"So you put your own neck in the English noose. Risked your life so children could be warm in winter, have shoes on their feet, food in their bellies."
"Don't make it sound like some epic act of heroism. I just didn't know what else to do. Things got so bad, I became desperate. I promised myself I'd do it just one time—smuggle a shipload of wool to France and sell it, get what was necessary and bring it back. I was scared as hell. If the ship hadn't been buffeted by the devil of a storm from the north, I might have turned back a dozen times."
"You wouldn't have turned back if the whole English fleet lay in the channel," Ciaran said with quiet certainty. "As for your courage—the only man who isn't afraid is the man who has nothing to lose."
"Stands to lose everything he owns if the Sassenachs ever catch him," Moran grumbled under his breath as he and Martin melted out of the shadows, a rag in hand. "They'll take his land, his house, and the fates of every soul on Misthaven."
"That's enough," Hugh snapped, obviously uncomfortable with his cohorts' adoration. "The two of you take yourselves off and get busy. We've got all that cargo to disperse."
"Aye, sir." Moran cuffed young Martin in the shoulder, and they returned through the tunnel. Hugh took Ciaran's arm, led him around a tight curve into the chamber he and Fallon had found days ago. Torchlight bled down the walls. The boats, righted and in the water, were packed so full they looked ready to capsize.
Hugh's men had already started rummaging through several of the boxes, Moran keeping up his constant grousing. "Hurry up, ye young fool, or by the time we get this box to Tom Dunne, those boys of his'll already have outgrown the fixin's Silver Hand's brought them."
"Ciaran—" Hugh said after a moment. "Fallon must never know about this."
"Why? Why not tell her? She's so hungry to love and to be loved. Not only by a husband, but by a brother. She loves these people as much as you do. If she knew the truth she might—" He stopped, appalled at what he'd almost betrayed, the hurt he'd nearly dealt the good man standing before him. But Hugh finished his sentence with brutal honesty.
"She might feel something for me besides contempt?"
Ciaran could sense exactly how deeply Fallon's scorn had injured this man, how much suffering her rejection of him had caused. But there was no blame, only sorrow and understanding. "Hugh, give her a chance to know you. Who you really are."
"No. That's impossible."
"But why? Why can't you—"
Hugh held up one hand. "Her contempt is a small price to pay for her safety. Think, Ciaran. Headstrong, brave as she is, defiant and honest—what would happen if she ever flew into a temper, accidentally let slip that she knew something. The fact that she's a woman wouldn't protect her. The authorities would wrench a confession from her any way they could, and then, life as a virtual slave in a penal colony would be the best fate she could hope for. What would you give to keep Mary Fallon safe?"
"The last drop of blood in my body. Anything. No matter what the price. I thought... Fallon and I thought I might be Silver Hand. I'm not. I may never know who I really am. But I know this. What you're doing here is a brave thing. A just and noble thing." Ciaran let the bloody rag fall from his hand. "Let me help you with your work here."
Hugh ran his fingers back through his hair, his jaw hardening. Yet Ciaran could see the longing in his features, too. He sensed how much Hugh wanted someone to share this with—the fear, the crushing responsibility. Like his sister, Hugh Delaney was a man too often alone. But he shook his head in denial.
"No. You've already helped me in a way far more important. When I took the identity of Silver Hand, my greatest fear was that I might die and leave Fallon alone, with no one to care for her. I don't have to be afraid of that any longer. I'll thank God forever that He sent you to guard my sister, to love her." Hugh reached out, clasped Ciaran's hand.
Ciaran's chest ached with affection and admiration for this man—a hero, in a way he never could be. If only Fallon could know. How proud she would be of her brother.
"I pledge to you that I'll do all in my power to keep her safe. And this land, these people, they'll be my people, too." Ciaran began, then stilled at a blood-freezing noise—a shriek of terror from somewhere back in the labyrinth, then the sound of flesh and bone slamming into rock far below, the scream cut off as if someone had slit the sufferer's throat.
"Someone's in the tunnel—" Hugh's face paled, his mouth hardened, as voices erupted—English voices, shaken, angry, one clipped, military voice above them all.
Redmayne.
"Forward, you fools, before they escape!"
Ciaran turned to Hugh, stricken. "They must have followed me." Close, they were so damned close, he realized with cold certainty.
"Sir, hurry, to the boats! We have to flee—" Martin choked out, alarmed. But there wasn't room for all of them in the small vessels packed with smuggled goods. Even if there were, they'd never have time to launch the boats and get away. The little vessels were too heavy, too cumbersome.
"A passageway—there's another passageway—" Martin piped up. But even that wouldn't save them.
There was no time. Ciaran knew it instinctively. Redmayne would only close the gap between them, destroy everything—these brave men, the land that Fallon loved, her brother. The fates of all the people in Misthaven were in the hands of Hugh Delaney. If he died...
"Go, damn it," Ciaran snapped. "I'll stay behind and delay them. It's your only hope."
"They'll kill you!" Hugh snarled. "I won't leave."
Ciaran swore, surrendering to the inevitable. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Hugh's jaw. His brother-in-law's eyes widened in surprise, then rolled back as Silver Hand collapsed, unconscious, his head cracking against the stone floor as his men clustered around him.
"Get him the devil out of here," Ciaran ordered. "Or do you all want to hang?"
Moran hoisted his master up, slung him across burly shoulders, the thunder of English boots drawing perilously near. "Sir, I..."
"Go!" He watched them vanish down another tunnel, Martin easing a stone before the opening. Ciaran could only pray that by the time the English found it, they'd be long gone.
Time. He had to find a way to give them the precious time to escape.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, the shouts drawing nearer, the footsteps closing in on the cave. In that frozen instant faces danced behind Ciaran's closed lids—memories, infinitely sweet, new memories, precious ones. Fallon dancing in the moonlight, Tom Dunne with little Caitlin on his shoulders, Maeve placing the flower crown on Fallon's sunset curls, Siobhan Moynihan offering the bit of sugar rock, telling Fallon that love, that life could be sweet, despite the quiet suffering in the Irishwoman's eyes. And Hugh, who had risked everything with quiet heroism.
All these people belonged to Ciaran in a way that brought out all that was best in him. He had found himself again in their eyes. Fierce love and loss burned in his chest.
There was only one way to save everything, everyone Fallon loved. She had tried to summon a hero back from the mist, needed a champion to fight for her. He prayed he had the courage to be that man for her now.
Ciaran turned to face the entryway, his shoulders squared, his jaw hard as Redmayne and his soldiers poured into the stone chamber. He knew exactly what he had to do.
"MacDonough." The slightest hint of triumph curled Redmayne's lips. "I knew if I waited patiently enough, someone would lead me to the smuggler's lair."
Ciaran let go of any hope of forever with Fallon and stared into the face of his nemesis. "My lair, Redmayne. I am Silver Hand."
Chapter 18
Waiting was driving Fallon mad. She glared out at the darkness, apprehensive about the strange restlessness that pulsed through her. Hugh and Ciaran had been gone for hours. Dinner had been readied, a valiant battle fought to keep things warm. But after two hours, even Misthaven's stalwart cook had been forced to surrender, carting the ruined feast back to the kitchen in high dudgeon.
Not that Hugh's absence from the table should have alarmed her. He frequently missed meals because of business affairs that stretched long into the night. But he'd always made certain the servants knew beforehand, and sent his apologies to the kitchen. Yet tonight, not so much as a word had been carried back by some crofter lad. The silence made Fallon skittish as bedamned.
There was no way to even know if Ciaran had found her brother. For all she knew, he might have taken a wrong turn and ridden off a cliff, she thought, struggling to make even the vaguest jest about the situation. But her attempt fell flat, her uneasiness cinching tighter.
Only the echo of Ciaran's words kept her from going out searching herself.
I'll not be shamed by having my wife trail after me.
How could she have been so insensitive, and not realized how difficult the situation must be for a man with Ciaran's pride and sense of honor? Not even to be able to provide for his own wife. No meaningful work to fling his heart into. No place to feel useful.
In penance, she'd tried to respect his wishes, damn the man. She'd spent the long hours making bargains with herself. They would be home by the time she finished stitching an inch of seam for every day she and Ciaran had been married. They would return when the shadow from the moon crossed the rose in the center of the Aubusson carpet. They would be home in ten minutes more.
But neither Hugh nor her husband would be conjured out of the night, no matter what she did.
When the clock struck one in the morning, she couldn't bear it another moment. Shoving her needlework aside, she grabbed her cloak and plunged into the night. When she reached the stable, Padraic, the new head groom, was in one of the stalls, applying a poultice to a horse's leg.
"Mistress?" The gnome-like man stared at her in surprise. "Is there somethin' I might do for ye?"
"Saddle a horse and tell me exactly where my brother was going."
The little man's face shut tight as a miser's purse strings. "Miss, if I let ye ride out this late and alone, yer brother'd turn me out without a farthing, and I'd not blame him."
She glared at the Padraic. "It's nearly one in the morning. I'm afraid something is wrong."
"With the master? No. Ye know how he is. Always ridin' about, turnin' his hand to whatever needs doin'. More'n likely he and yer new bridegroom are sittin' watch over the birth of Tom Dunne's calf, or helpin' thatch a roof what's leakin'. And those ships o' his—tends them like a mama duck with a raft of wee ones."
"My husband hasn't returned either, and he doesn't know the countryside at all. Now, saddle my horse, or I'll—"
The sudden sound of horse's hooves made her stop, and she pressed her hand to her heart in relief. "They're back."
"Aye, miss. Told ye there were no use in worryin'—" Padraic began, but suddenly, he stilled. "It is a wagon I'm hearin'. And it's comin' fast. Master Hugh and yer husband were on horseback."
Alarm tightened in Fallon, and she turned, ran out into the torch-lit stable yard. What she saw made her knees tremble. Young Martin Feeney, white-faced, driving the horses like a madman, while bulky Phelan Moran sat in the back of the cart, pistols drawn, his gaze searching the road behind them.
"What is it? What's wrong?" she cried.
Martin yanked on the reins so clumsily the horse shied, nearly oversetting the wagon. "It is Master Hugh. He's hurt."
Fallon's stomach plunged. "Hugh!" She scrabbled up into the back of the wagon, saw her brother there, face ashen, a wicked, purpling bruise on his jaw.
"Padraic, send someone for the doctor."
"No. No. Can't..." Her brother grasped her arm. "F-Fallon. Oh, God, no." The sight of her seemed to stir him. He struggled to sit up. "Moran, why bring me here?"
"Where else would he bring you? Hugh, you're making no sense."
"Dangerous... too..."
"Nothin' else to do but bring ye here," Moran snapped. "All Glenceo is crawlin' with soldiers, and ye know damned well they'll end up here eventually. Ye'd better be in yer nightshirt and cap when they come."
"Soldiers? Redmayne? Did they do this to him?"
"No,” Moran said, climbing out of the wagon and dragging Hugh into his arms as if he were no more than a boy. "It was yer bridegroom what done it. Wicked right cross to the jaw, and his lights blinked out like somebody snuffin' a candle."
Fallon tried to grasp the crotchety Irishman's words. "Ciaran did this? Why? Where is he?"
Hugh struggled against Moran's iron hold, agitated. "C-Ciaran. We have to... to help him. Won't let him..." Hugh's unsteady gaze snagged on Fallon's face, and his features contorted in anguish, fear and regret. "Sorry... so sorry... I tried not to... let him..."
Fallon could scarcely breathe. The night was closing in, her fears clawing inside her. "Hugh, where is Ciaran?"
"Get dressed. I'll take you t-to him. Promise... won't let him die."
"Die?" A sob rose in her throat. "Tell me where he is!"
"Redmayne captured him. My fault. All my fault. Took him prisoner."
"But why?"
Martin climbed down, his beardless face young and frightened. "We heard on the way here, miss. Yer husband—he confessed to bein' Silver Hand."
"Confessed? Silver Hand?" Fallon echoed, reeling. "But... but he said he was going out to help Hugh."
Hugh struggled from Moran's grasp, stood braced against the crude wagon, wobbling on his feet. A chill worked through Fallon as she looked into his face, so pale and grim. "He did find me, Fallon. In the lair under the castle."
"I told him how dangerous it was! Told him not to—" She tried to break through her confusion. "But why would you be there?"
"I am Silver Hand," Hugh admitted, his tormented gaze finding hers.
She gripped the side of the cart so hard that splinters drove into her palm, but she barely felt the sting. "You? Silver Hand? I don't believe it!"
"The soldiers overran the cave, intending to capture me. Ciaran..." his voice broke. "Ciaran sacrificed himself in my place."
Horror reeled through Fallon. Impossible. This was some sort of mad nightmare. Hugh couldn't possibly be Silver Hand. And Ciaran couldn't be at the mercy of Lionel Redmayne.
But Hugh said he'd confessed—confessed to being the smuggler half the king's army was fighting to bring to the gallows. Her blood iced, hands trembled. Dear God, they would hang him.
"No," she cried, pressing her fist to her mouth.
"I won't let him hang for me, Fallon." Hugh grabbed her, held her with one shaking hand. "I swear it on my life. I'll go to Redmayne. Tell him the truth."
"Then you'll die in Ciaran's place?" Tears spilled down Fallon's face.
"It's my crime. I'll take whatever punishment the Crown sees fit to give me. I knew the risk. But I won't let an innocent man die for my sins. Get dressed. I'll have my valet help me. We'll go to Redmayne's."
"And what? Sign your death warrant? Hugh, I can't—"
"Fallon, since you were a tiny girl, I had my chance to... to love you. To give you what you needed. I wanted to, but... I just couldn't seem to do it. This man loves you. You love him. I won't let him die, leave you alone again."
"Oh, Hugh!" Her voice caught. She flung herself into his arms. Her brother held her as he never had before, and there, in his arms, she realized how much the child she had been had wanted this, needed this—to know her brother loved her. It wasn't fair that she'd just found him in time to lose him to the hangman. "There m-must be another way. Some way to save you both!"
"There isn't time, sweetheart. Come. We have to hurry. I'm afraid—" He stopped, glanced away.
The dread pounded more insistently inside Fallon. "Afraid of what?"
"Redmayne won't be satisfied with just Silver Hand. They'd rather have a gibbet full."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that... I don't know how far Redmayne might go to get the information he wants."
Fallon swallowed hard, gazing up into her brother's bruised, tortured face. Hugh might not know how far Redm
ayne might go, but Fallon did. It was there in the Englishman's burning eyes, the intensity that radiated from him in hot waves. It was in the curl of his lips, the biting wit of double entendres that made the simplest words an enigma.
Redmayne had hated Ciaran from the moment their paths crossed. His loathing had only grown sharper, more intense the night she'd danced at the castle.
Redmayne would go to any lengths to triumph.
Ciaran was at his mercy.
Fallon.
He drank in the coolness of her name, imagined her in his arms, her face blooming and luminous with laughter, as the soldier's fist slammed into his gut again and again in a hellish rhythm. How long had it been, Ciaran wondered, his bound hands knotting into fists—two hours? three?—since the beady-eyed sergeant had dragged him into this cell and made it his personal mission to beat the prisoner to a pulp?
Twice he'd been so near the blessed release of unconsciousness he'd felt its dark, cool fingers sliding over him. Twice one of the sergeant's men had dashed icy water into his face, forcing him back into a red haze of pain. Doubtless Redmayne had given orders that the prisoner shouldn't miss so much as a twinge. Not that he wanted blood on his own hands. He hadn't said a word on the journey from the castle to his headquarters, only paced into his own chamber, leaving Ciaran to his underlings.
"Names!" The sergeant roared so loud Ciaran's head threatened to split. "The captain wants names of all the scum under yer command!"
Ciaran sucked a breath into lungs that were sacks of fire. "Go... to the... devil."
"Not as soon as ye will! Drummond, give me the cat- o'-nine-tails. We'll lash the answers from the bastard's hide."
The sergeant's hand closed around the wicked-looking weapon, its whipcords braided around heavy iron balls. Ciaran stiffened, waiting for the first blow.
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 28