Ciaran's arm tightened about Fallon.
"Ye'll take care of her for us, MacDonough?" Dunne asked fiercely.
"I would die for her," Ciaran vowed before the castle wreathed in legend, before Dunne and Caitlin and the echo of the music from the pipes, and before the eyes that watched them beyond the mist.
Dunne nodded. "Me boys will see yer gifts get delivered up to Misthaven. Ye jest be takin' our Fallon home."
Dunne gathered up his daughter, his sturdy sons taking up the humble offerings that were so precious. Then the family made their way down the tangled path. Ciaran felt Fallon's hand grasp his arm. He looked down into her face: the ethereal joy had vanished, the bright challenge, the hunger that had driven him near mad with wanting her. Her fairy-kissed features were subdued with worry, her eyes heavy with quiet desperation.
"Now that he has Butler's permission, Redmayne won't wait to start destroying the castle. Ciaran, what are we going to do?"
Ciaran's mouth hardened, grim. "I think it's time the squire had a visit from Ciaran of the Mist."
Chapter 16
Only a miracle could have allowed Ciaran to reach this room, guided him through twisted corridors past drowsing footmen, helped him thwart locks no master thief should have been able to break through. But he'd begun to believe in miracles ever since Fallon had entered his life. And tonight he needed all the help he could get.
He grimaced. No high king's tomb could have been sealed more tightly than Phineas Butler's bedchamber, Ciaran thought as he slipped into the room, but then, a man who would murder his own brother and rape a defenseless child like Ailis MacGrath had much to fear—a fact that could only work to Ciaran's advantage. A grim smile twisted his lips.
Butler's massive bed stood like a fortress amid a sea of discarded clothing, spilled wine and half-eaten food. Thick wooden posts jutted to the ceiling, the old-fashioned bed curtains drawn tight despite the warmth of the night.
The air was too thick to breathe. It reeked of brandy, Hungary water and cheap perfume, the mustiness made far worse by windows all but nailed shut.
Ciaran drew aside the curtain and found the master of this rotting elegance huddled under masses of satin coverlets. His face was bloated with dissipation, his balding pate gleaming with sweat in the flickering of the firelight, a dribble of wine staining the front of his nightshirt.
The debris made it clear a woman had been part of the evening's entertainment, but she was gone. It seemed Butler liked to sleep with a more deadly mistress— pistol just visible beneath his pillow.
Had that weapon been there when Butler had dragged Ailis MacGrath up to this chamber? Ciaran wondered as the woman-child's face rose in his memory, her delicate body swelling with Butler's bastard.
He glared down at the man in the bed, poisonous hate welling inside him. This was the craven monster who had forced Ailis into his bed, then when she was pregnant with his child, had tossed her to the crude, greedy dog of a crofter. She'd been no more to Butler than the scrapings from the plates littering the room, a surfeit of delicacies to be devoured, then disposed of to the dog scrabbling at his feet.
It must have been laughably easy for Redmayne to get Butler to agree to his scheme. If the man was willing to destroy the lives of young girls like Ailis, why wouldn't he be eager to see the castle tumbled into the sea?
Disgust filled Ciaran as he drew the ancient dagger from the belt at his waist. He pressed the blade to Butler's throat, and it was all he could do not to slash it deep.
Butler would have awakened screaming if he could have drawn air into his lungs. Instead, his eyes bulged, his mouth gaping open on a hoarse, choked cry.
The myriad sins the man had committed were written in his eyes. Terror and confusion contorted his features, as if he were groping through the filth of his life, trying to decide which wrong his assailant had come to revenge.
"No! Don't kill me! For the love of God!" Butler croaked, his gaze flicking from Ciaran's face to the costume Fallon had put together—billows of linen shirt, belted at the waist, a flowing mantle, the ancient cloak brooch's cabochon jewels gleaming like red eyes.
"Wh-who are you?" Butler choked out. "Wh-what do you want?"
Ciaran had rehearsed what he was going to say to the man, plotted it with Fallon. What would Ciaran of the Mist say? What would he do? What would most terrorize this craven cur with the dagger at his throat? Yet as Ciaran stared down into that bloated face with its eyes gluttonous from selfish pleasure, every speech vanished from his brain, leaving only a red haze of rage.
"Who am I?" Ciaran echoed. "I am your worst nightmare—the reason you keep that pathetic pistol beneath your pillow at night, set guards at your doors. Did you really believe such paltry measures could keep me away?" Was it possible for the man to blanch any whiter?
"J-James?" Butler stammered, shrinking back. "No! No, you're not... I've never seen you before!" Was there the tiniest hint of relief in the man's face? "Then why—" Butler hesitated.
"You've committed crimes aplenty, Butler. There are many who would fight each other for the chance to put a dagger in your heart, as you well know."
"The guards! Wh-what happened? What did you do to them—kill them?" Sweat slickened his jowly features. "The house must be crawling with rebels."
"I come alone."
"No lone man could get into this room! It's impossible! I made certain.”
Ciaran laughed, the sound brutal. "If you had an army, they could not stop me from fulfilling my quest."
"Q-quest? Who are you? What do you want?"
"I come to give you a choice, Butler. Leave my people in peace, keep their bellies full, their bodies warm, and I might decide to let you live."
"Your people? Y-you have family on my estate? I'll give them the best cottage on my land..." he babbled eagerly. "Anything you want... if you'll just tell me who they are."
"Not one family. All of them. Every poor soul unfortunate enough to live on Butler land."
"All the crofters? You can't be serious! They're like animals—filthy and constantly breeding—"
The dagger bit deep. A line of blood welled above the bright edge of the blade. "Not too filthy for you to take to your bed. Innocent young girls, barely more than children. You rape them and—"
"Not rape! Never rape!" The spark of offense in Butler's eyes nearly cost him his life. "I gave them a choice—"
"Submit to your pawing or have their families flung out to starve on the open road? I will give you the same kind of choice. Do as I tell you, or I will carve up your rotting carcass the way you carved up the lives of those girls."
"Wh-whatever you say! I swear, I'll—"
"You lying scum. Even now, you are thinking about what you will do the instant I leave this room. If you live through this ordeal, you will hunt me down like a dog. You and your army of cowards will take the knife and—"
"No! You're wrong!" Butler protested, but the hot flush on his cheeks betrayed him.
"Do you think you could capture me? You and your partner, Captain Redmayne?" Ciaran sneered. "Is it possible to imprison the mist?"
"The mist? Silver Hand! You're the smuggler—"
"No."
"Then who..."
"I am the man who built the castle you and Redmayne are plotting to destroy."
Butler swallowed hard. "You can't mean... can't possibly be..."
"Ciaran of the Mist."
Butler's eyes all but bulged out of his head. "You're mad! That's impossible!"
"Is it?"
"It's nothing but a legend... make-believe. A pack of fairy tales."
"My castle is real, is it not? And this dagger at your throat—surely you don't think it is make-believe? Perhaps we should test the blade against your throat to see—"
"No! No! I just... Why would you come here? To me? There... there are worse men—far worse landlords in Ireland. Why, Squire Biddleston, he—"
"Squire Biddleston hasn't agreed to demolish my castle, has he?"
>
"I-I didn't wish to! Captain Redmayne is a most forceful man. He coerced me shamefully, or I would never have agreed to such a plan."
"You would've had your army of footmen out there with hammers and chisels if you'd thought of the idea first, Butler."
Something sly crept into Butler's eyes, the expression of a man who would barter a three-year-old to the hangman to save his own neck. "The castle is about to crash down on its own. I-I only wanted to keep some innocent crofter's child from getting hurt. I am trying to protect my people."
Ciaran's fist knotted in the front of Butler's stained nightshirt. "Like you 'protected' Ailis MacGrath, and who knows how many others? You're the soul of compassion, Butler. But hear me now, and remember this. If so much as one stone of the walls of Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo is toppled, if any 'accident' befalls the place, if Redmayne and his vultures chip away a single flake of stone, there will be no place on earth you can hide from me."
"I give you my word." So fast, so simple, the vow was made. Ciaran was sickened by it.
"Why should I trust a craven cur like you?"
"I'll do whatever you want! Forbid Redmayne to demolish the castle.”
Ciaran gave a bitter snort of laughter. "You forbid Redmayne—I'd like to see you try. No, Butler. I know exactly how it would be. You'd be a tower of strength, most resolute, until you're face-to-face with the captain, and he's the one you fear most." He frowned, considering. "I think I had better kill you after all, and make certain."
"No! No, please!" Butler's eyes rolled, wild. Sweat ran down his face. "Mercy... I'll do anything you say! Write it in blood.”
Ciaran glared down at him for a moment. "Butler, you might just have saved your worthless life."
Relief shot across the man's swollen features.
"Write to Redmayne, refusing him permission to destroy the castle."
"O-of course! So simple—"
Ciaran could see the gleam in Butler's eyes, as if the man were already plotting what he would do once he escaped.
"No. Not quite so simple. I'm not certain what I mistrust the most—your cowardice, or Redmayne's ability to bend people to his will. This is the bargain I offer you, Butler. Pen a letter to Redmayne, then disappear."
"D-disappear? I don't understand."
"I think you do. Leave these lands in the hands of a generous steward, sail away from Ireland and never come back."
"B-but I've nowhere else to go!"
"I'm certain if you search hard enough, you'll be able to find some other hive of debauchery—willing women you pay for, plenty of wine to keep you in a drunken stupor. Unless you're so attached to this land you wish to be buried here."
"No. I'll do as you say."
"You will. Or die." Ciaran released Butler. The balding man scurried to a writing desk in the corner of the room. With one arm, he swept away an assortment of crumpled cravats and tall crowned beaver hats. He rummaged about, took pen in hand. After a moment, Butler sanded the missive, sealed it.
Ciaran stared into the man's face. What he saw there both disgusted him and reassured him—a coward, desperate to save his own skin, a man weak-minded enough to believe in ghosts and avenging angels and nine-hundred-year-old heroes called back from the land of the fairies. Butler couldn't wait to put as much distance as possible between his villainous carcass and Ciaran of the Mist.
"One last word of warning," Ciaran said, easing the dagger away from Butler's throat. "By the javelin of Cuchulain, and the tears of Deirdre of the Sorrows I curse you, Butler."
"No!" Butler wailed. "I've done what you wanted. I've done what you asked!"
"If you set foot on this land again. I promise you that you'll suffer torments beyond anything your image of paltry Christian hell could imagine. At my hands Butler—the hands of Ciaran of the Mist."
He left Butler quivering, sobbing in the loathsome bed like a terrified child, too shaken to even think of raising the alarm. Cautiously, Ciaran eased through the corridors he'd passed through earlier, then let himself out into the gardens.
A ghostly pearl of moon sailed on a drift of clouds turning the garden path into a silver ribbon, the cascades of flowers and hedges hovering like specters in the shadows.
The castle was safe. The quest was over, Ciaran thought. He should be elated, relieved. He should feel triumphant. Instead, he felt an odd emptiness, an ache as if he had lost.
Lost what? His sense of purpose? The hope that he could somehow shield the woman he loved? Be the legendary hero she'd wanted so desperately? He closed his eyes remembering her face as he'd left her behind. They'd both known that if anyone on Butler's land had seen them together while he was garbed as Ciaran of the Mist their plan would be ruined. Yet, she'd looked so small and lost and alone. "Ciaran?"
The soft voice made him freeze, his heart hammering first in alarm, then in recognition. She slipped from the shadows, her gown pale, her face kissed by moonlight. She looked desperate, fragile, vulnerable, the taint gleam of tears on her cheeks.
"Fallon? What the blazes are you doing here? We agreed you shouldn't come."
"I know, but I couldn't... couldn't bear the waiting I thought you'd..." She hesitated but an instant, as if trying to leash some force inside her. He could almost hear it snap free. She ran into his arms, a ragged sob tearing from her lips. "Thank God," she choked out, her fingers tracing the planes of his face, his hair, the muscles of his chest. "I've been so afraid!"
"Of Butler?" he asked, holding her, reveling in the precious feel of her in his arms. "Surely he was no match for Ciaran of the Mist! Especially considering all the other heroic deeds the legend claims I've done."
"Don't!" She cried fiercely, burying her face against his chest. "Don't mock me."
Ciaran felt her fear and pain twist about his heart. Had she really been so afraid? His bold, brave Fallon. "Don't cry, my love," he murmured into her hair. "It's over now. Everything is all right. The castle is safe. Redmayne can't destroy it."
"I'm not crying about th-the castle. I was afraid I'd never see you again. That you'd vanish into the mist."
The words struck something cold into Ciaran's belly, a dread so deep his grip tightened on Fallon until he feared he might bruise her. What would it have been like, to be swept away from this land, this woman? Unthinkable. A wound that would never heal. "I'm still here, my love.
"Yes. You're here. I can touch you. Feel the beat of your heart." She gave a broken laugh and raised her face to his. "It's so strange. When I found you that first night, I wanted so desperately for you to be the Ciaran of the legend. I made myself believe... But now, I'm so glad that you aren't Ciaran of the Mist!" She looked up at him, so hopeful, so fragile, this woman who had defied Redmayne, taken in an injured stranger, danced in the arms of a wild Irish night.
She didn't realize that he could still be taken away from her. That he had a rendezvous with his own destiny in the confines of the labyrinth they had traveled together. "You can't be the Ciaran of the legend, or you'd be gone, wouldn't you?"
"Yes. I can't be Ciaran." Blast, what was the matter with him? He'd spent every minute he'd been with Fallon trying to convince her it was all some pretty nonsense, that he was no legend spun over hundreds of years. He was a man. Just a man, like any other. He should be relieved that the charade was over, that the dream-dust could fade from her eyes and she could see him for what he was: a man. A man who had lost his memory. A man who might never even remember his own name. Her husband—but not one woven of hero-tales and her own vivid imagination—a far more commonplace husband. One hardly worthy of a fairy-kissed sprite like Mary Fallon.
But her fingers were threading through his hair. Her lips trailed against his jaw. "I'm so glad you're not the Ciaran of legend! I want so much to keep you with me, to love you. I want it more than magic, more than saving the castle. Is that so horribly selfish?" She peered up at him with wide sea-blue eyes, as if he held all the answers, when suddenly he felt more lost, more adrift than ever. Stark realization pie
rced him. He didn't want it to be over. The dream. The magic she'd poured into his doubting hands.
"You could never be selfish, Mary Fallon. You, who give everything, all of yourself to me, and to the crofters on Misthaven land."
"B-but the legend—it gives people something to believe in."
"Just because I'm not the Ciaran you summoned from the land of the fairies doesn't mean he doesn't exist somewhere, beyond the mist." It cost Ciaran more to say that than he could have imagined. Her perfect hero, the mythic man she claimed she had loved her whole life, might still be drifting in the place where dreams were kept.
But for now, she belonged to him. His wife. His lady. His love. A fierce need swept through him, born of the danger he'd faced entering Butler's fortress home and the sense of foreboding that seemed to whisper to the night. Legends never died. But a mortal man could never be certain how many precious hours of his life might remain. The image of the smuggler's den rose in Ciaran's memory, the salt sting of the sea in his nostrils, the bold scrawl of the note he'd hidden from Fallon beneath the belly of the overturned boat. Suddenly he couldn't get close enough to her. The thought of not being able to touch her even during the ride back to Misthaven was unbearable.
He took her hand, led her to where he'd tied his horse. Her own mount cropped grass beside it. "I want you to ride with me, Mary Fallon. In my arms." He traced the elegant curve of her cheek.
"Cuchulain will follow." She slipped the bridle from the horse's head, whispered something in Cuchulain's velvety ear. Those wise equine eyes met hers with complete understanding.
Then she turned to Ciaran. He mounted his own horse, held out his hand to her. With fairylike grace, she eased onto the horse's back, settling into the curve of Ciaran's arms.
He'd been an abysmal rider from the first, but tonight it was as if Fallon’s special brand of magic had turned the dirt path into a ribbon of beaten silver, the trees into sentinels from other ages, warriors still brave and strong, untouched by English swords.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 25