"Come out, Captain Redmayne," she ordered. "Show yourself."
No one. Nothing. Fingers of unease trailed down her nape. Silence stretched out to what seemed an eternity, and she felt like a doe facing the barrel of a huntsman's musket.
Redmayne would have come striding from the shadows by now, wearing that conceited sneer. If it wasn't the Englishman, then who could it be?
She swallowed hard, remembering the captain's warning about gypsies and thieves, and the mysterious smuggler he'd been seeking. No. She was being ridiculous. It was probably no more than a lost sheep, or a red deer foraging in the night. Then why did the quiet tighten about her throat like a hangman's noose?
For the first time in Fallon's life, she hated the mist that obscured the castle walls, the cliffs, the trees, and whoever or whatever lay hidden among them. But she'd always masked fear with belligerence. Squaring her shoulders, she called out.
"I dare you to step from the shadows! Or are you too much of a coward?"
She caught a faint rustling, the stealthy sound of movement, the crunch of stone. Breathless, Fallon wheeled in the direction of the sounds just as a dark shadow tore from its veiling of mist.
A man took shape, as if sculpted from raw night by the hands of the coming storm. But the figure that stumbled toward her had none of the dangerous elegance or hard polish of Captain Lionel Redmayne.
He staggered to a halt, half hidden by a mass of gray stone, bracing himself against it. Dark hair tangled about a face almost terrifying in its savage beauty, a square jaw, high cheekbones all shadows and planes. Moonlight silhouetted thickly muscled arms and a magnificent breadth of masculine chest. Something sharp and lethal glinted in one strong, square hand—a dagger?
Fallon reeled. Could it be Ciaran? Who else would plunge out of the mist, looking so—so primitive?
By the snakes of St. Patrick, she'd done it!
It was Ciaran.
She'd imagined this moment a hundred times, pictured the warrior of the mist, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of the man who stood before her, draped in midnight shadows.
This was no gallant warrior, flinging his cloak over puddles so she could cross, battling her enemies like Galahad from the Arthurian legends of old. This was a man of raw animal power, fearsome intensity, not some languishing knight ready to surrender his soul to kiss the hem of her gown.
She could sense something feral in those burning eyes, a wild creature balancing on the thinnest sheen of ice, expecting to crash through at any moment.
She should say something! Shewouldsay something, just as soon as she was able to breathe again. But it was a surprisingly difficult task when confronted with such a daunting specimen of masculinity. Would it be rude to pinch him to make certain he was real flesh and blood?
Her throat squeezed shut as eyes of searing green met hers. No. Better not poke him unless she wanted to feel that dagger blade pressed against her throat.
St. Patrick and the angels, what had she done? She'd called back an Irish Galahad, and gotten Dailraid the Destroyer. What if he decided that bashing and thrashing was such great fun, after three hundred years that he refused to go back where he belonged once she was through with him? This whole night was turning into a disaster! She had to take control of this situation somehow.
She forced words past the knot in her throat. "I can... can hardly believe you're really here! I was so afraid you wouldn't come. But things were getting so desperate, and you'd promised."
He was staring at her, angry, wary, searching her eyes almost desperately. Something dark darted across his features. Could it be fear? No. Impossible.
"Do you know why you're here? I mean, is that included in the magic? Or do I need to explain—"
"Magic?" he echoed. The first sound of his voice shivered through her as if she were a harp string he'd touched, the richness of his voice tempered with a slight rasp, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.
His mouth hardened in accusation. "You cast a spell on me?"
Fallon took a step backward, beneath the force of those fierce eyes. "No! I mean, yes. But it wasn't malicious. I didn't trick you, like the fairies did."
"Fairies?" his face grew even grimmer.
"This is proper magic," she tried to reassure him. "The only way to get you here. But I don't know exactly what to do with you now that I've—"
She was blathering like an idiot. Blast, she had to keep her wits about her. After all, just because Redmayne hadn't made a second appearance yet, didn't mean he wasn't on his way back up the cliffs. Trouble was, once she'd gotten the infernal warrior of the mist here, she'd expected him to explain the rules to her. It seemed that hurtling through the centuries and crashing through the gates ofTir na nOgmust be more of a shock than she'd realized. She tried to stem the quiver of panic that worked through her. It was no wonder the man was sensitive about spell-casting, considering his past. The last thing she needed was to anger him.
"About the magic. Naturally, I wouldn't have bothered you if it wasn't truly important. If you'd just let me explain." She made a move toward him, and he leapt away from the stone, light as a cat on his feet.
Whatever explanation had been in Fallon's mind vanished.
Moonlight filtered down, washing him—all of him—in a waterfall of silver. She only glanced at him a moment, but the image seared itself into her memory forever.
