No. He couldn't fathom the reason. But even as a boy, during the endless games his grandfather had forced him to play, something in the carved features had fascinated him, intrigued him. Like the woman who had left hours before. And when he'd left Rawmarsh, it was the only thing he'd taken with him.
His thumb ghosted over the delicately crafted countenance of the most powerful piece ever to grace a chessboard.
The queen.
He gazed down into her exquisite face. "You may think you have escaped me," he murmured aloud, "but your surly knight and pawn of a brother won't be able to guard you forever." He perched the piece on the tabletop. "It's time to raise the stakes, unearth your husband's secrets, lay out a most irresistible trap for this Silver Hand. And if, in the process, I happen to capture you..." He gently flicked the chess piece with his finger. The queen toppled, lay there, exquisite, vulnerable, conquered.
"The next move is mine, Mary Fallon." His lips twitched into a half-smile. "And I never lose."
Chapter 11
Exhausted, Ciaran sagged back into the chair he'd drawn into the thin stream of light that pierced the divide between the curtains, his hands still, his task finished at last.
It had taken him longer than he'd imagined, though he'd started soon after Fallon fell asleep. He had slipped from the bed where he'd made her his own then worked by the flickering light of the fire with whatever makeshift tools he could find. When the fire had died, he'd shifted to the window so that the first watery rays of dawn could filter down over his work as he labored.
He'd worked until his hands ached, and his fingers were raw and bleeding. But he didn't care. He had wanted it to be perfect. Perfect. He grimaced. The only thing he'd managed to do was to make himself feel like a perfect fool. He stared down at the trinket he had made, as it lay cupped in the palm of his hand. A pitiful offering. Yet, it was truly his. His gift. His token, to be given to the lady who lay sleeping still.
A smile curved his lips, and wistfulness tugged at his heart as he glanced over at her, a drowsy water nymph afloat upon foamy coverlets. She'd gobbled up the space on the bed, adorable in her greediness. Her arms and legs had sprawled over him, her fingers curling in his hair. He'd never felt anything more precious than her slight weight against him. And no matter what happened in the future, he knew that just before he closed his eyes in death, her face would be the face he'd see, her eyes, her mouth, just as they'd looked when he'd made love to her this first time.
He closed his eyes, recalling the flickering images he would carry with him forever, memories that he was certain would never lose their luster. Petal-pink lips parting in gasps of pleasure, the dainty column of a slender thigh, so pale in contrast to his own rough, tanned hand as he'd slid his fingers from the sensitive inside of her knee, higher, higher, to a cache of downy red curls.
Those incredible eyes that had flashed open, wide, when he'd touched damp satin, surprise and awe at the sensations his intimate explorations unleashed between them making her seem almost luminous. The flame of a red-gold candle, destined to lead him out of darkness.
He might never have known another woman's body, but still, he knew that if he'd taken a hundred to his bed, none would touch him as deeply as Mary Fallon had. She was the rarest kind of treasure. Unspoiled as a wild doe tamed to his hand, the rivers of passion that shone in her face untapped by any other man. As if she had been waiting for him forever.
She had offered her maidenhead with the same generosity as she'd offered him her help there upon the sea cliffs. She'd opened herself to his possession as eagerly as she'd embraced the magic in her legends. No maidenly shyness, no cloying coyness, no fear. Only courage and faith, passion reduced to its most essential element.
The spirit of wind and sea, the kiss of fire and earth that stood at the beginning of all life. They had consumed him when he was in her arms.
And in that precious moment when he had thrust deep into the dark haven of her femininity, he'd felt as if worlds as yet unseen were being born in this single, magnificent act. That no man had ever loved a woman this way before, and never would again. He'd wanted to remain there forever, in the petal-spangled bed.
But now, reason was returning as inexorably as the rising of the sun, tainting the beauty of what he and Fallon had shared with a niggling of guilt.
What had he done? He had taken something he had no right to. Yes, Fallon had offered herself to him—his lady of the mist with magic in her eyes. But she couldn't understand the danger.
No. That wasn't true. Ciaran brought himself up grimly. Fallon did understand. But she stared danger in the face, not flinching, not turning away, brave as any hero in the midst of battle. He'd seen the evidence of her courage time and again since she'd entered his life.
Still, he should have turned her away when she came to his bedchamber last night. But how? How could a man close his eyes to his first glimpse of sunlight after an eternity in a night-dark prison? How could he refuse to drink from a stream of crystal cold water when parched by a killing thirst?
How could the first solitary man who had had the spark of life embedded in his chest have walked away from the mate the powers of creation had fashioned just for him—to fit his hands, his mouth, join with his body?
Fallon had claimed he was a hero. Last night was proof she was wrong. But it was too late to change what had happened between them now. They had taken an irrevocable step when he'd carried her to the bed. And truth to tell, no matter what the cost, he would not have changed one moment of last night even if he could. It had been too precious, too perfect, holding this brave, vulnerable, stubborn, generous lady in his arms.
Even now, as he watched her slumbering, the need for her boiled in his veins, a hunger he could never sate. And yet, was it fair to surrender to it again and again? Plunge deeper into this storm of emotion between them? It didn't matter that the laws of Fallon's priest claimed bedding was a husband's right. It didn't matter that the more primitive laws linking man to woman since the beginning of time compelled him to bury his seed in this woman's body, plant his child in her womb.
A fist clenched his heart, crushing him with yearning. A child. Outside the pub, with a crowd looking on, she'd claimed he'd already put his babe in her belly. He'd been furious at the insult to his honor. Or so he'd believed. The truth was, her words had taunted him, dangling before him a joy he'd sensed intuitively he could never have.
But what if he was wrong? What if their lovemaking resulted in a tiny son or daughter with Fallon's fiery curls and intrepid spirit? His pulses tripped at the possibility.
Fool! A voice jeered inside him. And what would you give to Fallon and her child? You have nothing—no fireside to keep her warm, no bed for her to sleep on, not even a name to give her. It's even possible that the loss of your memory might be a blessing. When the curtain parts, who knows what ugliness might be revealed?
What if you really are the smuggler Silver Hand, that cur Redmayne is seeking? There could be no question about what fate Captain Redmayne had planned for the enemy he hunted. Ciaran winced. Even the myth Fallon had spun around Ciaran of the Mist ended in sadness—no joy, no love, no reward, just one man, alone until the end of time. Perhaps that was an omen, a warning.
Slowly, he got to his feet and crossed to the bed. Grief coiled tight in his chest, his blood afire with the need to awaken her, make love to her until the world beyond this room crumbled to dust. But no. He dared not touch her again. Until he unraveled the mystery of his identity, until he outwitted Redmayne, he could give Fallon nothing but pain. He couldn't kneel before her and offer her, not a knight spun of dreams, but rather a man, hopelessly flawed, imperfect in body and in soul.
But for this moment, she was still his slumbering goddess, his lady of enchantments. His.
Gently, he took up her hand. Such a delicate hand, compared to the rough bronze of his own. Redmayne's ring was just a little loose, an abomination glistening there on her finger. Ciaran hated it. It was a symbol of the Englishman's cunning, the shrewd and dangerous web he had woven to trap them. He couldn't bear to see it in place another moment.
