Her blood quickened, raced, her steps became faster, as she dared to let her lashes flutter up. She knew the others were there, but she saw only him, Ciaran, standing so tall, so proud, his eyes hot as coals, his mouth fierce with hunger and yearning. Her gaze locked with his as she poured everything she was into the dance.
The dance... Ciaran couldn't breathe, couldn't move as he watched her whirl about, her skirts caught up to her knees, her trim ankles flashing, white-stockinged, delicate, lovely. Light as will-o'-the-wisps, her feet darted to the rhythm. She moved as if the merest gossamer threads bound her to the earth.
Her hair tumbled down from its pins, a luminescent, silken cascade, and Ciaran felt as if the wind itself had plucked the pins free, unable to bear any trappings of cold civilization, prim English ways that might taint this wondrous, fey creature. Ireland seemed to be claiming this woman as its own.
But she washis, Ciaran thought with savage possessiveness. His bride. For now, this enchanted moment, Mary Fallon belonged to him.
Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed rose. Every movement of her supple body beckoned him, seducing him, enthralling him. He glimpsed Maeve nudging one of the bold crofter's lads. With a smile, the young man came into the circle and began to dance facing Fallon, a strong, handsome youth, as much a part of this place as Fallon was. Ciaran felt a hot tide of jealousy, unreasonable anger at both Maeve and the other man. Before he could stop to consider, Ciaran strode into the ring of clapping glen folk. The youth took one look at his face, and backed away. Ciaran saw Maeve's winsome dried-apple face smiling at him then she turned in a swirl of blue cloak and started down the mountain.
Blast the old meddler! Where the devil was she going? But there was nothing to do but brazen this out. A hush of expectancy hung over the crowd, the only sound the dancing of the pipes and the rhythm of Fallon's steps.
Defiantly, resolutely, Ciaran stared down at Fallon's feet, not giving a damn if he made a complete fool of himself, wanting only to share this with her, this rite of earth and sky and wind, this melding with things ancient and eternal.
Hands on his hips, he forced his feet to move. Awkward, clumsy, he felt like a plodding plow horse beside an ethereal butterfly. Yet the stomp of his boot heels against the ground caught the rhythm. Heat flooded his cheeks, sweat beaded his brow as he fought to keep up with the relentless beauty of Tom Dunne's piping.
Then his gaze caught Fallon's, and he drowned in the fey blue depths. And in that instant, Ciaran believed in the power of enchantment. Like a swift current, she swept up his soul, shaking free every inhibition, awakening something that had been sleeping within him. Steps that had seemed impossible were no longer so. His was no dance of air and sunbeams, his was one of earth and fierce masculine desire, the pulsing of battle drums and the primal need to protect one's mate.
Gasps of awe rose from the crowd, but he barely heard them. He only saw the rising tide of pride and joy in the eyes of his bride. Something sizzled between them, a challenge as old as the first wild mare that had tossed her mane—teasing, tempting—and raced away across the hills from the stallion she desired.
Fallon's neck arched at a proud angle. Impossible as it seemed, her feet flashed even faster, the steps intricate as the web of lines in the interlacing she'd shown him in the pages of her treasured book. Breathtaking, beautiful, she paused for an instant, daring him to echo her dance.
He wanted to grab her, crush her in his arms, bury his lips in hers. He wanted to lay her down on the moss, bunch her skirts up about her waist and take her with all the primitive passion that had been building between them.
Instead, he matched her step for step, move for move, his boot heels pounding in answering rhythm to the tightening in his loins. Astonishment lit her face, drove her to dance faster, leap higher as the pipes worked their enchantment, but he'd not let her outstrip him, pushed her to greater lengths, until their breath rasped, their skin glowed with sweat, their hearts raced, and their eyes answered each primal call in a language neither could mistake.
When her tongue flicked out to lick a tiny bead of sweat from her upper lip, Ciaran couldn't bear the torment any more. He had to touch her. In a heartbeat, he lunged, sweeping her into his arms. She cried out in surprise and delight as he tossed her high above him, the flower crown flying from her hair in a shower of petals, her skirts rippling, her face glowing. He caught her as she came down and whirled her around and around in his arms until they were both so dizzy that he collapsed on the turf, taking her with him.
The firm curve of her bottom landed on his rigid staff. Her breasts heaved with the exertion, trembling against him where his shirt hung open. He remembered suckling those soft globes, watching her nipples respond to his touch.
The world stopped, nothing existing in that instant but Fallon's face, turned up to his, love luminous in her eyes, her lips dewy and ripe with hunger for him—only for him.
No force on earth could have kept him from claiming her. His mouth devoured hers, drinking in the flavors that were Fallon's alone, bewitching, intoxicating, wild.
His wife—his bride. Could words spoken by any holy man ever forge the bond that joined them together? Or was this something beyond the grasp of mere vows, something so fiercely exquisite that it broke Ciaran's heart? He kissed her, every vulnerability stripped raw, every need throbbing at the surface, nothing held back from her, nothing concealed. Nothing existed except the two of them, and the power and the passion between them.
He didn't notice the hush fall over the crowd, the sudden stillness. Only the low purr of a voice that pierced through him: "Such deplorable lack of finesse, MacDonough. Much more enthusiasm, and I fear you'll suffocate her."
Redmayne.
Chapter 15
Awareness of the Englishman slid beneath Ciaran's skin like a cold blade. He jerked away from Fallon and glared up into the faintly amused eyes of his nemesis. Where the devil had the man come from? It was as if he'd appeared in a puff of brimstone, like the devil he was.
In a heartbeat, Ciaran was on his feet, Fallon drawn up beside him. He stepped in front of her in an effort to shield her as she shook her tangled skirts into place, and tried to conceal the vulnerabilities so stark on her face.
Ciaran's gut churned at the knowledge that the English bastard had witnessed such an intimate moment—between Fallon and her beloved glen folk, between the mist and the castle, between Ciaran and his bride.
But now the darkness crawled with Redmayne's soldiers, prowling like a pack of wolves. How could he have been such a fool, not noticing Redmayne's minions all but surrounding them? He'd been too intoxicated by Fallon, the lithe movements of her body, the invitation that had driven every instinct from his mind except the need to mate with her. If Redmayne had come to massacre these people, he'd have been oblivious until the first pistol shot rang out.
"What are you doing here, Redmayne?" he snarled.
"It's a little known fact that I adore dancing. Allow me to say that I've rarely seen anyone perform the art with more grace than your bride. By the stars, she almost seems to float on a cloud of air." He sketched Fallon a bow, peering at her a little too intensely beneath hooded lids. "Under other circumstances I might be tempted to request the honor of partnering her myself."
"The devil you will! She'd sooner dance with a mad dog!"
“This is a private celebration," Tom Dunne put in. "On their weddin'. No place here fer Sassenach soldiers. Unless, of course, the Crown's made dancin' a hangin' offense."
"Only clumsy dancing. There's nothing more repulsive. But this is a wedding celebration, you say?" One brow rose a fraction in mock astonishment, as he turned back to Ciaran. "And I wasn't invited to this little fête? How embarrassing. And after all my efforts on your behalf, getting you wed." Redmayne shook his head in feigned sorrow, and it was all Ciaran could do not to slam his fist into the man's face.
