And no matter how fiercely she'd argued with Hugh once they'd again sought the privacy of his study, he insisted that once the wound on Ciaran's head had completely healed, the two of them must go out and face the infernal lions. In the end, they'd given her two weeks' reprieve. A paltry victory. Hugh's insistence had been infuriating enough in itself, but it was made far worse by seeing Ciaran coming down solidly on Hugh's side—a nasty surprise.
It still stung—the respect that had darkened Ciaran's eyes as her brother had spoken, the way he'd embraced Hugh's cautious plans. She'd felt betrayed and hurt, and she loathed the sense that her brother had somehow stolen away Ciaran's loyalty—something that should belong to her.
Unable to endure it any longer, she'd stalked from the room, half-certain that neither man had noticed her leaving. But she'd always had a knack for hurling herself from a bad situation to a worse. For Sorcha, her eyes gleaming with the wisdom of a Celtic Eve, had prepared a bath scented with some mystic charm a white witch had given her, one that promised to make the flower-spangled bridal bed pure heaven.
'Twill bewitch any mortal man, me granny promised, 'til he'll fall desperate in love with ye, Sorcha had sworn.
But there wouldn't be a bridal bed. And Ciaran had been bewitched by far greater magic than any white witch could make. Fairy chains already bound him to another world. And neither the chains of the marriage vows nor the chains of some herbal charm could change that.
Fallon had wanted to thrust the maid out of her chamber bodily, but Sorcha had stubbornly insisted on dressing her in her finest nightgown, dabbing on essence of lavender—preparing her for a wedding night that would never be.
Sorrow rippled through her, and she gently lay her mother's brush down on her dressing table, unable to face the image that stared back at her from the mirror.
The wild, hoydenish girl who had struck terror into the hearts of the prim county misses was gone. Even the headstrong woman who had resolved to take a chance and summon back Ciaran of the Mist, had vanished. A stranger wore her soft oval face, her lightly freckled nose, her unruly fall of red hair. Someone new stared out of her eyes, shadowing them with a vulnerability she never would have believed possible.
Wincing, Fallon turned away and paced to the window. She unlatched it and pushed it open, hoping to find herself in the whispering of the hills she loved so well.
Night was singing its song to the moon, the wind plucking at branch and blossom like a bard's fingers on a harp. Fallon leaned out as far as she dared, wishing she could slip onto the ledge, spread her arms like a nightingale's wings and drift through the sky. Become one with the darkness and the wind and the whispering of legends that seeped into every fissure and rock, cliff and glen of Ireland. But even that had changed.
Why had she wandered out so many times in the years since her mother had died? What had she been seeking? She'd never been quite sure. Fairy magic, enchanted castles, mermen who kept drowned sailors in Soul Cages at the bottom of the sea—so many things mere mortals could never see, could only believe deep in their hearts. But she'd never suspected the truth. She'd peopled her world with stories and myths and possibilities so that she wouldn't have to be alone.
But none of her questing had changed that sense of isolation. She'd huddled under a varicolored quilt of a thousand dreams spun by an entire people throughout a thousand years, the same way a frightened child huddled under a blanket to keep out the dark. Because legends could never die. Fairies would never leave you. She'd just never realized, until now, that the dark was still out there. And the loneliness.
She'd never guessed the truth until Ciaran had come stumbling out of her dreams and into her life. In an instant, everything had changed forever. The danger was that everything could shift again in a heartbeat. Mortal or fairy-kissed champion, Ciaran could disappear from her life forever—would disappear, once fate had played out her game. Once the castle was saved, the quest was finished. The legend always ended the same. The mist and the magic. And the vanishing.
A chill worked through the thin fabric of her nightgown. It was only a question of when. And even if he wasn't the Ciaran of legend, he'd leave. He'd return to the life he'd known before her, the people he'd cared about... maybe a woman. Unthinkable. Fallon tried to shove the notion away.
Who could say when he might disappear? He'd already tried to leave her once. It was possible he might slip away at any time in another misguided fit of heroics, attempting to shield her and her brother, to keep them from further danger.
Dread dropped like a cold stone into her belly. She hugged her arms tight against her middle—that place where no babe grew. Where none would ever grow. And she was stunned at the sudden feeling of loss.
She crossed to the door that separated their rooms. Such a thin barrier. And she stiffened at the sound of someone entering the chamber beyond. Heavy footsteps, as if the weight of two worlds were upon his shoulders.
Ciaran. She sensed his closeness in every fiber of her being. Sensed his weariness. His confusion. His regret. And even her earlier irritation faded.
Relief flooded through her at the certainty that he hadn't disappeared. For now, he still belonged to her. It stunned her to realize how much she needed to touch him, assure herself he was real. But what could she bring as a peace offering?
Mustering her courage, she crossed to a table Sorcha had draped in white linen and covered with countless delicacies: rich pastries and jewel-like wine, sweetmeats and the ripest fruits. "A lover's feast," the little maid had said brightly. Fallon smiled as her gaze locked on a crystal bowl all but lost among the treats. One tidbit about Ciaran the legends had passed on was his favorite sweet: the fresh cherries the fairy king had used to enchant him so long ago.
Fallon scooped up the bowl and held it against her breasts, then crossed to the door. She grimaced. It would be a miracle if Hugh hadn't slipped up and nailed it shut for the night. But the handle turned easily. Not pausing to knock, she eased the door open.
Her breath caught in her throat. Ciaran stood, stripped to his breeches, his naked back gleaming in the candlelight. He turned, surprise darkening his gaze. "Fallon. What are you doing here? Do you need something?"
I need to touch you. To beg you never to go away. I love you. The words bubbled up inside her, but she didn't dare say them aloud. He already thought her half-mad. Her cheeks burned. "Hugh kept insisting it was important to act as if we were married, so I thought... I mean, the servants left a table full of food, and I can't possibly eat it all myself." She was making a mess of things. Desperate under the intensity of his gaze, she thrust the crystal bowl toward him. "I brought you these. Cherries are your favorite."
He glanced down at the red fruit, but instead of hunger or pleasure, his features tightened with aversion. He drew back as if he thought they were poisoned. "I don't eat those."
"But you do—the legend says—"
"Fallon!" He snapped. "I'm no legend. Damn it, why won't you believe me?"
She set the bowl down, aching inside. And suddenly, the truth spilled out. "Because if you're a legend, you can belong to me. At least, for a little while."
"Fallon." His voice turned gentle, filled with quiet yearning. "It's all make-believe. It isn't real."
"But you're here, aren't you? I called you back and you came."
"Only by chance. I'll be going away as soon as possible. We both know that."
