Cates, Kimberly (39 page)

She
curled up on the ledge where he had lounged the day he had first kissed her and
listened to the wind sigh, as if an echo of legendary Maire's ten thousand
tears. Slowly, the sounds reached inside Norah, ever so gently untangling the
wild knots of her emotions, leaving only one—despair—in its place.

* * * * *

It
was a night of fairy moons and dark enchantments, when souls of the unwary were
stolen off and mortals were lured down to the Land of the Ever Young by kisses
from the fey lips of the Tuatha de Daanan.

As
long as Aidan could remember, he had heard the tales, spun out by the crofter
folk by the light of peat fires, tidbits of wondrous stories that had
fascinated the boy he had been, mesmerized him with a hundred possibilities
until he'd grown to be a man.

A
man who'd dismissed such wild imaginings, with the same scorn he'd cast away
tales of knights and heroes. Yet as Aidan rode his stallion through the mist
this night, he felt as if he were passing through a silken veil that separated
the world of reason from the one that legends wove.

As
if he were being drawn into some sweet madness he was powerless to deny.

Norah.

She
was waiting for him somewhere in the mist. He knew it, not with his mind, but
in his heart.

For
an hour after she'd fled the garden, he had tried to get a grip on the emotions
racing through him. Had tried to sift through her words, her touch, her kisses,
to discover whatever mysteries had whispered to him behind those dark-lashed
eyes.

He
had searched Rathcannon for her, tried to cling to rage, to crush sensations so
strange, so new, they terrified him.

But
as he wandered the hallways, the library, the tangled paths of the garden, all
he could see was her face of soft ivory, like the finest cameo by the light of
the paper lanterns, her eyes wide and soft and wondering as he made love to her
last night.

He
had heard the pleasure sounds of countless women he had bedded in the years
since he'd shed his own virginity. He had made it his personal quest to bring
his partners to shattering climaxes, as if by that skill alone he could rid
himself of the self-doubt Delia had left to fester inside him.

Yet
never, in the eager embraces of all his amours, had he ever known the
excruciating sweetness that had been in Norah's touch, the agonizing healing in
her kiss. Never had he felt as if he hadn't taken a woman's body but had somehow
cradled the very essence of her being in his hands, a treasure beyond
imagining.

Dear
God, what was happening to him? Aidan thought, leaning low over the neck of his
stallion. It was as if he were being drawn to Norah, linked to her by some
invisible thread. A thread that drew him over the hillock, where moonlight
spilled over the ruins of another man's dreams.

Caislean
Alainn.

How
many times had he heard the claim that the tragic castle was possessed by the
Tuatha de Daanan? On certain nights, it was said, it could be found floating in
a sea of mist, as if those ancient spirits were bearing it away to become a
fairy bower.

He
had dismissed the tales as he had so many others. But as he slowed his stallion
and stared at the ruins, a primal rhythm caught his heart, a crushing sense of
fate possessed him. For the castle did seem to drift, apart from the world of
mortal men, as distant from cruel reality as the pale, ghostly figure
silhouetted against rough-hewn ashlar that had been shattered two hundred years
before.

Aidan
reined his stallion to a halt just beyond the ring of stones and dismounted,
his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest.

He
felt for all the world like some poor mortal glimpsing a fairy queen in her
hidden bower. A being so impossibly beautiful it made his eyes ache to look on
her.

She
was curled upon the stone ledge, moonlight flickering over the blossoms caught
in her hair. Silvery rays flowed in mystic streams down the elegant line of her
cheek, the graceful curve of her throat, as she lay curled on the ledge, her
head pillowed upon one pale hand.

Why
had she come here? Aidan wondered, a fist seeming to crush his heart. To this
place where he'd first used his kiss to chain her to him, to capture her, to
hold her?

Why
had he followed her here?

He
started toward her tentatively, as if she were a creature of moonlight and mist
that would vanish at a touch. But the snap of a twig beneath his bootheel made
her stir and raise her head to peer out into the night.

He
knew the moment he stepped from the mist into her searching gaze. Heard her
sharp intake of breath as she hastily sat up, her face luminous, otherworldly.

Wary.

Oh,
God, that she should be afraid of him, this woman of light and tenderness,
courage and such inner beauty.

She
said nothing, just watched him, her lips parted, her face still, so still.

And
he felt like a clumsy fool who was trampling in a world where he didn't belong,
could never belong. He groped for words—a hundred pleas for her to understand,
to forgive him, to
love
him. But he couldn't form the words. Mist
swirled up around his boots as he approached her, like a penitent approaching
the holiest of shrines.

"Have
you ever heard the legend of the fairy kiss?" he asked softly, as if a
mere whisper could make her vanish from his sight.

She
shook her head, saying nothing.

"I
first heard it when I was a boy. On a night like this, the fairy folk come
wandering about the Irish hills, seeking lovers amongst the mortals there. If a
man should stray into a fairy ring, it's said he'll find a maiden there. One of
such indescribable beauty, no man can resist her power. She'll lead him to the
fairy dancing grounds, and if the man should kiss her, she steals his soul, and
he will forevermore be her captive, craving the sweetness of that enchanted
kiss. From that moment on, he will have fairy-kissed eyes, a dreamy,
otherworldly look clinging about him, as if he is forever waiting for his lover
to return."

A
tiny sound came from Norah's throat, a sad, broken laugh. "There is no fairy
maid here."

"Isn't
there?" Aidan asked, his voice rasping in his throat. "I never
believed there was truth in that tale until tonight."

"Aidan,
don't."

"Don't
what?"

"You
don't need to spin out pretty lies or ply me with fairy stories. We both know I'm
not—not beautiful. And a plain woman is not the sort to enchant a man with a
kiss."

"Then
why do I feel this way? This sweet, pulsing madness? Why did I feel myself
drawn here? Why is it that I suddenly believe..." He sounded like a fool—a
lovesick fool—with his heart in his hands, offering it up to a woman. Heat
spilled into his cheeks.

"Believe
in what?" Norah's voice prodded softly.

"In
magic potions that make hunger for a woman boil like a fever in a man's blood.
In fairy rings and castle legends and enchantresses in sea-green satin."

"Not
two hours ago you were far from enchanted. You were in a jealous rage, striking
out at Philip, striking out at me.

"I
never raised a hand to you."

"No.
You used words, Aidan. Scorn and mockery. Condemning me without even attempting
to listen to the truth."

"I'm
listening now."

"Until
when? The next time you see me with a man—any man? If a footman hands me a
posy, or a neighboring squire takes my hand to help me down from a carriage? Or
if I dance with someone else, will you listen then, Aidan? Or will it be
Delia's face you see? Delia's betrayal that cuts you so deeply you lash out at
me?"

"Norah,
I..."

"I
wouldn't betray you. I could never betray you. But it won't matter, will it?
I'll be forever wading through the pain Delia left in you. You managed to open
your heart to Cassandra because it is safe, Aidan. She can never hurt you in
the way that Delia did. But you will never open your heart to me."

He
paced away from her, leaning one hand against the stone wall, feeling the pulse
of pain generations past, bewitchings that had brought ecstasy and then
destruction.

"Knowing
that, Norah, why did you marry me?" He turned to face her.

She
slid from the ledge of stone, restless, the gardenias tumbling from her hair,
her body slender, supple, eminently touchable, glossed in moonlight.

"I—I
am not going to discuss this. Why should it matter? You have what you want,
what you needed of me: an honorable name to ease Cassandra's entry into
society."

"But
what did you gain? And it wasn't a home, security. No, I could see in your eyes
in the garden, feel in your touch when I bedded you, that it wasn't such a
simple, practical reason that you swore to be my wife."

"Aidan,
I'm very tired, worn down. The wedding disaster, the ball, the scene with
Philip. I—I haven't the strength to drag all this out now."

"You
will tell me, Norah. The truth of it. Now. God in heaven, lady, I need to
know."

"So
you can chain me completely? Cassandra and I, the pair of us barred in your
castle by the sea? You already hold every trump card in our relationship. And
you change the rules to suit your will. Why should I surrender the only card I
still hold? It's a paltry thing, far beneath your notice."

"I
think not. Tell me, Norah. I ask of you. Please. Surely such secrets, shared in
a place like this, must hold their own enchantment."

He
came to where she stood, grasped her shoulders, and turned her to face him. She
peered up at him, the most winsome, beautiful creature he'd ever seen. As he
stared into the dark pools of her eyes, he saw there a loveliness that
transcended the curve of her lips, the shape of her cheeks, a loveliness of the
spirit that awed him.

"Tell
me, Norah. Give me that gift."

She
was trembling, her eyes glistening, her voice beset by a tiny quaver. "I
married you because I—I love you. There, you have the truth. I was foolish
enough to fall in love with a man who doesn't want me. Never wanted me. A man
who can never love me back."

The
words pierced Aidan's soul, shimmering there in luminescent wonder. His throat
constricted, his hands catching hers, so fiercely he feared he would bruise
them, but he was terrified that if he released her she would slip away, one
with the mist and the madness throbbing in his soul.

She
loved him. What gift could a man give in return for such a treasure? A man with
no heart to offer her in return.

Swept
up in the magic, Aidan looked deep into her eyes, then slowly sank to one knee.
"Though I cannot give my heart, this I can vow to you: You will never
regret entrusting yours to my care. I swear it, Norah, by what little honor
still remains in my soul."

A
tiny sound came from her throat, those delicate fingers slipping from his
grasp, touching his cheek, smoothing back an errant lock of dark hair. "I
want to—to believe—"

"In
what? Fairy-kissed eyes and love potions that bind souls for eternity? Believe
in this, then, if you can believe in no other."

He
rose to his feet and drew her into his arms, his mouth seeking hers, supplicant
instead of hungry, reverent instead of carnal, asking for response instead of
demanding it.

She
gave him her very soul.

A
cry of surrender shuddered through her, and she clung to him as he kissed her
cheeks, her eyelids, her throat. He threaded his fingers through her hair,
crushing the gardenia petals in his fingers, releasing their rich scent to
mingle with the light tang of mist, the slight salt whisper of the sea.

"I
want you, Norah," he groaned, low in his throat. "Want you more than
I've ever wanted any woman. I need you to touch me, angel." She could
never know what that admission had cost him. "Let me take you back to
Rathcannon, to my bed. Let me love you."

"No,"
she breathed, her fingers tunneling beneath his cloak, trailing up the hard
plane of his chest.

Aidan
winced, her words stinging places still raw from Delia's rejections. His jaw
knotted, and he started to draw away, but she caught at him with pleading
hands, her eyes making him captive. "Aidan, please. I want you here...
here with the magic all around us."

Her
words seduced him, bewitched him, setting him adrift in a world of witchery
eons old, tempting him beyond bearing. Wordlessly, he unfastened his cloak, his
fingers unsteady as he swirled the layered garment onto the ground to make a
bed for his lady.

His
lady.

He
came to her, disrobing her, not in a jesting game, but this time as if he were
carefully unveiling some treasure far too fragile and precious to be touched by
mortal hands. The gown that had clung to her willowy curves slid through his
hands, the satin still warm from her skin, her scent clinging, elusive,
enticing, to the cloth.

He
praised her, rasped words against her ivory skin, as he eased her high-waisted
corset from her breasts, until the lush mounds were shielded from him by only
the thin, crumpled fabric of the chemise beneath.