He'd watched and waited throughout the ceremony for the inevitable shattering, sensed the roar of emotions in the man who stood beside her, rigid with outrage and fury. Once, in the West Indies, Redmayne had seen a runaway Scotsman fresh from the convict ships caught in a mantrap, the savage jaws mangling his leg. Personally, Redmayne abhorred such crude measures. After all, had the master of the ship done his job correctly, manipulated the convict's will, the fool would never have run.
But still, he remembered the Scot. For despite the pain, the devastation that would cripple him for life, the man had glared at his captors as if he were an embattled king, refusing to admit that the fierce metal teeth of the trap were grinding his flesh. Ciaran MacDonough reminded Redmayne of that man.
Fool. Damned fool. Hadn't MacDonough realized he was helpless? Redmayne had wondered, waiting for either bride or groom to break down. But the couple had spoken the vows despite Redmayne's most expert goading. Ciaran MacDonough had slipped the ring on her finger, and suddenly the thing was done.
Redmayne had battled to keep the smirk on his face, his eyes as devoid of emotion, but a blue-hot frisson of anger had squeaked past his control, sizzling along his nerves like a bolt of lightning no one else could see.
Yet he'd known it was there—anger, for the first time since he'd been a boy.
Unnerving. In the space of two days Mary Fallon Delaney had accomplished the impossible. And it was damned disconcerting.
"Sir?" The aide-de-camp's voice cracked just a little, and the captain turned back to Barton. It was all Redmayne could do not to grimace. A fine sheen of sweat now beaded the young man's upper lip.
"I thought you were gone," Redmayne said, irritation prickling him. He damn well didn't like anyone hovering about when he was thinking.
"You didn't dismiss me, sir. Not officially."
Sometimes Redmayne thought Barton wouldn't dream of breathing unless he'd given the man permission. There were times Lionel had almost been tempted to give the order. No more breathing until I give the command. Unfortunately, he should have thought to give it half an hour ago. That way he'd have gotten a little peace.
"You're dismissed, Barton," Redmayne enunciated so clearly most men in his garrison would have been bolting out of the room as if a flesh-eating monster were at their heels.
"Sir, I was wondering, sir."
"A dangerous pastime."
The youth's Adam's apple bobbed twice in his scrawny throat. Did Barton have any idea how easily he betrayed himself to anyone with half an ounce of wit? Grandfather would disapprove. How many times had the old man made Lionel stand before a mirror until the boy had smoothed out any ripples of emotion to his satisfaction?
Reveal nothing.
The motto had been newly carved into the mantel above the fireplace at Rawmarsh, the slashes upon the new marble reminding Lionel of a fresh scar. Perhaps he should send Barton to grandfather for schooling. Doubtless the old man needed a new pupil. But Barton wasn't intelligent enough to match wits with Paxton Redmayne. His brains would be seared to ash before a fortnight was past.
And there was a distressing overabundance of puppyish eagerness in his face, despite all Redmayne's efforts to quench it. He feared Barton behaved as if life were an adventure to be enjoyed instead of a nasty jest to be mastered.
"Sir, I happened to see some men building battering rams, and I thought... I wondered... Are you expecting a fight? There don't seem to be any strongholds to storm hereabouts."
Heaven save him from men hungry for their first blooding. It was so inconvenient when they realized it was their own blood likely to be spilt. He wondered what Barton would say if he told him the truth. That the enemies they'd soon be attacking would be more apt to cause injury by toppling over on them than by returning fire.
"You mean, you failed to see the great castle upon the sea cliffs? Your powers of observation leave much to be desired."
"The-the one that's tumbling down, sir?" Barton asked, astonished. Then his chin dropped a notch, as if suddenly believing his commander had just made a joke at his expense.
Irritating puppy, acting hurt. Redmayne had told him the truth. It was Barton's own fault he was too dense to realize it. "My plans and strategies are none of your concern,” Redmayne said. "Your duty is to keep my things in order, to make certain my uniform is pressed, my sword is sharpened so that when the time comes, all is in readiness."
"Yes, sir. It's just that all the preparations, the battering rams and such, and the lady who was married here today—it was all so odd. Made everyone wonder if they might be linked somehow."
Redmayne stared into the flames without acknowledging a word of what Barton had said.
"We couldn't help overhearing it was supposed to be a... a kind of trick. No one believed the wedding would ever really happen. But in the end, she did marry."
She had. It had been one of the boldest countermoves Redmayne had ever witnessed. It had stunned him utterly, and he'd not been surprised for a very long time. Something like admiration had stirred in him. Doubtless that explained the ragged edges he couldn't quite smooth out. He was unaccustomed to being thwarted. And Mary Fallon Delaney seemed to be making a career out of doing so.
But the game was far from over, and she was too passionate to move wisely for very long. He only needed to wait until her rashness betrayed her. It was just a matter of time. And Redmayne had cultivated the art of patience into a weapon far more lethal than a pistol.
The question was, how far would the lady go in her attempt to win? Had she just cast the rest of her life into the hands of MacDonough? Was she even now sharing a bridal bed with her unexpected husband? Redmayne's eyes narrowed a fraction. No. Pretenses would have to be kept up, but there would be little purpose in actually bedding him—unless, of course, Redmayne had posted guards at the bedposts. Then, doubtless, Mary Fallon would do whatever she deemed necessary to convince him. She was a most determined woman.
"Captain, sir, do you think Miss Delaney was telling the truth? Perhaps she is in love with Mr. MacDonough."
The fine muscles of Redmayne's face tightened just a fraction. He was unaccustomed to misjudging his opponents. "Don't be a fool, Barton."
"But why else would she do what she did today?"
Redmayne's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you think, perhaps, I should discuss strategies with you, Barton? Might your stunning intellect uncover something I have missed?"
The young man's face washed pale. "No, sir. Of course not, sir. Forgive my impertinence. I'll leave you now." He hustled to gather up the uniform in need of mending and the shards of porcelain to be disposed of. Redmayne hoped the infernal fool wouldn't cut himself to ribbons on them in the meantime. If he bled on the captain's uniform it would be the outside of enough.
"Good night, sir," Barton said with a ridiculous salute, then stumbled out the door and closed it behind him.
With a grimace, Redmayne crossed to the bottle of claret and opened it. After filling a goblet, he took a sip.
Barton was a fool, but he had given voice to the material question.
Perhaps she is in love with Mr. MacDonough. Why else would she do what she did today?
"Why indeed?" Redmayne muttered. He'd pondered over that question countless times in the hours since Mary Fallon Delaney's new bridegroom had hauled her away.
It had been aggravating, watching Hugh Delaney and MacDonough tow Fallon away before he was done with her, before he'd peeled back whatever pretenses, whatever veils she'd drawn over her motives. For an instant he'd wanted to draw his sword and block her way, force them to stay until he gave them leave to go. A ridiculous display of power, saber-rattling between men. It would have been a grave tactical error. And one thing Lionel Redmayne never made was a mistake.
Even so, the woman had flashed him a glance in the last moment before she swept from the room. One tiny glance that had taunted him, tempted him. It was exhilarating. It was unthinkable. But then, Mary Fallon Delaney was completel
y unpredictable, with courage any general under siege would kill to possess. Still, Redmayne had found that courage came easily enough when one underestimated one's opponent. And Miss Delaney, with her sheltered, gentry life here in the wilds of this barely civilized land, could have no idea what kind of a man she'd just crossed swords with.
Or did she? He recalled her animated features the night he'd found her wandering about the castle ruins, when he'd told her of his plan to destroy the circles of standing stones, the hulking shells of castles, the dolmens the Irish thought fraught with mystic powers.
She'd understood his theory with a quickness that surprised him. No sense slashing at the body of an enemy when one could cleave straight to the heart. And the horror that had flooded her eyes had told him everything he'd needed to know.
He'd found the jugular of these ungovernable people who had caused nothing but trouble for England since the day they'd first been conquered. And if his threat had upset Mary Fallon Delaney so much, what would it do to a man like Silver Hand?
Most smugglers in England would be thrilled at the thought of the authorities being distracted. They would probably begin building dolmens of their own to occupy the soldiers. But there was something different about Silver Hand, something Redmayne had sensed from the beginning. It wasn't greed that motivated the smuggler.
There was something else. And the instant his men began the destruction they would smoke the rebel out.
A brilliant move. One worthy of a master.
Redmayne set down the goblet of claret and crossed to his trunk. Opening it, he removed the tiny wooden box that he'd hidden in the farthest corner.
How many times had he almost thrown it into the fire? Every time he'd been transferred to a new command he'd resolved to do so.
It was dangerous to allow the clutter from one's past to accumulate, his grandfather had always said. Nothing could betray a man faster to his enemies. Weaknesses, secrets, tiny clues could be forged into a weapon. And Redmayne had made more than his share of enemies in his stellar rise through the ranks before a clash with a fool had plunged him into obscurity here in Ireland. But despite his best intentions, in the end he had always returned the box and what it contained to the trunk.
He lifted the lid. Candlelight flickered into the depths of the tiny chest. Slowly, Redmayne withdrew a lone game piece, the figure garbed in medieval splendor.
Why had he kept it? As a sentimental token of the years when he was raised by his grandfather? Some grand appreciation of artistry or beauty?
No. He couldn't fathom the reason. But even as a boy, during the endless games his grandfather had forced him to play, something in the carved features had fascinated him, intrigued him. Like the woman who had left hours before. And when he'd left Rawmarsh, it was the only thing he'd taken with him.
His thumb ghosted over the delicately crafted countenance of the most powerful piece ever to grace a chessboard.
The queen.
He gazed down into her exquisite face. "You may think you have escaped me," he murmured aloud, "but your surly knight and pawn of a brother won't be able to guard you forever." He perched the piece on the tabletop. "It's time to raise the stakes, unearth your husband's secrets, lay out a most irresistible trap for this Silver Hand. And if, in the process, I happen to capture you..." He gently flicked the chess piece with his finger. The queen toppled, lay there, exquisite, vulnerable, conquered.
"The next move is mine, Mary Fallon." His lips twitched into a half-smile. "And I never lose."
Chapter 11
Exhausted, Ciaran sagged back into the chair he'd drawn into the thin stream of light that pierced the divide between the curtains, his hands still, his task finished at last.
It had taken him longer than he'd imagined, though he'd started soon after Fallon fell asleep. He had slipped from the bed where he'd made her his own then worked by the flickering light of the fire with whatever makeshift tools he could find. When the fire had died, he'd shifted to the window so that the first watery rays of dawn could filter down over his work as he labored.
He'd worked until his hands ached, and his fingers were raw and bleeding. But he didn't care. He had wanted it to be perfect. Perfect. He grimaced. The only thing he'd managed to do was to make himself feel like a perfect fool. He stared down at the trinket he had made, as it lay cupped in the palm of his hand. A pitiful offering. Yet, it was truly his. His gift. His token, to be given to the lady who lay sleeping still.
A smile curved his lips, and wistfulness tugged at his heart as he glanced over at her, a drowsy water nymph afloat upon foamy coverlets. She'd gobbled up the space on the bed, adorable in her greediness. Her arms and legs had sprawled over him, her fingers curling in his hair. He'd never felt anything more precious than her slight weight against him. And no matter what happened in the future, he knew that just before he closed his eyes in death, her face would be the face he'd see, her eyes, her mouth, just as they'd looked when he'd made love to her this first time.
He closed his eyes, recalling the flickering images he would carry with him forever, memories that he was certain would never lose their luster. Petal-pink lips parting in gasps of pleasure, the dainty column of a slender thigh, so pale in contrast to his own rough, tanned hand as he'd slid his fingers from the sensitive inside of her knee, higher, higher, to a cache of downy red curls.
Those incredible eyes that had flashed open, wide, when he'd touched damp satin, surprise and awe at the sensations his intimate explorations unleashed between them making her seem almost luminous. The flame of a red-gold candle, destined to lead him out of darkness.
He might never have known another woman's body, but still, he knew that if he'd taken a hundred to his bed, none would touch him as deeply as Mary Fallon had. She was the rarest kind of treasure. Unspoiled as a wild doe tamed to his hand, the rivers of passion that shone in her face untapped by any other man. As if she had been waiting for him forever.
She had offered her maidenhead with the same generosity as she'd offered him her help there upon the sea cliffs. She'd opened herself to his possession as eagerly as she'd embraced the magic in her legends. No maidenly shyness, no cloying coyness, no fear. Only courage and faith, passion reduced to its most essential element.
The spirit of wind and sea, the kiss of fire and earth that stood at the beginning of all life. They had consumed him when he was in her arms.
And in that precious moment when he had thrust deep into the dark haven of her femininity, he'd felt as if worlds as yet unseen were being born in this single, magnificent act. That no man had ever loved a woman this way before, and never would again. He'd wanted to remain there forever, in the petal-spangled bed.
But now, reason was returning as inexorably as the rising of the sun, tainting the beauty of what he and Fallon had shared with a niggling of guilt.
What had he done? He had taken something he had no right to. Yes, Fallon had offered herself to him—his lady of the mist with magic in her eyes. But she couldn't understand the danger.
No. That wasn't true. Ciaran brought himself up grimly. Fallon did understand. But she stared danger in the face, not flinching, not turning away, brave as any hero in the midst of battle. He'd seen the evidence of her courage time and again since she'd entered his life.
Still, he should have turned her away when she came to his bedchamber last night. But how? How could a man close his eyes to his first glimpse of sunlight after an eternity in a night-dark prison? How could he refuse to drink from a stream of crystal cold water when parched by a killing thirst?
How could the first solitary man who had had the spark of life embedded in his chest have walked away from the mate the powers of creation had fashioned just for him—to fit his hands, his mouth, join with his body?
Fallon had claimed he was a hero. Last night was proof she was wrong. But it was too late to change what had happened between them now. They had taken an irrevocable step when he'd carried her to the bed. And truth to tell, no ma
tter what the cost, he would not have changed one moment of last night even if he could. It had been too precious, too perfect, holding this brave, vulnerable, stubborn, generous lady in his arms.
Even now, as he watched her slumbering, the need for her boiled in his veins, a hunger he could never sate. And yet, was it fair to surrender to it again and again? Plunge deeper into this storm of emotion between them? It didn't matter that the laws of Fallon's priest claimed bedding was a husband's right. It didn't matter that the more primitive laws linking man to woman since the beginning of time compelled him to bury his seed in this woman's body, plant his child in her womb.
A fist clenched his heart, crushing him with yearning. A child. Outside the pub, with a crowd looking on, she'd claimed he'd already put his babe in her belly. He'd been furious at the insult to his honor. Or so he'd believed. The truth was, her words had taunted him, dangling before him a joy he'd sensed intuitively he could never have.
But what if he was wrong? What if their lovemaking resulted in a tiny son or daughter with Fallon's fiery curls and intrepid spirit? His pulses tripped at the possibility.
Fool! A voice jeered inside him. And what would you give to Fallon and her child? You have nothing—no fireside to keep her warm, no bed for her to sleep on, not even a name to give her. It's even possible that the loss of your memory might be a blessing. When the curtain parts, who knows what ugliness might be revealed?
What if you really are the smuggler Silver Hand, that cur Redmayne is seeking? There could be no question about what fate Captain Redmayne had planned for the enemy he hunted. Ciaran winced. Even the myth Fallon had spun around Ciaran of the Mist ended in sadness—no joy, no love, no reward, just one man, alone until the end of time. Perhaps that was an omen, a warning.
Slowly, he got to his feet and crossed to the bed. Grief coiled tight in his chest, his blood afire with the need to awaken her, make love to her until the world beyond this room crumbled to dust. But no. He dared not touch her again. Until he unraveled the mystery of his identity, until he outwitted Redmayne, he could give Fallon nothing but pain. He couldn't kneel before her and offer her, not a knight spun of dreams, but rather a man, hopelessly flawed, imperfect in body and in soul.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 18