The groom hadn't needed to say more. Anyone desperate enough to take up smuggling wouldn't shrink from silencing one meddling stranger to protect their secret.
She'd rushed to the stable herself and ordered up her horse. Within a quarter hour she was mounted and searching. But even the riding that had once freed her mind and soothed her spirit had been invaded by Ciaran MacCailte. She shifted her weight in the saddle, a slight tenderness in the delicate places between her thighs reminding her all too vividly of the night before.
Her cheeks burned at the memory of her complete abandon in Ciaran's arms. Who would have believed that the mere touch of a man's hands, that possession by a man's body, could alter her so? Could make her crave his bed, his arms, the unforgettable fire of his passion? But he had turned his back on their lovemaking and vowed not to touch her again. A distraction, he'd called it. The pain at his rejection had been fierce, but she'd clung to the emotions she'd glimpsed in his eyes: desperation, need—love?
The possibility was too precious to bear. He'd been raw with that torrent of emotions. They made a man ready to lash out, heedless. And such recklessness now could mean his doom.
She suppressed a chill and eyed another crescent shape cut by a horse's hoof. Who knew what she'd find when she finally ran him to ground. She could only hope that the fates were with her and that he hadn't stumbled across anyone yet.
But that hope was dashed as she suddenly saw someone approaching. Burly Tom was carrying one of his nine children in his brawny arms. Almost from birth, Caitlin's escapades had kept the whole parish in gales of laughter. "Pleaded wi' the Blessed Virgin to give me one daughter, after havin' eight sons," Tom would say fondly, shaking his head. "Man craves a touch of gentleness, says I to My Lady. But seems the mother of our Lord has a sense of humor they don't catch in the holy statues, 'cause she sent me a girl who could whip all eight of her brothers, an' me atop it."
Now, little Caitlin's blond hair straggled about her deliciously naughty face, the child wet as a half-drowned kitten. Fallon might have feared she was hurt if it wasn't for the brazen smile displaying a winsome gap where one front tooth had been.
"Top of the mornin' to ye, Miss Fallon," Dunne called, but Fallon scarcely heard him. Caitlin was smirking like a cat in the cream pot as she stroked the shimmering green cloth that bundled her slight body. Ciaran's cloak. At least she was on the right track, Fallon thought.
"Caitlin, what happened?"
"There was a man askin' Da questions forever an' ever, an' I got in-patient, so I creeped away. There were diamonds on the water an' I tried to catch 'em an' falled in. An' it was terrible cold. But the man wrapped me up. He gave me this to keep." She flicked reverent fingers across the elegant fabric.
Ciaran. Fallon's heart squeezed. Her nerves calmed just a whisper. He obviously hadn't clashed with Dunne. Perhaps he wasn't racing into calamity after all. At least not the one she'd anticipated. She shook her head, a pulsing of tenderness washing through her. Of course, by the time she found him, he'd probably be wearing nothing but an old shawl again.
"And what did ye learn from yer mischief, ye disobedient miss?" Caitlin's father demanded.
Caitlin gazed up at him with sparkling blue eyes. "That I should've been wicked sooner, 'cause Liam O'Hara got the sparklies from the man's shirt first."
Dunne tried and failed to stifle a laugh, and Fallon couldn't help but smile at the audacious little mite.
"An' what would you be doin' with a gentleman's shirt studs, I'd like to know?" her father demanded.
"I certain-sure wouldn't waste 'em tradin' for new boots like Liam is, even if I was a peddler walkin' monstrous far. I'd poke holes in my dresses to stick the sparklies through when I went to mass of a Sunday, an' then Francis an' Joseph an' Kevin would all be jealous enough to burst, I'd be so fine." Her brow crinkled, and she nibbled on her plump bottom lip. "Papa, I think I must be wicked much more oftener if I want another pretty."
Fallon didn't even hear Tom's chuckled reply. Her throat tightened with envy at the child's utter confidence in her father's acceptance, his love, the certainty that even "wickedness" would never make Tom turn away from her. How many times had Fallon wondered if she might have changed things with her own papa. If she'd been pretty, like the daughters of his hunting friends, if she'd been sweet and biddable, and never wicked, might he have stayed?
"What direction did the man who gave you the pretty go?" she asked, suddenly wanting desperately to get away from the loving father and the child who took him so for granted. As it should be, Fallon knew. As it should be.
"That way." Caitlin gave an airy wave of her hand. "I liked him, Miss Fallon. Da says he's yer husband. Could you ask him to wear a red cloak next time? I'm berry partial to red."
"Ye're incorrigible, lass! I'm that ashamed of ye," Dunne said, but he took the sting from the words by smacking the child's cheek with a hearty kiss.
Fallon felt a sting of regret. Had her own papa ever kissed her? Carried her in his arms? If he had, she couldn't remember. She could only remember him riding away, turning his back on all that was painful, drowning it in drink and dissolution until he died of it. He'd wanted to make everything he'd left in Ireland disappear. And it had worked. He had made Fallon and Hugh disappear from his life.
But if Ciaran MacCailte ever loved, he would never walk away from his wife, his child, Fallon knew intuitively. He'd be their strength through whatever tragedy they faced, and if death came to one of his family, he would hold their hand, so that even as they slipped into eternal sleep, they wouldn't feel alone.
"Miss Fallon," Caitlin's voice intruded. "Da says there won't be any wedding party. Is that true?"
Fallon flushed, glancing from Caitlin to Dunne, wondering if the crofter had heard the story of her unusual marriage. She winced at the vision she had of whispers around firesides, the sorrowful shaking of heads, the disappointment. For doubtless the story of her wedding had flown through Glenceo, along with the story that she was pregnant with Ciaran's babe. But even worse than the embarrassment that stung her was the sudden longing for what might have been.
What might it have been like to wed Ciaran with these people who loved her looking on? The liquid sparkle of fiddles dancing cares away, the yearning cry of the uilleann pipes filling the soul to bursting? Tin whistles seducing until no one's feet could stay still, while the rhythm of bodhrans stirred the blood? A night to remember forever, with cakies for little Caitlin Dunne, and dreams of a future for Fallon to treasure.
Fallon swallowed hard. How was it possible to feel the loss of something you'd never thought you'd have? Marriage vows wreathed in beauty and awe instead of forced by the hand of a master strategist, dancing and celebration instead of a grim scene in her brother's study. A day of enchantment, where every time her eyes met Ciaran's, they filled with anticipation of the time when they'd be alone at last, when he would come to her, and make love to her, with no shadows, no doubts between them.
"There wasn't time to have any sort of celebration," she faltered. "No time to plan one, I mean."
Caitlin heaved a sigh. "Then I'll get no cakies this week, I s'pose. It's most dis-tressing."
"I'll have Cook send over a basket full of cakies next time she bakes them," Fallon promised.
She started to spur her horse on its way, but Dunne managed to catch the reins, his eyes kind and wise. There was no judgment in them, Fallon realized, only deep affection. "I only wish we'd been able to sail you off into marriage the way the folk hereabouts always wanted to—with the grandest bridal celebration ever to grace Ireland's shores."
