"Mr. Delaney, I know that I deserve nothing but your contempt. Even so, would you be generous enough to talk privately with me so I might explain?"
"Explain?" Hugh raged. "You ruined my sister! Took advantage of an innocent young woman. She's carrying your child. Your child." Hugh's voice broke. He turned away. But not before Fallon saw his features contort in anguish. "Why the devil am I blaming you?" he muttered, broken. "This is my fault."
"My dear son," Father Gerrard reached out in comfort, but Hugh jerked away, burying his face in his hand with a strangled sound akin to a sob. Silence fell. Even Redmayne was eerily still. After what seemed an eternity, the priest urged gently.
"Go back to Misthaven, the three of you. Speak, with forgiveness in your hearts, and understanding. Heal this breach before it scars you further."
"They cannot possibly leave yet," Redmayne inserted. "I must insist we share a glass of wine, make a toast to the happy—and fruitful—couple."
"We're leaving," Ciaran snarled. "Now." With that, he grasped Fallon's hand and hauled her toward the door.
"But I must insist—" Casually strolling in front of them, Redmayne blocked the exit with his own uniformed shoulders.
Green eyes locked with ice blue, sizzling like the metallic hum of clashing blades. "Am I under arrest, Captain? The only way you're going to keep me here is in chains. I'm taking my wife back to her home. Your involvement in this affair is over."
Fallon's stomach lurched. What was Ciaran doing? Begging to be taken into custody? One gesture from the captain would bring half the garrison down on their heads.
"Chains? Arrest?" Hugh's head snapped up, and he stared at the two men. "What the devil?"
"It's nothing, Hugh," Fallon insisted. "Just a mistake."
"The question is, who made it?" Redmayne purred, his gaze never leaving Ciaran's face. Astonishingly, in the end it was Redmayne who backed down. In surrender? Or was he manipulating this as well for some dark purpose of his own?
The captain strolled away from the door and leaned against the wall with a long-suffering sigh. "I was warned that the Irish are an ungrateful lot, even when one attempts to do something for their own good. I see now that it is true. I suppose we can talk later, Mr. MacDonough. I still have a number of questions that need to be answered. But we're civilized men, are we not? We can wait until after I've asked them to decide whether or not to add chains to your apparel."
Redmayne turned to Fallon. "As for you, Miss Delaney, it is a little-known fact that I adore children."
Fallon grimaced. Doubtless he liked to eat one or two lightly toasted with his breakfast each morning.
"I shall await the birth of your child with great anticipation. Considering all my efforts to get you wed today, you might even consider me for the position of godfather."
Ciaran snarled out an unintelligible oath, but Fallon couldn't keep from shuddering. The thought of Redmayne hovering near any child—even an imaginary one—chilled her blood.
She said nothing, only swept out behind Ciaran. The ride back to Misthaven gave a new meaning to the word "torture." Hell, Fallon learned, wasn't fire and brimstone and shrieks of agony. It was silence, tension strung fiendishly tight.
But she said nothing. It was difficult enough trying to ignore the rigid fury of the man mounted on the horse behind her, while keeping her gaze as far away from the devastated features of her brother as possible.
When they reached Misthaven, she wanted nothing more than to stumble up to her room, fling herself facedown on her bed and pull the covers over her head. Not that she'd cry—devil if she'd do that. Just time to gain a little peace, time to think what to say, what to do.
When she climbed down off Cuchulain in Misthaven's carriage circle, she staged a dramatic little stumble for effect. Hugh winced, but Ciaran only hauled her upright none too gently.
As they entered the house, questions showed in the haggard lines of Hugh's face, but he only dragged his fingers through his hair. "Perhaps you should just go to bed, Fallon. After all, this upset can't be good for... I mean, we have to... to think of... your child." It was obvious the words twisted like knives in her brother's chest.
Fallon could hear Ciaran's teeth grinding. "She is a great deal stronger than you think," he insisted. "We need to have our discussion now."
"Wh-what discussion?" Fallon glanced up at him, dread thudding in her chest as she saw the mulish jut of his square jaw. "Hugh's right. I'm exhausted. And there's nothing more to say, at least, nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."
"It can't wait another blasted minute," Ciaran insisted.
"But you and I need to... to discuss what we're going to tell—"
"The truth, Fallon," Ciaran snapped. "We're going to tell him the truth. That is, if we can even sort it out from this infernal tangle we've made."
Hugh's brows rose in question, but he strode down the corridor and opened the door to his private study. Fallon would sooner have entered a lion's den.
"I don't think this is a wise idea," Fallon drew back, stammering. "Surely Hugh understands that we need some time alone." But Ciaran grasped her wrist, all but dragging her into the chamber where her brother had spent so many hours.
In their father's day, the curtains had always been drawn to protect eyes from too much brightness after an evening of excessive wine. The chamber had been scented with the smoky tang of tobacco and brandy, the walls decked with hunting prints, the tabletops more likely to hold silver-handled riding crops or lists of horses to be sold at fair. Pamphlets about races and scandal sheets from London had littered the desktop—a country gentleman's pursuits, uncluttered by anything so vulgar as actual business affairs.
But all evidence of their father had been swept away. The new blue draperies at the window were flung back to let the sun spill in. The massive mahogany desk was weighed down with papers and heavy ledgers.
The only picture in the room was a portrait of their mother, dressed as simply as any shepherdess, while three-year-old Hugh twined heather in her hair. Her cheeks bloomed, rosy and plump, and her eyes sparkled. Jealousy jabbed at Fallon. The woman in the portrait was a stranger to her, an image lost during the years, replaced by the fragile, hollow-eyed mother who had lived in the sickroom. But Hugh had known the woman in the portrait. He could remember her.
"Fallon, what is this all about?" Hugh demanded. "When young Kevin Dunne came dashing up, telling me the priest had been fetched to the garrison, that you were getting married, I scarce believed it. And now to find out you're bearing a child? How could you be so reckless?"
"She was reckless," Ciaran said. "So much so I've wanted to throttle her a dozen times since I first met her. However, she was also generous and brave."
"Ciaran, no," she protested. She wasn't certain what she would say to Hugh, but whatever it was, it would be a sight easier without Ciaran in the room. Could she possibly shove over six feet of male out the door as if he were a hunting dog? No. Reasoning had a far better chance—infinitesimal instead of none at all. "This is really something between my brother and me. Why don't you go upstairs, and leave Hugh and me to speak alone?"
"So you can keep sheltering me?" Ciaran looked as if the very thought of any more deception made him want to retch. "Keep digging yourself into deeper and deeper trouble with lies? No. It was one thing to lie to that bastard Redmayne. Your brother deserves the truth."
She couldn't have summoned back a reasonable legendary hero. No, she'd had to call back the noblest of them all. She'd just never realized how damned inconvenient honor could be until now.
Ciaran turned to Hugh. "Your sister found me wandering near some castle ruins last night. Head gashed, my memory shattered. She claimed she'd been working some sort of magic, trying to summon up some long-dead hero."
Hugh blanched. "My God. Fallon, you couldn't... you didn't really believe the legend?"
Ciaran grimaced. "I know. It sounded preposterous to me, even with my head bashed in. Worse still, I could have been
dangerous and she damned well knew it. She'd encountered Redmayne at the castle earlier. He let her know that he was prowling around that area searching for someone."
"At the castle ruins?" Hugh scowled. "Who was he searching for, a ghost? The one thing you can be certain of is this: whatever fantasy Fallon was chasing, the captain wasn't out trying to find some accursed legend that probably never even existed."
"He was searching for a man they call Silver Hand."
Hugh blanched, fingers closing, white-knuckled, on the edge of his desk. "The smuggler?"
"He's been plying his trade up and down the coast."
"I know what he's been doing!" Hugh stared at Ciaran, stricken. "Redmayne believes that this man is Silver Hand?"
Panic fluttered in Fallon's throat. It wasn't too late for Hugh to fling Ciaran out the door. Charity was one thing, but sheltering the rogue Silver Hand would be suicidal. And Hugh had proved time and again he'd surrender anything to protect Misthaven land. "You know Redmayne and his kind, Hugh," she pleaded. "You've seen what they're capable of. With all the furor over bringing this Silver Hand to justice, they won't be overly cautious about who they hang. And who better than a stranger who has lost his memory? No one in Glenceo knows him. No one would care if he lived or died. I had to find a way to keep Redmayne from arresting Ciaran and flinging him in jail. So I pretended that he was my betrothed."
"Pretended?"
"That he was my secret lover. That we were going to elope because we feared your disapproval. It was the only logical explanation I could think of to explain why no one had ever seen Ciaran before. But Redmayne—it was as if he knew it was a lie. He kept twisting everything I said around until I was desperate. I had to find some way to calm his suspicions." She swallowed hard. "I claimed that I was pregnant."
"But you... you—"
"There is no babe," Ciaran said.
Relief washed over Hugh's face, draining him so completely he sagged down in his chair. "No child? You were pretending to be engaged. There is no child." Hope brightened his eyes. "Does that mean that the marriage is a sham as well? It was damned clever of you to—"
"No. The marriage is real. Redmayne trapped us into it. I think he suspected Fallon was lying. He put her to the test, thinking she would break. Once we'd started the deception, there was no way to escape the trap he'd laid." Ciaran spun out the story, from beginning to end. "So now you know the whole of it. There is no way to be certain who I am. My memory is gone. You should know that there's a good chance I might be the man they're seeking." Ciaran's lips twisted in an ironic smile. "Unless you're like your sister, and believe in this magic spell, this Ciaran of the Mist story."
Hugh rose, crossing to where a cut-glass decanter stood on a marble-topped table. Withdrawing the stopper with an unsteady hand, he poured himself a generous measure of Madeira and drained the glass in one gulp. "Fallon, this is unbelievable. You're married to a man you met one day ago. You don't even know who he is. Hell, he doesn't even know who he is!"
"The last thing I wish to do is put you and your sister in further danger." Ciaran interjected. "You've both risked too much already on my behalf. You'll be wanting me to leave, and I don't blame you."
"No!" Fallon protested. "Hugh, please. For once, drag your nose out of your infernal accounts and have a little courage! You can't just let him go charging off this way."
"Fallon, your brother is only trying to protect you. He's responsible for everyone on this whole estate. And he can't be expected to risk everything for a man who might be a criminal. A man he doesn't even know. Just let me leave as I should have done the first moment I saw you."
Fallon thought his leaving would be like tearing out a piece of her heart. "You can't leave! Hugh, stop him!" She had no hope that her brother would. Cautious Hugh would be all too eager to show him the door. She braced herself for a battle of wills, but Hugh turned to Ciaran, his voice low.
"No. Fallon's right. I can't let you risk leaving Misthaven."
Ciaran gaped, incredulous. "Are you as mad as your sister? Do you have any idea of the danger you could be in? If I am Silver Hand, you could lose everything! You could hang!"
Hugh yanked at his neckcloth, as if he could feel the rough kiss of the noose. "We don't know that you are this smuggler. But even if we did, it wouldn't change my decision. What if you tried to leave and Redmayne had his men watching the house? They'd arrest you, and Fallon would be trapped by her lies—condemned for aiding a fugitive from the law! No. No matter how grim things seem, better to follow through on this charade you've begun for now. We'll work to discover who you are. Then, once we get everything settled and the danger is past, we can have the marriage annulled."
"Hugh, I don't necessarily think we should—annul the marriage, I mean." Fallon protested, astonished by the depth of panic she felt at the thought of the marriage being dissolved. How could something that had seemed such a calamity become so precious in such a short time?
Hugh's brow furrowed beneath the lock of sandy hair that tumbled across it. "There is no babe. As long as the union is never consummated, this can still all be untangled in the end. But for your own safety, the servants—and everyone else in the county—will have to believe that you're wed. That means adjoining bedrooms." A slight flush buffed Hugh's cheekbones. "And you will have to be seen together, as a couple, at local assemblies."
"But what if someone recognizes me as this... this Silver Hand?" Ciaran demanded. "You could be in grave danger."
Hugh's jaw hardened, the masculine equivalent of Fallon's own stubborn expression. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."
"Why? Why would you do this for me?"
"You heard my sister. Our family is notorious for bending with the winds to hold on to our lands, no matter what the cost. Perhaps it's time I had a little courage."
"You have nothing to prove to me. To anyone," Ciaran said.
Hugh turned away. "You ask why I would help you. What would you say if I told you that, in a way, I envy you, Mr. MacDonough?" Hugh paced to the window, shoulders bowed with unutterable weariness as he stared out across the fields of green. "There are times it would be a relief to lose my own memory," Hugh said softly. "I've seen enough innocent people suffer to last me a lifetime."
Chapter 9
Fallon grimaced, raking her mother's silver-backed brush through her hair. As long as she could remember, the act had comforted her, as if it drew her mother closer. But she'd nearly brushed her scalp raw, and tonight it only coiled the tension, the restlessness inside her, tighter still.
Her wedding night. She'd never expected to have one, but if she had imagined one, it would never have resembled the trial she'd been through tonight. She had stood with a smile plastered on her face while Hugh announced the "happy tidings" to the household staff.
The stunned servants had offered uneasy congratulations. The whispers and blushes and confused glances told Fallon that rumors about her supposed pregnancy had already reached the house. And theirs was a mild reaction indeed in comparison to the ordeal that would await her when news of her hasty and most unusual marriage reached the neighboring gentry.
And no matter how fiercely she'd argued with Hugh once they'd again sought the privacy of his study, he insisted that once the wound on Ciaran's head had completely healed, the two of them must go out and face the infernal lions. In the end, they'd given her two weeks' reprieve. A paltry victory. Hugh's insistence had been infuriating enough in itself, but it was made far worse by seeing Ciaran coming down solidly on Hugh's side—a nasty surprise.
It still stung—the respect that had darkened Ciaran's eyes as her brother had spoken, the way he'd embraced Hugh's cautious plans. She'd felt betrayed and hurt, and she loathed the sense that her brother had somehow stolen away Ciaran's loyalty—something that should belong to her.
Unable to endure it any longer, she'd stalked from the room, half-certain that neither man had noticed her leaving. But she'd always had a knack for hurling herself from a b
ad situation to a worse. For Sorcha, her eyes gleaming with the wisdom of a Celtic Eve, had prepared a bath scented with some mystic charm a white witch had given her, one that promised to make the flower-spangled bridal bed pure heaven.
'Twill bewitch any mortal man, me granny promised, 'til he'll fall desperate in love with ye, Sorcha had sworn.
But there wouldn't be a bridal bed. And Ciaran had been bewitched by far greater magic than any white witch could make. Fairy chains already bound him to another world. And neither the chains of the marriage vows nor the chains of some herbal charm could change that.
Fallon had wanted to thrust the maid out of her chamber bodily, but Sorcha had stubbornly insisted on dressing her in her finest nightgown, dabbing on essence of lavender—preparing her for a wedding night that would never be.
Sorrow rippled through her, and she gently lay her mother's brush down on her dressing table, unable to face the image that stared back at her from the mirror.
The wild, hoydenish girl who had struck terror into the hearts of the prim county misses was gone. Even the headstrong woman who had resolved to take a chance and summon back Ciaran of the Mist, had vanished. A stranger wore her soft oval face, her lightly freckled nose, her unruly fall of red hair. Someone new stared out of her eyes, shadowing them with a vulnerability she never would have believed possible.
Wincing, Fallon turned away and paced to the window. She unlatched it and pushed it open, hoping to find herself in the whispering of the hills she loved so well.
Night was singing its song to the moon, the wind plucking at branch and blossom like a bard's fingers on a harp. Fallon leaned out as far as she dared, wishing she could slip onto the ledge, spread her arms like a nightingale's wings and drift through the sky. Become one with the darkness and the wind and the whispering of legends that seeped into every fissure and rock, cliff and glen of Ireland. But even that had changed.
Why had she wandered out so many times in the years since her mother had died? What had she been seeking? She'd never been quite sure. Fairy magic, enchanted castles, mermen who kept drowned sailors in Soul Cages at the bottom of the sea—so many things mere mortals could never see, could only believe deep in their hearts. But she'd never suspected the truth. She'd peopled her world with stories and myths and possibilities so that she wouldn't have to be alone.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 15