It was a shadow, just a shadow of grief over lovers long dead, lovers neither he nor Fallon had ever known. Why did it feel so fresh, so new?
Because for the first time Ciaran knew what it was to love, what it would mean to lose.
He wanted to tell her—tell her everything she meant to him. Wanted her to know that she held his heart in her hands. But he crushed the words, his jaw knotting with the effort. She was in love with a legend, not a mere man. And yet, even if love's incandescent light should glow in her eyes just for him, he couldn't tell her how he felt. His gaze moved sorrowfully to the image of the dark-tressed woman clasped in Naosi's arms. Had Deirdre known there was so little time before destiny claimed him, and death stole Naosi away?
What would happen to the dreams in Fallon's eyes if she watched him die as Deirdre had watched her lover?
Love was like a blade, and it had been forged between them in fires hotter than any Ciaran had ever known. Beautiful as it was, it could bring terrible, gaping wounds.
He wanted to take her in his arms, hold tight to whatever time the fates allowed them. He was tempted to scoop her up, to do as Naosi had done and carry her into the wild lands where Redmayne's treachery could never touch her.
But the danger in running was that once you began, you were doomed to run forever. And wandering thus, one step ahead of the huntsman, was no life for a woman, romantic as it might seem when captured in bard song. There, you couldn't feel the bite of winter winds, the hunger gnawing in your belly, nor realize the pain in sacrificing everything you'd ever known. What kind of man could ask that of a woman, no matter how desperately he loved her?
He took the book from her hands and closed it, the illustration suddenly too painful to look at. As he carried it back to the table, he gathered up the pieces of his spirit her loving had stripped raw. With fierce resolve, he hardened them against the mystical beckoning in her eyes.
"What happened between us last night was a mistake, Fallon. A dangerous one."
A weaker woman might have been hurt. Fallon only raised her chin a notch higher, her sea-blue eyes shining with certainty. "No, it was beautiful, Ciaran. For both of us. I saw it in your face, felt it in your touch. You were as shaken by the power of our lovemaking as I was."
Ciaran felt as if she'd torn open his chest. "That may be. But it doesn't change anything. I won't be touching you again." Not until I unravel the mystery of my identity. Until I find a way to render Redmayne harmless.
She rose from the bed, her dressing gown streaming around her, her hair a nimbus of sunset curls—a woman, infinitely generous, heartbreakingly brave. If Deirdre had looked at Naosi thus, Ciaran understood why the warrior had cast caution to the winds and carried her away.
"You're not making any sense," Fallon insisted. "We've already made love. It was beautiful."
Ciaran ground his teeth. Beautiful? It was too small, too common an expression. No word had yet been invented that could reach the depth and breadth of the wonder that had happened between them. But he quelled the thought, his voice harsh.
"It was a distraction. A dangerous one. From this moment on, I intend to focus on what I should have focused on from the beginning: discovering who I am, if I'm dangerous, if somewhere, somehow, I have responsibilities. Am needed."
Curse her for the understanding that softened those rosy lips. "Of course. We'll find the answers together."
"No, Fallon. The answers are mine, and I'll find them myself. I'm going back to the castle, to find some way to track this Silver Hand to his lair."
"But you could be killed!" she burst out. "They're desperate men, the smugglers. They will do whatever is necessary to protect their secrets."
Ciaran thought he'd almost enjoy bashing a few smugglers, sweating out some of the frustration, the raging emotions that were roiling inside him. "It's a risk I'll have to take."
He winced at the sudden squaring of her shoulders.
"I'm going with you," Fallon insisted. "I'm known throughout Glenceo. Even the most desperate men hereabouts would never dare to hurt me. They trust me, after a fashion."
The thought of Fallon hurling herself into danger again on his behalf made Ciaran's gut clench. "Absolutely not. You'll have plenty to do on your own while I'm gone."
"Ciaran—"
He wheeled on her, lashing out the only way he knew how. "Don't you think we should get to work, trying to save your castle, Mary Fallon? Neither one of us can keep playing at fairy tales forever."
She flinched as the words lashed her, and he hated himself for striking at such a soft, vulnerable place in her spirit. But she only confronted him with stony resolve. "It's been a little difficult to concentrate on anything except hauling you out of trouble for the past few days. If you hadn't run away, I might have had a chance to begin considering—"
Ciaran cut her off with an impatient gesture. "We've been through all that. It doesn't matter anymore. It's time to focus on the task at hand. You did summon Ciaran of the Mist from the fairy kingdom for a reason, I presume."
"Of course! I told you what Redmayne threatened to do. That he was going to destroy..."
Castle ruins, tumbledown circles of stone, the ancient dolmens like those on which Deirdre and Naosi had slept. Shattered remnants of ancient glory—ghosts of a time that could never come again. Why the devil shouldn't he stand back and let Redmayne and his kind shove the infernal eyesores into the sea?
Because tearing them apart would be like tearing the very heart out of Mary Fallon. And no matter what Ciaran himself believed, that was one thing he couldn't bear. The least he could do was preserve some part of her dreams, to keep the light of magic sparkling in her eyes after he was gone.
"While I'm searching the coast for this infamous Silver Hand, you need to dredge up information about these stone wrecks you want to save. Whose property are they on? Does Redmayne have the owner's permission to tear the things down?"
