But for now, she belonged to him. His wife. His lady. His love. A fierce need swept through him, born of the danger he'd faced entering Butler's fortress home and the sense of foreboding that seemed to whisper to the night. Legends never died. But a mortal man could never be certain how many precious hours of his life might remain. The image of the smuggler's den rose in Ciaran's memory, the salt sting of the sea in his nostrils, the bold scrawl of the note he'd hidden from Fallon beneath the belly of the overturned boat. Suddenly he couldn't get close enough to her. The thought of not being able to touch her even during the ride back to Misthaven was unbearable.
He took her hand, led her to where he'd tied his horse. Her own mount cropped grass beside it. "I want you to ride with me, Mary Fallon. In my arms." He traced the elegant curve of her cheek.
"Cuchulain will follow." She slipped the bridle from the horse's head, whispered something in Cuchulain's velvety ear. Those wise equine eyes met hers with complete understanding.
Then she turned to Ciaran. He mounted his own horse, held out his hand to her. With fairylike grace, she eased onto the horse's back, settling into the curve of Ciaran's arms.
He'd been an abysmal rider from the first, but tonight it was as if Fallon’s special brand of magic had turned the dirt path into a ribbon of beaten silver, the trees into sentinels from other ages, warriors still brave and strong, untouched by English swords.
Ciaran should have carried her back to Misthaven House, the safety of her brother's walls. He wasn't certain what force guided him onto a different track, winding upward along the cliffs.
Why? There was a warm bed, a fire, waiting in the room where he'd first made love to Fallon. And the truth that he was not the hero of legend she'd sought still left him feeling oddly raw.
She nestled against his chest, the only thing in his life that was real. He couldn't help remembering the tale she had spun for him—the tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows and her lover, Naosi. Had Naosi held her in his arms thus as they fled from the high king's wrath? Had he been uncertain of his powers to protect her? Feared that he would disappoint her somehow? Fail her?
But Ciaran had fulfilled the quest Fallon had set for him. He'd made certain the castle was safe, hadn't he? Why did he feel that something vital was unfinished? Why was he restless, disappointed in himself? Why did he suddenly need the healing power of jagged, stone walls reaching up into the sky, of sea spray and gull cries from the ocean crashing beneath the cliffs? And why did he need Fallon there, in his arms?
This was insane. The place had been crawling with soldiers when he'd left it the night before. Beneath the castle lay a den for smugglers, Silver Hand and his men. Why did it feel as if the tumbledown castle belonged to him? Now, when he was finally certain that Fallon's whispers of magic and legend were what he feared—the beautiful imaginings of an embattled people?
Or was it that he needed to be as close to Mary Fallon as possible just once before he traversed the labyrinth alone?
She said nothing, but he sensed when she realized where he was going. She melted even closer against him her breathing soft and light, as if the castle had the power to calm her spirit the way the hand of Mannan MacLir, the Celtic god of the sea, could smooth out the most raging of waters.
Ciaran reined his horse to a halt just beyond the wall, his cheeks heating with embarrassment and confusion. "I must have lost my mind as well as my memory, bringing you to this place. What if Redmayne has set men to watch it?"
"No one is here. The spirits would whisper warning."
She sounded so certain. But how much trust could one place in things unseen—in intuitions and in dreams, in things you couldn't touch? Yet something had compelled him to ride to this castle. His heart? Or an enchantment spun out like a fairy's thread, drawing him to the cliffs and the age-worn stone?
"I just... had to come here. I don't know why."
"But I do." Her warm breath feathered across his jaw. She drew away, shifting in his arms until she could gaze up into his eyes. And he knew in that instant that if the goddess of enchantment had a face, it looked exactly like Mary Fallon's—delicate features filled with possibilities, eyes brimming with the power of believing, lips impossible not to taste. The silky waves of her hair brushed against his throat, her scent—meadow blossoms and sea wind and peaches in new cream—filling his senses.
"Come with me." She slid to the ground, held out one hand, small and white in the light of the moon.
"Fallon," he grated. "I don't think—"
"This place isn't about thinking, Ciaran. It's about feeling—so many things. Joy and pain, despair and triumph. And love, Ciaran. Always the power of love. Ciaran of the Mist's love for his people, the love that drew him to build this place to shelter them. The love of freedom that began countless rebellions. The love of the mist for the sea. Now, it holds something even more precious to me. This is where I found you. I feel... want... I need..." her gaze flickered away for a moment, and in the moonshine he could see a blush stain her cheeks.
"What, Fallon?" Ciaran's voice roughened. "What do you need?"
"You. Your arms around me. Your heat against my skin. Your mouth and your hands." Her gaze found his, and his heart wrenched at the hint of uncertainty that made her voice tremble. "I was so afraid tonight that I would lose you forever. Make love to me, Ciaran. Here, in this place where I've dreamed forever."
His whole body hardened, the passion he'd battled to keep in check since their wedding night jolting through him in jagged streaks like lightning.
Blast, he'd sworn he wouldn't touch her again. He still didn't know who he was. His past hovered out there somewhere in the mist—something that could be dark and ugly, a past he might find on Tuesday when he descended into the labyrinth alone.
But her words reverberated through him, soft, tremulous with a trust that lanced his heart.I was so afraid I would lose you forever.Mary Fallon, woman of courage and dreams. She had been alone for so long. And she wanted him. His lady of the mist. She was everything brave and beautiful, nurtured here, in the shelter of these stones. And tonight, he felt it, too. The power of this place. Tonight the spirits ofCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceowould hold the shadows at bay for the daughter of the magic here.
Ciaran peered down into Fallon's eyes, then dismounted, tying the horse to a low-hanging branch. Then he swept her up into his arms. "Where?" he murmured into the fall of her hair. "Where should I take you?"
"The tower. That way." She waved her hand. He moved toward the ancient stairs that ascended the curve of wall.
He was certain that the stones of the castle must still be jagged, the walls half tumbled down. But as he cradled Fallon against him, he saw the place through her eyes, in all its former glory—bold towers thrusting skyward, thick walls defying enemies, the souterrains beneath newly carved, offering haven to the weak.
And he wished, as he bore Fallon skyward, that he were Ciaran of the Mist, bringing home the bride who had broken the cruel enchantment and won his hero's heart.
Skyward he carried her, up stone steps that seemed to soar to the darkened heavens. The arms ofCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceoreached out to embrace them. At the crest of the stairs, the single tower room stood intact, its circular walls pitted but unbroken, the sky it's only ceiling. It seemed right to be here, in Ciaran's arms. He carried her into the chamber where she had played as a child, dreamed as a woman.
