Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  His throat tightened. From the moment he'd staggered into awareness in the shadow of Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, time had slipped through his fingers at an alarming pace, no matter how desperately he'd tried to hold it And since the night he'd found the smuggler's note, time had flown.

  The joy of loving Fallon, the possibility that he might be able to love her for all time, filled his every waking moment, and he wasn't certain if that fierce pleasure was tainted or if it was made even more intoxicating by the knowledge that when Tuesday came, he risked losing her forever.

  Fallon, who had gifted him with her generosity, illuminated his mind with her treasured imaginings, and trusted him with her grief and loneliness. A woman so confident in his honor, she didn't care that he didn't even remember his name. Such courage, such faith deserved a happy ending, didn't it? And yet so many of the tales of great love she'd spun out for him—Deirdre and Naosi, Diarmad and Grainne, Tristan and Isolde—had ended in heartbreak. What if their own love was swallowed up by tragedy as well?

  No. He shoved the thought away, along with the shadowy sense of foreboding that had tormented him since he left the smuggler's cave. He would do everything in his power to make certain Fallon would have joy instead of grief, a lifetime of love, his kisses, warm with life instead of cold with death.

  Time and time again, he'd lain beside her, sated with lovemaking, cradling her so close it was a wonder she could breathe. He'd watched her sprawl over him like a drowsy kitten, tousled, naked and warm, and he'd told himself he was a fool. Why even make the trip to the labyrinth and Silver Hand's lair? Why tempt fate to snatch everything away? She didn't care who he'd been in that life before.

  But he did.

  He'd searched through every fragment of memory, sifted through the images that had come back to him, plumbed for emotions—love, hate, fear and valor, things he must have felt. There had been pathetically little to grasp: being wrenched from his mother's arms by a father he loathed, grief when he'd returned to find her dead.

  Honor. Respect. And loneliness. No love to pull him back. He wondered who he had been. He felt curiosity, but no driving need to plunge backward anymore. Yet he was warrior enough to know the harsh realities of life. You didn't have to reach back into your past to have it overtake you. Sometimes your past could surprise you, catch you from behind when you least expected it and drag you under a current of danger, of old hates and betrayals, greedy to snatch up anyone you dared to love as well.

  A shiver of unease trickled down his spine, the need to protect this woman he loved savage inside him. No, Ciaran resolved. He couldn't risk that Fallon might be endangered any further than she already had been because of her love for him. Nor could he bear that Hugh Delaney might be at risk for offering a stranger safe haven, endangering everything he owned for no other reason than generosity and a code of hospitality that stretched back a thousand years.

  If Ciaran was Silver Hand, he needed to know the truth before he plunged deeper into a future with his lady love. And if he was not Silver Hand, he needed to warn the smuggler that Redmayne was determined to see him hang. His jaw clenched at the memory of Tom Dunne's words: the books on the doorstep to fill the greedy minds of his children, the shoes left for those in need. Silver Hand, a guardian angel, hunted now by the most ruthless of men. There must be some way to keep him alive.

  He glanced at the window, the sky beyond tinted with the first lavender ribbons of twilight. He needed to slip away from Fallon without her suspecting what he was up to. But how? They'd lived for each other, these past, precious days. He'd barely been able to endure letting her out of his sight.

  Now how was he supposed to explain the fact that he didn't want her anywhere near him for the next few hours? After a moment, he cleared his throat, but that didn't change the bitter taste he had in his mouth because he was about to lie. "Fallon, love, I thought I'd ride out for a bit, see if I can find Hugh. He said he was going to Tom Dunne's to talk about adding another room onto their cottage."

  She let the stitching fall to her lap. Her eyes brightened. "I'll ride with you. If you'll wait just a moment—"

  "No!" His voice sounded brusque even to his own ears. He saw her eyes widen in surprise, a hint of hurt about her lips. "Fallon, forgive me, it's just..." He paced to the window, groping for some logical reason to explain his snappishness. "It's time I took my place here, on Misthaven. Found some sort of... work to occupy myself. I've been lounging around on your brother's charity far too long."

  Her laugh was a little ragged about the edges. "You've only been here a few weeks," she said, setting her sewing aside. "Give yourself time to settle in. Hugh doesn't mind."

  "Perhaps not, but I do. I need something useful to do. To feel as if I'm giving something back in return for food and shelter, the new clothes, everything you and Hugh have given me. I need to take care of you myself, provide for you as a man should. Is that so hard to understand?"

  "No. But that still doesn't explain why you don't want me to ride with you," Fallon said softly. Trust his lady of the mist to cut straight through his babble to the main point. For such a dream-spun maiden, she could be practical at the most inconvenient times. Her hand drifted down to rest on his arm.

  Ciaran pulled away, driving his fingers back through his mane of hair, hating himself for this ruse. Yet it was based on truth, wasn't it? Could Fallon even guess what it cost him not to be able to give her a home, provide her with the things she needed, books filled with adventures for her to dream upon, sweets to tempt her with as he eased her down onto a bed he had provided for her, a cradle where she could sing Gaelic lullabies to the babes given life from their love?

  Yet, it sickened him to use that truth in order to manipulate her.

  "This is something Hugh and I need to work out between us ourselves, Fallon." He tried to gentle his voice, failed. "It would shame me to have you hovering over me as if I were a helpless boy."

  The hurt in her eyes deepened, and Ciaran hated himself for putting it there.

  "Fallon, Fallon, Fallon," he breathed, drawing her into his arms. "Don't you know I'd rather surrender my last drop of blood than hurt you? But I have to make my place in your world if I am ever to be able to stay. I have to make it alone."

  He could feel her reluctance, the stiffness in her spine, a subtle resistance, but after a moment she shrugged. "Men. You'll probably get lost if you go to search for Hugh, and—"

  "If I do, it's my own problem." His mouth hardened, doubtless Fallon thought from stubborn male pride. "I won't have my wife trailing after me. Blast it, I've felt so inept ever since you found me, I need to do this alone."

  He wished she would yank herself away from him, storm off in a temper. He wished she would tell him he was an ungrateful wretch and could go to the devil. It might have made him feel a little better to get the dressing-down he deserved, and his lady wife could tear anyone down to their knees when she had a mind to.

  But she dealt him a punishment infinitely worse.

  Trusting, vulnerable, more than a little hurt, she gazed up at him. "I-I suppose I have been demanding all of your time, and there's nothing more annoying than a clinging wife. It's just that, it's so wonderful having someone to talk to, someone to touch, that I suppose I got greedy."

  "Fallon—" Ciaran protested, unable to bear her sudden aura of uncertainty. For a moment he considered telling her the truth. Only the fact that she'd follow him into danger stopped him. He traced the sweep of rose darkening her cheekbones, wishing he could scoop her up into his arms, carry her to their bedchamber and love every shard of doubt away.

  "Fallon," he breathed, his voice ragged. "You're more than I could ever deserve in a wife. Please, just try to understand."

  She brushed a lock of hair back from his brow, the slightest touch of her fingers infinitely sweet. "All right. I'll stay home and stitch like a good wife." She made a wry face. "I have to pick apart this last seam anyway. I stitched the armhole closed."

  She surprised a l
augh from him, one filled with love, with pain, with the sudden fear of losing her. "You don't have to do anything to be my wife except... love me." He cupped her cheeks in his palms, and tasted her lips—their flavor so familiar, yet always so new.

  When he drew away, she gave him a tremulous smile. "Strange," she said, "who would have believed that after only two weeks, I would have forgotten."

  "Forgotten what, treasure?"

  She touched his lips. "You've made me forget how to be alone."

  Could any words have cut him more deeply? Ciaran drew away, strode from Misthaven House, hating the lies he'd told, the hurt he'd caused, the wounds he'd unwittingly opened. And the trust he was about to betray. As he spurred his horse into the deepening twilight, he vowed that once this night was over, he'd make it up to Fallon. He would come to their bed, take her into his arms, and spend the rest of forever loving her.

  But tonight belonged to the shadows, the subtle sense of danger. Tonight he would confront the smuggler Silver Hand. He only hoped he didn't discover that the dread lord of smugglers was himself.

  Violet shadows spread in thick pools about the underbrush, the first faint glimmer of stars barely visible in the evening's veil as Ciaran dismounted outside the castle and found the hidden entryway. Torch in hand, from Fallon's store of supplies, he made his way into the souterrains. Yet the winding passages seemed far different without his lady leading the way, like a fairy maid guiding some ancient hero away from an enchantress's cave. The objects were still where he remembered them, treasures of other lives in other ages. But this time, his footsteps seemed to echo through the tunnels as he drew closer to Silver Hand's hidden lair.

  Twice he nearly fell into traps set centuries ago, and once he barely avoided stepping on something alive as it scurried past. But he scarcely noticed. He could hear something, down in the bowels of the place. Low, tension-filled voices, the scrape of boots, the thunk of what must be the boxes full of goods he and Fallon had found there days ago.

  Ciaran swallowed hard. How did one announce oneself to a band of smugglers without them doing something rash like blowing one's head off with a pistol ball? He might have figured out some sort of smuggler etiquette in time, but something slammed down on the back of his head.

  Pain exploded through his skull, the torch flying from his hand in a rain of sparks. He plunged face-down on the ground, a black tide of unconsciousness trying to pull him under as a cacophony of sounds rang in his ears—angry shouts, the hastening of footsteps.

  "Should'a jest killed him—saved the trouble of havin' to throw him into the sea to drown," a voice snarled. "Cursed spies pokin' everywhere!"

  Another voice, younger, objected. "And have Silver Hand take me own head? Ye know how he feels about the killin'."

  "What he don't know won't hurt him, I say. Somebody has to see he doesn't hang! Too soft fer his own good, is Silver Hand. Roll the blighter over and see who 'e is." Rough hands closed on Ciaran's shoulders, and with a brutal yank, he was on his back, staring up into faces garishly lit by his own torch.

  "You!" The younger of the two gasped. "Holy mother of God, Moran, ye fool! It is ye who'll be hangin' now, and Silver Hand'll be tyin' the noose!"

  "How was I to know—" The burlier of the two protested in alarm.

  "You... know who I am?" Ciaran choked out, a sick twisting in his stomach. His worst fears were realized: he was somehow linked to this place, these smugglers, a criminal to be hunted.

  "O-of course. D'ye take me fer a fool? I'm passin' sorry this happened, sir. It is a calamity, this is. Pure disaster."

  What was a disaster? Ciaran wondered through the thundering haze of pain that used to be his head. Cracking the smuggler king over the head with the butt of a pistol? Why the devil couldn't he remember he belonged here?

  He struggled to sit up, and the younger of the two was quick to help him, brushing the dirt off his clothes with the eager desperation of a rambunctious boy who'd just overset the parish priest in his mother's dust heap.

  "It's true, then." Ciaran's shoulders sagged, and he stared at the ground, fingers pressed to his nape, warm with his own blood. "I am... Silver Hand."

  The sudden crunch of a boot sounded behind him, and a low voice, stunningly familiar, reverberated through the cave. "No. I am."

  Ciaran tried to wheel toward the sound, but the world still heaved and swayed. For a heartbeat, he didn't believe his eyes. But his vision cleared, the image still remained, standing tall, with world-weary eyes the color of Fallon's.

  "Hugh," Ciaran breathed in disbelief.

  Hugh Delaney moved farther into the light. He was garbed all in black, face smudged with soot. Twin pistols were shoved into the waistband of his breeches, and a sword hung from his side. How many men had felt the bite of that blade? Ciaran wondered. But even here, in his lair, Hugh looked distinctly uncomfortable in the guise of Silver Hand.

  "It's all right, Martin, Moran," Hugh said in a tired voice. "Fetch my brother-in-law a cold cloth for his head."

  The two men hesitated for a moment, reluctant, and Ciaran could see by the hero worship in their eyes that they would plunge headfirst into a school of sharks before they'd betray their leader. Loyalty. A fierce protectiveness. Yet, also a blind faith that made Ciaran's throat tighten. The look of men who would follow their leader through a wall of fire, and gladly. Memory flickered. Men had peered up at Ciaran that way once—as if he could defeat dragons. The responsibility had terrified him.

  Ciaran contained himself until the pair of smugglers disappeared deeper into the cave, then burst out. "What the blazes are you doing here, Hugh? A smuggler? Blast, I still can scarce believe it."

  "I know it's difficult. Stolid, boring, plodding Hugh Delaney is Silver Hand." Hugh gave a laugh, half bitter, half amazed. "I can hardly believe it myself. The question is, how did you find me here? Did you follow me?"

  "Fallon brought me through the labyrinth the day after we were married. She found me here at the castle, and we both thought that I might be Silver Hand."

  "Of course Fallon brought you." Hugh shook his head in affection and irritation. "Blast that girl, she's made it pure hell from the beginning trying to keep my identity a secret. She can be damned tenacious."

  Realization dawned. Ciaran straightened, staring at his brother-in-law as if for the first time. "You knew from the first that I wasn't the smuggler. That is why you allowed me into your home."

  "You'd make a far better lord of the smugglers than I do, that's certain. It's a position that calls for a sense of the dashing, the daring I could never hope to achieve. But I could hardly let Redmayne hang you in my place for the sake of appearances."

  "Why risk hanging in the first place? You have to know what kind of danger you've put yourself in. Redmayne is hunting you. He'd sell his soul to see you on a hangman's gibbet."

  "Doubtless he'll succeed eventually. Or someone else will. Until then, I do what I have to do."

  "Do what you have to do? That makes no sense! The master of an estate like Misthaven turned smuggler. Why?"

  "I'm certain Fallon hasn't told you about our father."

  "She said he deserted you after your mother died."

  Hugh's eyes widened in surprise. "She's never spoken of that to anyone I know of. Especially not me. She's pretended none of it mattered—Mother's death, Father's desertion. I always worried about her, keeping all that hurt locked up so tight. Thank God she trusted somebody enough to give them the key. I-I was never very good at comforting her."

  "You're a fine brother. A good man."

  "No. We were always different, Fallon and I. She was flame, hurling herself into life headlong. While I consider every step I take a dozen times before I dare make a move."

  "That is called wisdom. It's the only reason your tenants have survived."

  "It cost me the love of my sister—something I wanted more than you'll ever know. Grief can do terrible things to people, Ciaran. I was so raw and Fallon was so angry. I suppose I thought t
ime would heal the breach between us, once the pain softened. I was wrong. By the time I realized it, it was too late."

  "I don't believe that. It can't be too late."

  "I failed her. Nothing can change that. Worst of all, I couldn't make her understand. Fallon hated our father, never understood it was love of our mother that drove him away. He couldn't bear to see her suffer, and once she died, he tried to forget Misthaven existed, the land she'd loved so much. Tried to forget about me, and about Fallon who was so much like her. He ran, that's true. But Fallon doesn't understand the real tragedy of our father. He wasn't running away from us, he was running away from himself—his own weakness, grief and pain."

  "I'm sorry," Ciaran said, knowing the words were futile. Wishing he could reach out, touch this man he'd respected from the first, a man he was beginning to love like a brother.

  "By the time I inherited, the estate was on the brink of ruin. England had locked up Ireland's trade so tightly there might as well have been iron bars surrounding us. Most of the gentry had lands in both Ireland and England. They bled the Irish lands white, and would've been happy enough to see the whole island starve if it meant English trade was protected."

  "But what about the people, the crofters who live here. How are they supposed to survive?"

  "The same way they always have—clinging to life as tenaciously as the heather on the cliffs. They've struggled to keep body and soul together for centuries. This is just one more skirmish in a battle without end. Their resilience, their courage astonishes me, humbles me."

  Ciaran remembered his own visceral reaction to the people he'd met—Maeve McGinty with her ageless eyes in a face wrinkled and tart as dried apple, Tom Dunne and his irrepressible daughter, Siobhan Moynihan, a lady of sorrow and courage, tending her flock of babes. And the others, so many others who had brought him bridal gifts and clapped as he and Fallon had danced in the moonlight.

  Hugh paced to where the boats stood, upright now, their bottoms lapped by the water. "I fear I'm a most unnatural landlord. You see, I can't stand by and watch my people go without—without shoes, clothes, food, books for their little ones, decent cottages for shelter. I had to do something."