Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Read online

  Her Magic Touch

  Kimberly Cates

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Kimberly Cates, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT © Kimberly Cates

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Preview Briar Rose

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberly Cates

  Prologue

  Mary Fallon Delaney dragged her feet as she trudged down the hallway, her stomach tighter than the knot in her crisply ironed hair ribbon, her fingers crumpling handfuls of the snowy-clean gown old Nurse had laced her into minutes before. Her face still stung from a ruthless scrubbing. Her scalp tingled where the hairbrush had raked it as nurse tried to bring to order to the red curls wild Irish winds had made a mad tangle.

  But she would have let Nurse scrub the skin right off her nose and not made a peep as long as she didn't have to go into The Room.

  Fallon hated The Room.

  Shadow monsters stretched their bodies in the corners, scritch-scratch-scritching to sharpen their claws. Even when she was tucked up in her own bed, clear across Misthaven House, Fallon could feel how hungry they were. They laughed at her. Dared her to come inside where the air was too thick to breathe.

  She was afraid.

  Not that she'd ever admit it. She was six and one-half years old, after all. Not a baby. And she never cried anymore. Not even when the tears poked against her eyelids trying to come out. But it got harder and harder to keep them locked up inside.

  Maybe that was why Papa stayed away from Misthaven House now. He heard the monsters, too. But he was lucky. Nobody could make him go into The Room, Fallon thought, wistful.

  Fallon chewed at her bottom lip. Only Nurse's gnarled hand against her back kept her moving forward. Fallon could almost remember Nurse laughing, her eyelids so crinkly only sparkles of blue peeped out as they'd played hoodman blind, just like Nurse and Mama had played when Mama was a little girl.

  But Nurse had caved in on herself, just like everyone else at Misthaven House, too sad and solemn to bother about Fallon anymore. She'd heard servants whisper that Nurse let Fallon run wild. She liked to be wild. Except when she was sad or afraid. Then she liked to climb up on someone's lap and pretend she was tired. But nobody's lap had time to hold her anymore. Not Nurse or Papa or Mama or even her big brother, Hugh, so she'd just quit asking.

  Fallon's eyes widened, and she fought the urge to turn and run. The door loomed ahead, like a dark mouth trying to swallow her. Fallon dug her slipper heels into the roses on the carpet, her chin jutting out at a belligerent angle. "I don't want to go in there," she insisted. "It smells all sicky and makes my nose itch."

  "Selfish girl!" Nurse looked as if she'd like to slap her, and Nurse's slaps had gotten harder and harder, maybe because she'd been practicing lots more lately.

  "With all the sufferin' in the world, you could surely spare a bit o' your precious time! Not another word, now, or you'll be sorry, I swear you will!"

  Fallon's cheeks stung with shame as Nurse thrust her into the chamber.

  "Don't scold her, Nurse." The voice was like melodies that drifted from the music-room harp when Fallon sneaked in and plucked it. Soft and pretty and gentle. But the voice only made Fallon's stomach hurt worse. Fallon dug her fingers into her skirts so tight her hands shook. Maybe Nurse could make her come to The Room, but she couldn't make Fallon look up. Couldn't make her see...

  "Don't upset yourself, treasure. This is not a fit place for a little girl, is it, Fallon-my-love?"

  Nothing except the understanding in that voice could have made Fallon raise her eyes to the woman lying in the big bed.

  "You shouldn't be trapped in a sick room, little one," the woman said. But eyes blue as her own gobbled Fallon up, as if she were a plate of sweets someone was about to snatch away.

  Fallon nibbled on her lower lip, staring at the woman beneath the coverlets. She wore Mama's favorite nightgown with the lace lilies on the collar. The heathery blue bed shawl Nurse had knitted on wicked-looking needles draped about her shoulders. But she didn't look like Mama any more.

  The fire that always seemed to burn in Mama's hair had grown cold, and someone had pinched great hollows around her eyes. Worst of all, whenever Fallon dared to hug her, she wasn't soft anymore, or warm. Bones poked into her wherever she touched. And Mama was cold and so thin she made Fallon think of the china lady from the drawing room. She'd sneaked her out to take tree-climbing with her one day when she'd been lonely and broken one arm right off her. Maybe Mama would break, too?

  Stinging things nipped at Fallon's eyelids. She could almost remember what it had been like at Misthaven before the coughing had come, and the lace-edged handkerchiefs Mama loved had come away from her lips stained with blood. Before Nurse started clucking and crooning over Mama as if Mama were a little girl instead of Fallon. Before Papa had ridden off on his horse pretending Mama wasn't sick and Fallon wasn't frightened, and Hugh didn't even exist.

  On those long-ago days Mama had taken Fallon everywhere with her—whenever she went to the snug white cottages, her arms laden with baskets of food and clothes, sewing needles, writing things and books and medicines. Even little as Fallon had been, she'd known Mama was something special to the people in those cottages. Something that made angels shine in people's eyes. She belonged to them, somehow, like the standing stones on Finnegan's Hill, or the cliffs on the shore. She wondered who put angels in the people's eyes now.

  A frail hand reached up, twisting one of Fallon's curls around a finger. The red strands were so bright against the thin white skin that it seemed they should burn it. Fallon tried not to pull away, expecting the bitter scent of medicine to sting her nose. But a baby pink rose tucked in the bosom of mama's nightgown covered the smell a little.

  Hugh.

  Fallon winced. She wished she'd thought to bring mama a flower. No one had to make Hugh come here. He just did it all on his own. He'd even tried to coax her to come with him sometimes. But she shook her head and ran off into the fields and stayed until long past dark.

  She'd never told him why. The truth was too big, pressing on her chest until she couldn't breathe. She was afraid. Afraid that someday they'd make her give Mama a kiss, and Mama's cheek would crumble like the curl of ash she'd touched once at Potter Dan's when the fire on the hearth had gotten cold.

  But tonight something was different from all those other time
s. There was a peacefulness about Mama's face. A shine in her eyes, almost as if... as if she were getting better. Fallon's heart lurched with hope.

  "Fallon, do you remember when I first was sick?" Mama asked. "You'd come and sit beside me in the garden, and I'd tell you stories."

  Fallon shrugged. But she did remember. Remembered so hard it hurt inside. Then Mama had only been tired and a little pale. She'd filled Mama's lap with flowers and filled up her imagination with Mama's stories of mischievous fairies and bold heroes that rode in chariots.

  Cuchulain, half god, half man, the bravest of Irish heroes. Finn MacCool, who had led his bold army, the Fianna, into a glory so bright its blaze still shone in the Irish mists. And always, the Tuatha de Dannan shone like bright gold threads woven through the tapestry of tales. The sidhe, magical folk of the other world who made their home in the hills and the trees, the seas and the cliffs, more a part of Ireland than the very earth beneath Fallon's feet.

  Fairies who soured milk and stole babies from their cradles and danced their way through the soles of six pairs of slippers in just one night. Her mother's words echoed through Fallon's memory. Remember, treasure. Save up the legends like the pretty pebbles you find. Mama had spun out the stories time and again, as if she were stitching them into Fallon's mind, the way she embroidered silks of blue and red and green on bits of tapestry.

  "Do you remember your favorite tale, love?" Mama's voice drew Fallon back from a whirl of fairies dancing in star-shine gowns. "Ciaran of the Mist." How could she forget, with his castle perched high on a sea cliff, near enough that she could walk there on a fine morning? Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, The Castle of the Dancing Mist. Even its name breathed magic.

  From the time she could first remember, Fallon had loved how the castle's walls and crumbling towers seemed to almost bend over the ledge, loved peering through arched window eyes down at the fingers of water scrabbling at the cliffs.

  In the years since Mama had gotten sick, Fallon had run away to the castle often, making believe the towers were her very own.

  "Do you remember what happened to Ciaran?" Mama asked.

  Fallon nodded. "The fairies took Ciaran away," Fallon said.

  Everyone in Ireland was afraid of the fairies taking someone away. Especially naughty children. But even though Nurse had threatened her again and again, the fairies had never come for Fallon, no matter how wicked she'd been.

  Now Nurse said the saints were going to take Mama away because Mama was so good. It made Fallon's head ache, trying to sort it all out. But she thought it must be better to be bad and go where everyone lived forever and danced until their slippers wore through instead of being good and going to a place like church, quiet and cold, with painted faces always turned up to heaven.

  "I remember the stories, Mama," Fallon admitted. "You used to feed me cherries until my mouth got all red 'cause that's what the fairies used to 'chant Ciaran away." If Fallon closed her eyes really tight, she could see what the garden had looked like, flowers spilling about as if someone had broken a rainbow and scattered the pieces all over the ground.

  She could remember the sun sparkling in the blue glass bowl Mama held on her lap, and the cherries glowing so red they seemed magic. Maybe they were magic, because just thinking about them made The Room get blurry all around Fallon, until the medicine bottles melted away, and all she could see was Mama's eyes, the way they used to be—warm and bright and full of fairy dreams.

  A little bubble of excitement pressed in Fallon's throat, and she burst out, "Tell me the story again, Mama."

  "Wicked, thoughtless girl!" Nurse grabbed her by the arm so tight it pinched. "Can you not see my angel is worn to a thread?" Mama was Nurse's angel. Nobody ever called Fallon that. But before Nurse could pinch harder, Mama raised her head off the pillow.

  "Nurse, please. Leave us alone. My daughter wishes me to tell her a story."

  "I'm sorry, Mama." Fallon stuffed her hands behind her back. "You don't have to tell me Ciaran. You need to rest."

  Mama's lips curved in a way so close to Mama's smile a hook seemed to tear inside Fallon's chest. "I'm going to have plenty of time to rest, soon, treasure. I'd much rather tell you a story, unless..." She hesitated, and looked as if unless would make her very sad. "Unless you want to leave. I'd not keep you inside if you're thirsty for the sunshine."

  Fallon glanced at the window where a slice of blue sky peeked in. But suddenly, she didn't want to be outside so very much. She looked at Mama. "I'd like to stay."

  Mama's eyes got all glisteny, like with tears, but she smiled even wider and patted the space next to her. Fallon started to bounce up on the feather tick then stopped, casting a nervous glance at Nurse. But even though Nurse's lips were pursed so hard all the wrinkles showed, she didn't say anything at all. She only grabbed up some crumpled cloths and half-filled glasses and slipped out of the room.

  Glad she was gone, Fallon edged onto the bed as if it were made of spider's webs, careful not to so much as brush against her mother. But Mama reached across the space that separated them, urging her closer, her hand stroking back a lock of flyaway hair that tickled Fallon's forehead.

  It felt so strange to have someone touch her softly now, or to want her to stay close by, instead of shooing her off somewhere. Fallon stretched up to try to hold on to the brush of Mama's fingers as long as she could.

  "Once, long ago," Mama began, "when the standing stones were new, the magic in Erin was so strong that the hills grew more heroes than flowers. Heroes proved their valor in battle, and upon the hurling feilds. The crack of ash-wood hurling sticks into the hard leather ball sounded like battle drums as teams of men fought to slam the sphere through the goals at opposite ends of the field. Men warred against each other, dodging, leaping, swinging with all the passion and power inside them, as if they were the old Druid gods locked in combat for the mist green isle St. Patrick and his angels had stolen away.

  "Now, little did the heroes know that other games were being played beyond the veil of the mist at the very same time. For the fairy kings did battle upon the hurling fields with far more fury than even the warriors at the royal seats of Tara or Emain Macha. The fairies, who are ever-watching, loved to peer from their hiding places, to laugh at mortal men, and jeer at their clumsy efforts, until one day..."

  Mama paused, waiting as she always had for Fallon's delighted shiver, and the words Fallon had always said.

  "He came out of the mist." Fallon could picture it as clearly as her own snub nose in the nursery mirror—glittery mist fluttering over the green hilltops, billowing into the valleys, snagging on the twisted tree roots, and the earth that cradled them, the wind carrying the news to the sea, he comes... he comes.

  And then, a man striding out onto the hurling field, white teeth flashing in the smile of one who could never even imagine being beaten in any contest one could name.

  "Ciaran strode out of the mist," Mama continued. "And every man on the field fell silent. Never had they seen such a man before. Even the cunning fairy king, Jarlath's, face couldn't have looked more regal. Draped in great loops of heathery wool and creamy linen, Ciaran towered above the other warriors, lean and hard-bodied as a wolfhound run wild in the forests. His shoulders were nearly as wide as the hurling stick strapped to his back, his arms powerful from sword play and spear casting. Yet despite his fierceness, Ciaran carried the soul of a bard within his warrior body.

  "He was brave as Cuchulain. Wise as Finn MacCool. And the greatest hurler ever to breathe. Yet within him beat the most noble of hearts. He believed the true measure of a man was defending those weaker, caring for the aged, the young, the helpless. He wanted nothing but to love Ireland and guard his people. Who could have guessed that his greatest battle wouldn't be with the High King's foes, but rather with the Fairy King?"

  Fallon closed her eyes tight with imagining. The Room spun away.

  "It is said Cuchulain's courage was never matched, nor the wisdom of Finn MacCool. But Ciaran MacCail
te, Son of the Mist, surrendered nothing less than his heart to those who needed the strength of his body.

  Scarce two cycles of the moon had passed before he became champion of the High King at Emain Macha.

  Boldest of warriors, finest hurler ever to take the field in a contest, Ciaran's greatest battle would not be with enemies of his king, but rather, two more subtle foes. Jarlath, king of the fairies, and his own loneliness. For people wish to keep heroes high above them, never to be touched.

  Now, beyond the mist of enchantment, the fairy folk played at hurling with even more passion than men did. Once Jarlath saw Ciaran's skill, he had to have the hero as his own champion upon the fairy fields.

  One morning, as Ciaran wandered the sea cliffs alone, Jarlath appeared in all his mystic glory. "Come to my kingdom. Be my champion. You shall live for eternity," proclaimed Jarlath. Ciaran refused. He knew every man should have only so many days to love and laugh, or he might forget what a miracle life is.

  Jarlath waved his hand. Enchanted weapons glittered in the air, magnificent as Cuchulain's spear, the Gae Bulga, and Finn MacCool's sword, Son of the Wind. "Come with me and I promise you will become a legend. People will sing your praises in bard song for a thousand years." Still Ciaran refused. He would earn that honor with his own strength or not at all.

  Scarce believing his own ears, Jarlath made one final offer. "Be a prince in my land, take my most beautiful daughter as your wife and possess riches beyond the imaginings of your mortal mind."

  But Ciaran wanted none of the fairy king's gifts. He knew that if he accepted anything from the fairy king, he would be his slave. Besides, he wanted a wife who came to him with nothing but the passion in her heart, and the only riches he craved were nets full of salmon and fields of red deer to fill the cooking pots of those who were hungry.