Any query she made about a man would start a deluge of gossip—gossip she could only pray that Sorcha wouldn't feel the urge to embellish.
Fallon shoved away the prospect grimly. She'd find some way to deal with all that later. Now the only thing that mattered was finding Ciaran. But where to start?
She urged Cuchulain forward, scanning the streets and windows. But only the honest, simple faces of the townspeople met her eyes. If a stranger the like of Ciaran had come striding through the village, wouldn't there be some sign of it? What if he hadn't come this way at all, and she'd wasted precious time on a wild-goose chase?
No. She had to calm herself and make a thorough search of the area. There was time enough to panic if she didn't find him. She was about to rein the stallion down one of the side roads to begin a methodical inspection of the village when she heard the sounds of a commotion a few streets away.
Angry voices, shouts. Her heart sank, and she urged Cuchulain toward the noise. A blur of eager faces greeted her. A sizable crowd had gathered before a red brick house, and an altercation was taking place on its front porch.
From her perch on the horse's back, Fallon could see past the ocean of heads and shoulders to where a distraught woman shrieked and sobbed, and a bantam rooster of a man with thinning, carrot-colored hair battled with all his might against the iron grip of a man twice his size.
Ciaran. Fallon's heart thudded against her ribs in recognition. He was in the midst of a fight! But the thought had barely formed when she realized Ciaran was merely holding his assailant at arm's length by a handful of collar, the planes and angles of his perfectly honed body just beyond the furious little man's reach.
"No! No!" the woman wailed, dragging at the bantam rooster's sleeve. "Norton, stop this madness!"
"I'll kill him! I vow it! You took him to your bed! I saw him!"
Fallon scrambled down from the saddle and started shoving her way through the mob. She'd never spoken to either the red-faced man or his wife, but in that frozen instant she knew who they were: Norton and Vanessa Fyfe, Glenceo's most scandalous couple, responsible for the most feverish bout of gossip the village had ever known. Even Fallon had heard about the notorious appetites of Vanessa Fyfe for handsome men, an appetite unhindered by anything so paltry as her marriage vows.
No. There had to be some mistake. It was impossible that Ciaran knew the Fyfes.
"If he hadn't leapt from the window we would have finished it last night!" the bantam's shout rang out. "Bastard! You cursed bastard! Cuckolding Norton Fyfe!"
Fallon shouldered her way past a baker's flour-dusted bulk and a hostler who reeked of horse dung.
"I've never seen this man before!" Vanessa's denial pierced the murmur of the spectators. She glimpsed Ciaran through a maze of limbs.
"Are you certain?" Ciaran demanded fiercely, casting the woman a glance that should have shattered the brick wall behind her. "I need the truth! I must have been here. It's the only reasonable explanation."
"Are you out of your mind?" The wild-eyed woman shrilled. "Look at Norton! He'll... He'll..."
"Liar! Faithless slut! Don't even try to deny—"
"There's a way to prove it once and for all," Ciaran snarled. "The clothes that were left behind last night in your wife's bedchamber. If they fit me, I must be the man you're seeking. And if they do, she can damned well tell me who—"
"That's... that's right!" the wife cried. "Let him try on the clothes he left behind! Norton, they'll never fit!"
Fallon's stomach plunged to her toes as Vanessa Fyfe raced into the house. Clothes left behind, a leap from a bedchamber window... Heaven above, was there a chance that what Norton Fyfe claimed was true? There could be no doubting the rage suffusing his face, and the pain of his betrayal.
She felt sick. No. She couldn't be wrong. He was Ciaran of the Mist. He was.
A gasp rose from the onlookers as they recognized her. The villagers parted, making way for Miss Delaney of Misthaven. She burst from the crowd and stumbled, striking her shin upon the stone step so hard tears stung her eyes. "Stop this! Ciaran, please—"
At the sound of her voice he wheeled, a stricken expression darting across his face. He hurled Norton Fyfe away from him and turned away from the man, as if he were so sickened she'd witnessed the sordid scene he would be grateful if the little man plunged a knife into his back.
"Damn it, why?" Ciaran growled low, anguish filling his eyes. "Why the devil did you follow me?"
"Did you think I could just let you walk away?" She choked out, hated herself for the thickening in her throat, the stinging of her eyes. Damn, she wouldn't cry in front of all these people. She wouldn't cry in front of him. "When I woke up and found you gone, I—"
She stopped suddenly, horribly aware of the silence that shrouded the throng, the eager way they were listening.
"What a lot o' fuss an' bother!" a high-pitched voice interrupted. "Let Sarie O'Dowd be settling this once an' for all." Notorious for her enormous bosom and nonexistent virtue, Sarie sauntered up, her hips swaying. "I saw the whole thing meself last night, while I were waitin' for one o' me soldier-boys."
Her blowsy golden curls tumbling about lush mountains of half-exposed breast, Sarie swept pansy-blue eyes from the crown of Ciaran's head to his feet, lingering with feline appreciation. Fallon ground her teeth. If the woman had been a cat, she'd be twined around Ciaran's legs, yowling her eagerness to mate loud enough to bring every tom in Ireland thundering down on her.
"Now, mind, all I saw was his bum," she cooed, reaching out as if to pat that part of Ciaran's anatomy. A roar of laughter erupted from the onlookers. Fallon slapped the woman's hand away.
Sarie's eyes widened. "Now, Miss Delaney, don't mean to offend yer sensibilities, but if I'm t' help, I have t' take a glance at the part I was seein', don't I?"
Ciaran's fists clenched, white-knuckled. "Am I the man you saw?" he demanded, looking as if he were in some prisoner's dock, waiting for his sentence to be handed down. "Just tell me."
"I'd be able t' do it better if ye'd just drop those breeches of yers, handsome. Give Sarie a little peek." She flounced her skirts above trim ankles, drawing a ripple of laughter from the men in the throng.
"Absolutely not!" Fallon dodged between Ciaran and the lightskirt. "Don't even think of it! Just answer the man's question. Unless you'd prefer that my brother becomes involved."
Sarie's smirk faded, the mere mention of Hugh's name sobering the group. "No, miss. Of course, I wouldn't care to bother Mr. Hugh."
"Tell the truth, then, or it will go badly with you. Is this the man you saw?" She felt as if she were teetering on a blade, the woman's answer likely to shove her into an abyss.
"He had black hair like 'im," Sarie said, examining Ciaran through her shrewd eyes. "An' he was handsome enough. But if he'd looked fine as this specimen here, I would've forgot my soldier an' followed him, naked as he was."
At that moment, Vanessa Fyfe returned, a pair of breeches in her hand—breeches far too small to fit Ciaran's powerful frame.
"There, Norton!" she shrilled. "Is that proof enough for you?"
Fallon wasn't aware of the man's reply. She only heard Ciaran's sigh of relief, felt the uncoiling of her own tangled nerves as she turned toward him, rejoicing. But words of triumph died in her throat as she glimpsed something just beyond Sarie's shoulders—a smear of red uniform, blonde hair, piercing eyes.
Redmayne.
He leaned negligently in the shadows, like Lucifer watching souls stumbling toward the gates of hell, alert to any vulnerability.
Fallon's heart stopped. Merciful heaven, what if she was wrong? What if Ciaran was the lord of smugglers Redmayne had been seeking? Was it possible the captain already recognized his quarry?
Redmayne's face was unreadable. Only his eyes glittered with faint mockery. For an instant, she wanted to dive in front of Ciaran, block him from Redmayne's view, but she might as well have attempted to conceal the Grenadiers Inn behind her chipped-str
aw bonnet. The captain sauntered toward them with his lazy, tiger-like stride.
"Miss Delaney, imagine meeting you again. I seem to encounter you in the most intriguing places."
She could feel heat rushing into her face, and feared that she must look like a rabbit the instant before a wolf's jaws closed on its throat. Fast as she could, she shuttered her emotions away, but it was too late. She could see by the smirk at the corner of Redmayne's lips that she'd betrayed herself.
As if he sensed her unease, Ciaran moved until he stood between her and the captain. But the instant those sea-green eyes locked upon Redmayne, Fallon could feel a rush of animosity sizzle between the two men, so hot, so sudden, so unexpected it drove the breath from her lungs. Did they know each other somehow? No, it wasn't recognition. It was something far more visceral. Could it be that legendary gift Ciaran of the Mist possessed for sensing evil?
Ciaran turned to her, his voice low, rough. "Let's go, Fallon. We've found out what we needed to know." One arm curved beneath hers, and she was certain he could feel her hand trembling. She wanted to run, bolt like a startled deer toward her horse. Wanted to leave the gaping townspeople, the crooked street, and Captain Redmayne behind.
Instead, she started to move with all the dignity she could muster.
"Perhaps you've found out what you need to know, sir," Redmayne charged. "But I have not."
"We have no business with you," Ciaran said, and Fallon could sense how much it cost him to keep his tone level.
"That's where you're mistaken. There has been an unfortunate amount of unrest in the area since the rebellion four years ago and I have been instructed to quell it. So you see, any stranger in this part of the countryside is my affair."
The captain fingered the glistening hilt of the saber at his waist. "Tell me, sir. Exactly who are you, and what is your business hereabouts?"
Fallon felt Ciaran's arm tense where it brushed hers, felt him faltering. He was an abysmal liar, doubtless one of the drawbacks of being so noble. If anyone were going to extricate them from this predicament, she would have to be the one.
"I can vouch for him, Captain," Fallon interjected. "He is a close friend of mine. We, uh... he was with me yesterday, in fact. At the castle. In the mist."
"Ah, so it was as I suspected when I stumbled across you last night," Redmayne said, the breeze riffling the angelic gold of his hair. "You had gone up to the castle to summon back your mythical hero."
Fallon's heart stopped. She heard the sharp hiss of Ciaran's breath. Was it possible that Redmayne knew? That he'd been watching? Listening? That he'd discovered the truth with that unerring gift for discovering an opponent's weakness?
But the officer only glanced at the crowd, chuckling. "Tell me, the lot of you. Does this look like a man who could hurl three dragons into the sea or stop up a flooded river with his bare hands to save a pack of children from drowning?"
He'd meant it as a joke, but the people of Glenceo took their legends seriously. Eyes rounded, a visual battery pounding against Ciaran.
"I'm no damned hero," Ciaran growled, but no one else seemed to hear him.
Obviously delighted with the villagers' reaction, Redmayne crossed his arms over his broad chest. His gaze measured Ciaran as if they were on opposite sides of a dueling field. "However, much as it grieves me, Miss Delaney, honor bids me confess the truth. Considering everything I've heard about your Irish legends, I expected him to be a trifle more... impressive."
"Perhaps you'd care to test your skills?" Ciaran challenged, and Fallon could feel the battle heat singing in his blood.
She all but leaped between them, fending off Redmayne's comments the only way she knew how, forcing scorn into her voice, tossing her curls. "You claim to be an officer and a gentleman, Captain. You can't possibly believe in peasant tales of magic."
But those shrewd eyes gave her nowhere to hide. "Perhaps not. Of course, then I'm forced to examine less mystic explanations for this man's presence here, I suppose. I was at the castle last night myself, as you know, but not for some sort of lover's tryst. No. I was there a-hunting. I'd heard reports that a certain lord of the smugglers was in the vicinity, ripe for capture."
"A smuggler?" Ciaran echoed, intensity fairly crackling off his towering frame. "What is his name? Who—"
"They call him Silver Hand, because he is elusive as the fingers of the moon. A particularly slippery fellow who has been giving the garrison here quite a headache of late. Killed my predecessor, in fact."
"If ever a man deserved killing, he did," someone grumbled in the crowd. "Never saw such a man for whippings, wrecking houses."
"I'm afraid the high command disagrees, especially when the dead officer in question is related to a general. General Scargill has made it his personal quest to see the murderer hang."
"So he sent the most vile, ruthless cur he could command t' see to it," the baker groused.
Redmayne actually looked flattered. "I prefer to think he sent the most able man for the job. At any rate, it is only a matter of time. We will run him to ground." He cast Ciaran an assessing glare. "Or perhaps I already have."
"This is no rebel!" Fallon burst out, sweat beading her brow. "His name is Ciaran M—" She hesitated, groping for some name, any name that would serve. "MacDonough. He's my—" Her what? Her friend? Her ward? A total stranger she'd picked up out of the rubble of the castle and adopted like a stray puppy?
"He is your what, Miss Fallon?" Redmayne pressed. "I'm eager to hear the reason you and this man were atop that cliff, in a place known as a gathering point for traitors to the crown."
"Traitors?" Fallon stammered. "I know nothing of traitors, and I've played about that castle from the time I was a child."
"I can't image that you stole up to play at tea party with Mr. MacDonough."
"Don't be absurd!" she said, hating the heat spilling into her cheeks. "Ciaran and I were at the castle because we... we needed privacy. Time alone together because—"
She was babbling. She had to get hold of her wits. Redmayne was scrutinizing her so hard it felt as if he were peeling back her skin.
"Because?" Redmayne drawled.
Sweat beaded Fallon's brow. What possible reasonable explanation could she give for meeting a man at the castle? Why would anyone in their right mind trek so far up the treacherous cliffs in the mist at night when one misstep would mean certain death? Only desperation could drive one to take such a risk—the desperation of a rebel, a smuggler, or... a lover?
She raised her chin, relief rushing through her as an answer formed. "We were meeting at the castle because this man is my betrothed." She flinched at Ciaran's growl of surprise. She turned to him so swiftly she all but overset herself, her gaze pleading for his silence, warning him not to betray them both. But the tempest she'd unleashed in that fiendishly handsome face nearly made her stumble back a step.
"I-I know we weren't going to tell anyone, my love," she rushed on, clutching his hands. "But you must see we have to tell the captain the truth."
Ciaran of the Mist shot her the fabled glare that had made the mighty armies of Connaught turn and flee. "He can go to hell! I bloody well don't see why—"
She stopped his words by flinging her arms around his neck and crushing her lips against his in a desperate kiss—a kiss that stunned them both, that branded impressions into her consciousness despite their peril: hot lips that tasted of fury and passion, a living, breathing magic that shot to her toes, and the fierce pulse of a wild creature scenting the hunter closing in.
His arms curved around her, whether to steady her or to shove her away she wasn't certain. Her lips surrendered his, yet she knew she'd been changed somehow, forever.
"Please, Ciaran." She clutched his arm so hard her fingers ached, though they made not a dent in the rigid sheaths of muscle below. Then she angled her face toward Redmayne, praying she would be able to give the performance of her life. "Our engagement was to be a secret. You wondered why I was at the castle last night
, alone. Ciaran and I were meeting there, trying to find a way to break the news of our engagement to my brother."
A rumble went up from the onlookers. Fallon's heart sank. This had to be the most idiotic lie she had ever told. Miss Delaney of Misthaven's engagement would be the biggest news the village had heard in years, a juicy tidbit to be squabbled over and dissected in detail for weeks to come. By sunset it would land right back on her own doorstep, where Hugh was waiting. The prospect of Hugh being dragged into this farce made her stomach clench.
"Do you mean to say that your brother disapproves of the match?" Redmayne arched one elegant brow in query.
"He doesn't know about it at all. I told you the engagement was secret."
"Surely you don't mean to tell me you are afraid of your own brother—your only living relative? The country folk claim that Mr. Delaney is the most just landlord who has ever collected rent on this benighted island. In fact, I've found him quite remarkably mild no matter what the provocation." The corner of Redmayne's mouth curled, turning the words into an insult, one that stung Fallon deeply.
Why didn't he just say it? That her brother had all the fire and substance of blancmange? That despite his Irish blood, he was more English than the gentry who had been born across the Irish Sea and had come to rule this island. Stolid, responsible, Hugh possessed all the passion and fairy-touched magic of a Hereford plow horse.
"No," Redmayne continued, "this whole affair still seems most irregular. I fear I must explore it. My duty, you understand. I'm certain that your betrothed could have no objection to returning to the garrison with me and answering a few simple questions. No great inconvenience for an innocent man. Just as a precaution, you understand. For example, how did he get that gash in his head? Unless, of course, you are having a particularly rough courting."
"That's none of your damned business," Ciaran snarled, but the captain's gaze didn't flicker from Fallon.
"Also, why wouldn't he go to your brother and ask for your hand as any honorable suitor would?"
This was getting worse by the second. She could feel Ciaran about to explode, Redmayne circling with the sinister patience of a wolf, searching for the perfect place to sink his teeth.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 11