"Thomas," Ciaran said gruffly, his gaze flicking to the bundle of food Oonagh Dunne was busily spreading on a flat stone. "You shouldn't have gone to such trouble." Fallon glanced up at Ciaran's face, saw how deeply he was moved.
Little Caitlin swept up, still resplendent in Ciaran's cloak. "I wanted to wait until Mammy made up me dress all shimmery. Then Miss Fallon could sit on the Lady Stone, like it was a throne, and we could bring our presents, and I'd be so pretty me brother's eyes'd all pop out of their heads like they do when I punch 'em in the belly."
"I think that's a grand idea, treasure," a stooped figure slipped from the crowd, wise old eyes shining, her slender shoulders wrapped in the cloak Ciaran had given her. "Not the punchin' o' yer poor brothers, mind. But perhaps Miss Fallon's husband would take her to the stone."
A smile spread over Ciaran's face. "Maeve! Maeve McGinty."
"Aye, 'tis me, lad. Wouldn't be missin' this fer the world. Now, do as young Caitlin says, and take yer bride to the Lady Stone.
"Lady Stone?"
"The man who built this castle long ago, he never had a love because of a fairy spell. But many is the lady would've given her very soul away for a chance to win his heart. Not wantin' the ladies to suffer the pain he did, Ciaran did three impossible tasks for a fairy maid. In exchange, the fairy placed an enchantment on a stone where the wind whispers most sweetly, and the sea sings its song. And any lady who sits upon it will dream of her one forever-love."
Fallon saw the shadow cross Ciaran's face at Maeve's tale, felt the yearning in him. But he did as the old woman bade. He took Fallon's hand and led her to the stone Maeve pointed to.
The Lady Stone. Even Fallon had courted its magic once, lowered herself upon it to watch the sea roar and the mist dance. But no dream of a true love had spun out inside her head. Instead, as always, her imagination had filled with images of Ciaran of the Mist.
Her eyes locked with Ciaran's for a long moment. Then she eased down onto the stone almost gingerly. His hand, so strong, so warm, so vital and real, curved atop her shoulder. And in that instant, it was as if a jolt of something shot through Fallon, a sense of Rightness, of destiny, of fate.
But she didn't need the stone to tell her. This man was her husband. Her love.
Maeve placed a crown of wildflowers on Fallon's curls. Their fragrance filled her senses—yarrow and fairy grass, cherry blossoms and tiny sprigs from a rowan tree.
Family after family came forward, dressed in their shabby finest, their faces alight with anticipation and joy. Work-roughened hands pressed humble gifts into her grasp. Moira MacConaghy brought a baby dress stitched from her wedding gown: "Had enough cloth fer two, and the one I made for my first babe was so pretty, I couldn't resist sewing up the other. Was savin' it fer somethin' special. And now, I'm so glad I did."
Caitlin brought her family's offering, a twig with a few straggly leaves on it, the roots wrapped in a damp cloth. " 'Twill be a cherry tree when it grows up, like the one in the story ye always loved. The one with the 'chanting cherries and the fairy king. And someday, if ye're lucky enough to have a girl like me, ye can sit under the tree and tell her, oh, everything magic."
Fallon cradled the seedling in her hands, such a small, fragile thing on which to hang a legend, such a tenuous link to a dream—the dream of a daughter with Ciaran's glen-green eyes, his beautiful smile.
The last to approach was Siobhan Moynihan. She glided up, took something from her pocket. A lumpy bundle of soft, heather-colored homespun, a piece of sugar loaf inside. "My grandmother gave me this on my wedding day." A soft rose stained her cheeks. "She was a healer. She said..." Siobhan's voice broke a little. "She said it was a charm to help me remember the sweetness of love when trouble came. And there is sweetness," she said fiercely. "I only hope my man remembers it some day."
Fallon wondered if the Madonna had looked thus before her son had died—lovely, fragile, yet so strong, the hope of the world shining through the pain in her eyes.
How could she begin to thank these people who had opened their hearts to her? Their generosity, their selflessness, their courage humbled her. They had sacrificed so much, had so much stolen from them. But not their dignity. Not their warmth. Not their innate beauty. And Ciaran understood.
Fallon's eyes filled with tears, until their faces blurred before her, their gifts as hazy as images from the other world. But no fairy treasure could have been more precious to her. And no memory could hold more beauty than that of Ciaran, his handsome face flooded with emotion, his eyes grave with gratitude as he thanked Siobhan and little Caitlin, Tom and Dermott, pausing to press the women's hands with gentle chivalry, ruffle the curls of the children, talk to their men.
It was so beautiful, tears burned Fallon's eyes. It was Tom Dunne who saw her swipe one surreptitiously from her cheek.
"Here now, we can't be havin' this, Miss Fallon. It is for joy only, this day. Time for a bit of music, I'm thinkin'." He turned to Ciaran. "Ye may not know it, but yer bride can dance like the wind. Never saw anythin' more wondrous than Miss Fallon dancin'. It is pure pleasure to watch her, it is."
Ciaran's gaze found hers. "Would you, Fallon? Dance for me?"
There was such hunger in his eyes, a need to know all of her, every facet, every secret, every sorrow and joy before it was too late. Fallon sensed it implicitly, for she felt the same driving need.
But was it possible to dance with suppressed tears in one's throat? When all one's emotions were far too tender and close to the surface? Wasn't there a danger of revealing too much? Everything she needed—from Ciaran, only Ciaran.
But it was Ciaran who asked this of her, his ageless eyes beckoning her from a thousand dreams.
Slowly she stood. Tom Dunne perched on a ledge of stone, cradling his set of uilleann pipes with the same infinite tenderness he lavished on his little daughter. Fallon saw her beloved glen folk fall back into a circle, smiling delight, encouragement. The first notes spun out, sizzling down Fallon's spine, igniting some irresistible force within her with their hauntingly beautiful strains, quivering there for a long moment, before Tom Dunne made the melody dance.
Since time began, the Irish had poured joy and sorrow, passion and pain into their music and dance, distilling life to its purest essence. She closed her eyes and embraced it, letting it flow through her. Her feet moved in the steps of the dance.
How many times had she done this? Shared this with the country folk? Delighted in it? Yet this time was far different. She'd watched others courting, wooing through the movements, watched passion ignite in the eyes of other lovers as the freedom of the dance unleashed inhibitions, overcame shyness. And some secret part of her had envied them for having something she could never know—the freedom to love.
But this time she was the one dancing for her beloved, feeling his gaze hot upon her, as certainly as she'd felt his caress the night before.
Someone brought out a bodhran, and the ancient Celtic war drum kept a beat as primal as the pulsing of the earth's very heart. Fallon felt vulnerability—stark, terrifying, and yet oddly exhilarating as well—born of complete trust, absolute surrender, a crashing down of inner walls that had protected her heart since the day her mother had died.
