Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  "It's a little known fact that I adore dancing. Allow me to say that I've rarely seen anyone perform the art with more grace than your bride. By the stars, she almost seems to float on a cloud of air." He sketched Fallon a bow, peering at her a little too intensely beneath hooded lids. "Under other circumstances I might be tempted to request the honor of partnering her myself."

  "The devil you will! She'd sooner dance with a mad dog!"

  “This is a private celebration," Tom Dunne put in. "On their weddin'. No place here fer Sassenach soldiers. Unless, of course, the Crown's made dancin' a hangin' offense."

  "Only clumsy dancing. There's nothing more repulsive. But this is a wedding celebration, you say?" One brow rose a fraction in mock astonishment, as he turned back to Ciaran. "And I wasn't invited to this little fête? How embarrassing. And after all my efforts on your behalf, getting you wed." Redmayne shook his head in feigned sorrow, and it was all Ciaran could do not to slam his fist into the man's face.

  It was a violation, this man's presence in the shadow of this castle, amid the glen folk. An abomination. Ciaran wanted to rip him out, fling him away from this place, this night, these people.

  Redmayne sighed. "You show a regrettable lack of a sense of humor, MacDonough. All this uncontrolled rage and passion—it grows wearying. It addles a man's wits, exposes his weaknesses. The first rule of strategy should be to conceal—"

  "I don't need any lessons from you, Redmayne."

  "I could argue with you, but I never waste time—a precious commodity. And it's obvious you can't be taught. Truth is, I have two missions to accomplish tonight. I have several army engineers examining these ruins to discover their weakest point—where to plant the explosives to blast it to rubble. A far less amusing pastime than dancing with so lovely a lady as your bride, MacDonough."

  Fallon glared at the Englishman, her face contorted in loathing. "I'm certain if the castle falls, you'll be the one dancing in victory, devil take you!"

  Ciaran expected laughter, more of Redmayne's urbane mockery. Instead, the captain's eyelids dropped lower, as if he had something to hide. His voice was suddenly strange. "Oddly enough, I doubt the destruction of this place will afford me much of a sense of triumph." The words were scarce out of Redmayne's mouth before he gave an edgy laugh, creases forming in his brow as if he'd surprised even himself. "Of course, I don't know what one could expect. A soldier can hardly hope that defeating a pile of rubble would compare to the pleasure in conquering a worthy human foe. In any event, this will all be over soon. Squire Butler has given us permission to commence the castle's destruction. Actually, he's quite anxious to get it over and done."

  "Butler?" Fallon echoed, her fingers gripping Ciaran's arm so tight her nails cut his flesh.

  "It seems he had a bit of difficulty during the last rebellion. Made him rather... excitable."

  "If ever a man deserved to have his roof pulled down on his head, it is Phineas Butler!" Tom Dunne snarled. "Conspired to kill his own brother, he did, so's he could get his hands on the estate. All of Glenceo knows it to be true, even if none here could prove it! And ever since, Butler's people are all but starvin'. Rich as Croesus, he is, but every ha'penny he spends goes to gamblin' and drink and fancy women. Yet even that wasn't entertainin' enough for that craven coward. No, the devil-spawned bastard had to start ruinin' decent girls as well, fillin' up their bellies whether they said yea or nay."

  Dunne cast a pain-filled glance at a tow-headed girl of scarcely fourteen, her stomach protruding just enough to be suspicious, her face ducked low with shame.

  A bantam rooster of a man, red-haired and red-faced, staggered forward, reeking of whiskey. "Ye needn't be blatherin' about me wife. Squire seen that we were wed right proper, and he'll be payin' handsome fer the raisin' of this babe. We'll be bathin' in coin, won't we, me darlin'?" He pinched the girl's buttocks. "Bran MacGrath knows how to strike a bargain, he does!"

  Ciaran wanted to yank the man away from the girl, beat him senseless, make certain MacGrath could never touch her again.

  When his gaze flashed back to Redmayne's, Ciaran was surprised to see something flicker in the Englishman's eyes. Disgust? Distaste? As if Redmayne were repelled by MacGrath and by what Butler had done? In an instant, the spark of emotion vanished from Redmayne's face, leaving behind that cool marble mask.

  "That is the beauty in dealing with Squire Butler. A man careening from one disastrous mistake to another is all too easy to... influence, is he not, Mr. MacGrath? I could scarce believe my good fortune when I found the squire owns this spit of land. He's only too glad to get rid of this eyesore, especially since I informed him it's a suspected den of smugglers. His family has been beset by an unfortunate string of accidents already, courtesy of this Silver Hand—warnings regarding the squire's, er, appetites, as it were. Butler has no desire to find a knife blade pressed against his throat anytime soon."

  "Blade might be in his throat if he lets anyone topple so much as a stone from this place," one of the Dunne boys muttered, but Redmayne ignored the comment.

  "I would advise against any attempt to follow through on that threat. Mr. Butler's home is quite protected. I've seen military encampments less prepared for battle. Pistols everywhere, footmen hired for skill with weapons instead of more civilized graces. It's a wonder some poor scullery maid hasn't been blasted into eternity coming down to stir up the morning fires."

  "'E won't be able to hide forever," Gerald Sullivan snarled.

  "That is the material point, is it not?" Redmayne observed. "No one can hide forever. Not the squire, and not even the elusive Silver Hand. You see, destroying the castle might be my main goal, but my commander, General Scargill, has another priority—hanging the man who shot his nephew. It's a dangerous pastime, shooting the relative of a general, no matter how unsavory his character. And Silver Hand is guilty of that crime."

  "Aye, bless his kind soul!" someone deep in the crowd said.

  "He'll need all the divine intercession he can get," Redmayne observed, glancing at the intrepid old woman. "Even now, my men are combing the area for signs of the rogue. An unmarked ship was spotted in the storm the other night. It disappeared in this area. There must be some sort of smuggler's nest nearby. I will find it."

  Ciaran exerted every fiber of his will to keep his expression frozen so as not to betray what he had found in the souterrains below—an entire world Redmayne must never discover. But an insistent bubble of panic pushed at his throat. Had he and Fallon left any sign? The smallest scrape of a footprint, a broken twig, a bit of crushed underbrush that might betray the entryway to the hidden world below Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo?

  "No smuggler in his right mind would use this place as a lair," Fallon scoffed, stepping up beside Ciaran. "The sea is too wild, the cliffs too perilous. Silver Hand would seek someplace calm and hidden."

  Like the tiny inlet they'd discovered below the castle, Ciaran thought. A place so unexpected, it would take a miracle to find it. Then why did his gut knot with dread at the intensity in Redmayne's eyes, the intelligence, sharper than any blade, and—most terrifying of all—the chill resolve untainted by emotion? It was as if Redmayne were something not quite human.

  A smile ticked up one corner of Redmayne's mouth. "My dear Miss Fallon, any smuggler who would ply his trade in a territory assigned to me must be... how did you say it? Out of his mind? A man ruled by anger, I would judge. One who surrenders to primitive passions instead of his intellect. A man very like your new husband, I would guess."

  "A man with blood in his veins instead of ice?" Ciaran snapped.

  Tom Dunne stepped up, the Irishman's eyes glittering with hate for Redmayne, but more so for the uniform the man wore, the eternity of oppression it stood for. "I can't imagine why ye think ye can capture this Silver Hand, whoever he is, Captain. He's been outwitting the garrison and excise men long before ye came here. There's none can touch him, the rogue Silver Hand."

  Damnation, didn't Tom realize it was dangero
us to poke a sleeping tiger with a stick? Redmayne's eyes narrowed. "You seem to have great faith in this criminal. From personal knowledge, perhaps?"

  Oonagh leaped before her husband. "Please, yer worship, my Tom, he's just in a blather because of the celebratin'. Braggin' like all men do—"

  "Enough, woman," Tom snapped. "It is just the truth I'm speakin'. Easy enough for anyone with eyes to see."

  "I'm most interested in your... range of vision. Listen to me. All of you." Redmayne cast a glance about the silent, hate-filled crowd. He drew a purse from his pocket, emptied it on the turf. The coins clinked against each other, rolling to the bare feet of the crofters. "There is far more where that came from. Anyone who provides information leading to the capture of Silver Hand will earn a hundred pounds in gold."

  He prowled to where little Caitlin Dunne stood and started to kneel down. Ciaran saw Tom lunge for his daughter, but Ciaran reached her first, scooping the child up into his arms.

  "Contrary to popular local myth, we English don't eat children—at least, not unless they are seasoned with the proper blend of spices." Redmayne chuckled, straightening. "Do you know what you could do with a hundred pounds, little girl?"

  "I could use it to choke yer throat, ye bloody Sassenach!" the babe spat, from her safe haven in Ciaran's grasp.

  "Caitlin!" Oonagh cried in alarm.

  But not so much as a flicker of anger sparked in Redmayne's eyes. He caught a fold of the cloak Ciaran had given Caitlin between long, white fingers. "You could wear silk every day of the week. You could buy pretty dolls."

  Caitlin's mother rushed over, snatching her babe away from Ciaran, carrying her back into the crowd of Caitlin's stalwart brothers.

  Undeterred, Redmayne's gaze flicked to Siobhan, her belly distended, her babies clustered around her. They were far too thin, and Siobhan's face too careworn. "With a hundred pounds you could fill your kettle with meat night after night, and your children would never be hungry."

  "Mr. Hugh gives us all our fill. It is just I haven't stomach to eat of late."

  "You could have the finest doctors in all Ireland to deliver a babe."

  "Hugh will make certain she's cared for!" Fallon declared, but Redmayne's gaze never wavered from Siobhan's.

  "You could even use the money to sail away to America, where your man could forget the call of the whiskey."

  Redmayne chose his prey with the fiendish skill, homing in on the most vulnerable. It sickened Ciaran, that this monster should know gentle Siobhan's pain and use it as a weapon against her.

  "Leave her out of this, Redmayne," Ciaran snarled, moving forward to shield her, but Siobhan stepped forward with infinite dignity.

  "I'll not be taking your blood money, sir. My Sean died trying to drive your kind from these shores."

  "Ah, but you have another son. Michael."

  Siobhan flinched. Redmayne was Lucifer, beautiful, cunning, preying on her motherly heart.

  "The Crown sent him to... Barbados, was it? All that gold might be able to find him, buy his indenture."

  Siobhan went white, one hand trembling almost imperceptibly. "I... Michael would not want me to—"

  "To free him before the fever and the heat rot his body and his sanity?"

  "Leave her alone, you bastard!" Ciaran roared, lunging for Redmayne, only Tom Dunne's strong arm stopping him.

  "I was merely attempting to ease her sorrow. Even you can't object to the prospect of reuniting a mother with her son, MacDonough."

  "You twisted cur! I should—"

  "Should what? Kill me? For what, MacDonough? Offering these people a chance to build a new life, away from the poverty, the dirt? I am only offering someone the opportunity to become a rich man or woman."

  The officer's unsettling eyes locked on Ciaran's. "Silver Hand will hang. And I will be the one to tighten the noose about his neck. With your help, or without it. But the opportunity I'm offering you is a limited one. You'll never have the chance to earn such riches again. Anyone with information to sell knows where to find me."

  "No one here'd tell ye the time of day, if ye flayed them alive!" Tom Dunne roared.

  "Is that so?" Redmayne's eyes widened a fraction. "Let me give you a bit of advice. Be very careful what you say, Dunne. Some men might be tempted to take up such a challenge."

  "Leave him alone, Redmayne," Ciaran snapped, disliking the glint in the officer's eyes.

  "You needn't arouse all that righteous wrath, MacDonough. I won't put your friend upon the rack. I deplore such crude tactics. There are other ways of getting the information I seek." His voice dropped low. "Every man has his secrets. And every man has his price. It's merely a question of discovering the key." He reached up, skimming his fingertips along one of Fallon's tumbled curls, the tiny gesture poisoning Ciaran with rage.

  "Keep your hands off her!" he blazed.

  Something flashed in Redmayne's eyes. "You see. We've known each other a matter of days, and I have found your weakness already." He sketched Fallon an insolent bow.

  "Until we meet again, madam." With military precision, the captain turned and strode from the crowd.

  Silence was a deafening roar behind him, the magic of the night stripped away, anger and fear and helplessness left behind in Redmayne's wake.

  Without a word, the glen folk were beginning to melt away, all except for Tom Dunne and his family fleeing to their own hearths, the cottages that gave some small illusion of protection.

  Ciaran couldn't blame them. He felt a fierce need to scoop Fallon up, carry her as far away from the sinister Englishman as possible. Keep her safe.

  Safe? As Siobhan's sons had been safe? As Caitlin and Tom Dunne were safe? Could there be safety in a land under Redmayne's boot heel?

  But almost more dangerous than the Englishman's threats were the temptations he had dangled like sweetmeats before starving children. More coin than they could earn in a lifetime, coin that could restore lost sons, set whole families sailing to a new beginning. If it were Ciaran's child suffering somewhere, his sons and daughters lost to poverty and hunger and sickness, might he betray…?

  No. But Redmayne had played the scene like a master spider, catching them all up in his web. Under the crushing pressure of threat or temptation, chances were that someone would break.

  He heard the crunch of a footstep near him, Tom Dunne's low voice. "Redmayne—he's a devil, is that one, an' it would be the finest day's work Silver Hand ever did if he were to cut the English bastard's throat."

  "Why doesn't he?" Ciaran demanded, itching to have the knife blade in his own hand. "Why doesn't he rid the countryside of the accursed soldiers?"

  "He's tried it, right enough. Rid us of the commander 'afore Redmayne, he did. General Scargill's nephew, it was, and a viler man ye've never met. But the English only send another man to fill his boots. And one a hundred times more dangerous. I'd wager Silver Hand figures better to outwit the one we've got than to stir things up so much the English come crashin' down on Glenceo the way they did after the rebellion. None too choosy about who they trample in the process, the English are."

  Ciaran's eyes narrowed, something in the Irishman's voice driving him to question. "This Silver Hand—do you know him?" Ciaran asked. But Dunne's features closed, hardened.

  "In a way we all do. He belongs to us, like your Fallon does. She keeps hope alive, dreams and hero tales, a bit o' the ancient magic we can touch. Silver Hand keeps bellies full, roofs over our heads, clothes on children's backs. Without him, the people hereabouts would've starved, lost everything after the rebellion. If there be such a thing as guardian angels, then the angel of Glenceo sails a smuggler's ship and wears a pistol instead o’ wings. No one I know of has ever seen his face, but he's always there when we're in need."

  Ciaran looked into Dunne's eyes, bright with intelligence, inborn wariness veiled by quick humor. Doubtless the man could spin tales that Fallon's saints themselves would believe, but Ciaran didn't think the Irishman was lying now. He didn't
know who Silver Hand was. Even if he did, he'd not betray it.

  "If ye're thinkin' of lookin' for him yerself, ye might as well save yerself the trouble. It is as if he doesn't have a face. If it weren't for the shoes that end up on me doorstep, or the warm coats or books fer me boys, I'd say Silver Hand was as much a legend as Ciaran of the Mist. Even our Fallon, here, has done her best to find Silver Hand, but she failed to find him, same as all of us. Take yer bride home, MacDonough. Finish what ye started before we all came chargin' in on ye. Celebrate life, love, happiness. It is far more fragile, far more fleetin' than ye know."

  Dunne was wrong, Ciaran thought. He did know how fleeting happiness was, every time he looked into Fallon's eyes, felt the enmity in Redmayne, remembered the vulnerability of his own lost memory.

  "Tom." Fallon's voice was quiet, shaken, as she pressed the Irishman's strong, hoary hand. "Thank you, for tonight. Don't think Redmayne could spoil what you did for us. I'll always remember... the beautiful part. The pipes, the dancing."

  Dunne's face reddened, his voice gruff as that of one of his sons caught in some sentimental act. "Wanted it to be perfect fer ye. Blasted English cur came to ruin it."

  "The English tried to destroy this castle, too, but it's the broken edges that make Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo so beautiful." She smiled at Tom and his family clustered about, and Ciaran had never loved her more. "Redmayne could never taint the gifts you've given us."

  "Ye're a fine one, Mary Fallon Delaney MacDonough. A fine one," Dunne said, and Ciaran saw tears glisten in the brawny man's eyes. "But have a care, girl. I'm that fearful fer ye. There's somethin' in Redmayne's eyes when he looks at ye."

  It was true, and it made Ciaran's blood run cold.

  "Nothin' can hurt Miss Fallon!" Caitlin declared, pushing forward, her face upturned, her eyes fierce with believing. "She can just call Ciaran o' the Mist back, and he'd crunch Redmayne up in a million bits! She has magic!"

  Magic. Could something so ephemeral triumph over a man like Lionel Redmayne? Over a race of conquerors like the English? Or was Redmayne right? Would time run out? Would some weakness be exploited, some vulnerability discovered? Would someone desperate turn betrayer?