Redmayne. Thank you." The words might have choked her if she hadn't been so preoccupied with keeping Ciaran from throttling the officer. Not that the image wasn't tempting. At least it would shut Redmayne's infernal mouth.
For the blackguard had shattered the dreamlike haze that had warmed the ceremony, made it beautiful, almost real. Ciaran did as the priest bid, said the proper words and shoved the ring on her finger. But the tenderness, the uncertainty, the reaching out that had been in his gaze had vanished.
Did Father Gerrard see it? Sense it? Why was there sudden sadness in his voice as he spoke the words, "I now pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
Shaken, aching somewhere deep within, Fallon looked down at her finger, the ring glittering there. And she tried to think of something to say.
The angels themselves must be shaking their heads over this union, St. Peter adding these latest sins to the endless, blotted tally beneath Mary Fallon Delaney's name. Not to mention the fact that she doubted the fairy king would be amused that she'd married his high champion. Doubtless, she'd broken some cosmic rule, and Irish fairies weren't the gossamer-winged, nectar- sipping kind that granted children's wishes. No. They could be a damnably spiteful lot.
She supposed it was a good omen, though, that the roof hadn't been split by lightning, Father Gerrard hadn't been transformed into a goat, and Ciaran hadn't disappeared in a puff of smoke.
"MacDonough, are you going to kiss the bride?" Redmayne drawled. "Or have such pursuits lost their appeal now that they're under papal sanction?"
There might have been another fray, but before Ciaran could move, the chapel door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Fallon wheeled toward it, the other men following suit. What she saw there made her stomach plunge to her toes.
Disheveled from riding, her brother raced into the room, his eyes wild and haunted. "Thank God I got here before it was too late! Stop this... this wedding at once! I object! Isn't that the way of it? If anyone objects—"
"Yes. The wedding must be halted," Redmayne purred. "However, I'm afraid we're well past that part, Mr. Delaney. You are just in time to kiss the bride."
Hugh staggered, gripping the edge of one of the pews with a white-knuckled hand. "Fallon. My God, what have you done?" It was the anguish that made her furious. How dare he pretend to care so much when she knew the truth: that she'd been nothing but one more burden to him, to be endured since their mother had died?
"I'd think it obvious, Hugh. I've gotten married."
