Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3)

by Kimberly Cates

  Fallon. He had to think of Fallon. Fallon by moonlight, ribbons of fiery red gleaming in her hair. Ciaran heard the door to the room open. Someone else to give an expert opinion how to wield the lash?

  "Sergeant, what is going on here?" Redmayne's voice.

  The soldier drew back, his jaw jutting out, defensive. "The men haven't been able to find a single one of the others what escaped. But he knows their names. Where they're holed up. I'll beat it out of him, I swear."

  "Without your commanding officer's permission?"

  The sergeant's face turned brick red. "You want that information's much's I do! I just... I assumed..."

  "A dangerous pastime. I fear you're experiencing delusions of grandeur, assuming that you can read my mind." Redmayne heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head. "Really, you need to use better judgment. How many times have I told you to think. Use that paltry mind of yours before you go charging in, flailing around like an imbecile. You could beat this man until doomsday, and all you'd get for your efforts is a damned tired arm. Flay the skin off his body a knife blade at a time and he wouldn't tell you the sky is blue. No. Mr. MacDonough is an honorable man. Sergeant, the rest of you, leave us. I wish to speak to the prisoner alone."

  The soldiers fled the chamber as if their coattails were afire, the sergeant not even daring to cast Ciaran a mutinous glare.

  "What... kind of game are you... playing, Redmayne?"

  The Englishman had the gall to look injured. "You have a most suspicious nature, MacDonough. Haven't I always shown myself to be your friend? Not only did I release you the first time I held you here under suspicion, I single-handedly arranged your marriage to Miss Delaney. When my sergeant, here, would have beaten you, I took the lash from his hand."

  "I like his methods better. At least they're honest. I know where he stands."

  Redmayne's mouth curled in amusement. "But what is the sport in that? Surely, you didn't marry the beautiful Fallon because she was predictable."

  "Leave my wife out of this," Ciaran snarled, fear thickening in his belly.

  "I find that astonishingly difficult. She's the most extraordinary woman I've ever met." Redmayne drew something out of his pocket, a palm-sized figure of a queen. His fingers traced the carved features. Why was it Ciaran wanted to snatch the tiny woman from his hands? "One can never tell what she will do next. The only thing you can be sure of is that she will move with the daring of a master strategist, bold, quick, willing to risk all to gain victory. If only she could be taught to channel her passions, control them, she would be a most formidable opponent."

  There was something in the Englishman's face that terrified Ciaran, as if Redmayne were attempting to peel back Fallon's spirit to see what lay inside—weaknesses, vulnerabilities, raw places where he could probe.

  "Leave Fallon alone or I swear I'll—"

  "I implore you, MacDonough, don't weary me rattling at your chains, hurling threats," Redmayne said, tucking the chess piece back in his pocket, something unreadable in his eyes. "I loathe such uncouth scenes. All I require from you at the moment are details regarding your villainous escapades. Something to include in my report to my superiors. The officer who preceded me was General Scargill's nephew, and he has taken a personal interest in seeing his murderer brought to justice."

  Details? Ciaran gritted his teeth, realizing the flaw in his plan to play the role of Silver Hand. He didn't know the details of Hugh Delaney's missions. There was nothing he could give Redmayne. What if the Englishman wanted some sort of proof that he was the smuggler as he claimed? Would Redmayne be overly concerned about the guilt or innocence of the man he executed? Or would the allure of being the officer who delivered Silver Hand to the general be so appealing he wouldn't care?

  "I've confessed to being Silver Hand. That's all you need to know. My deeds... speak for themselves."

  "Why, oh why are you determined to make things difficult?" Redmayne asked with insufferable patience. "What would you say if I offered to make you a bargain? I am willing to let the rest of your ragged band go. Without you, your men will be rudderless, and if we make a proper example of you, they'll be far too afraid to ply a smuggler's trade."

  "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

  Redmayne shrugged. "My explorations into the escapades of Silver Hand have revealed a good deal to me. A smuggler, not particularly brutal, rather eccentric, in fact, by all accounts. Hardly a big enough problem for the revenue cutters to trouble themselves with. In fact, he probably would have been left in peace forever if not for the unfortunate incident with General Scargill's nephew."

  He flicked a bit of lint from his sleeve. "Others might wish to run about, sweeping up the dust that fell from your boots, but I see no purpose to it. You are prize enough. I am striving to be reasonable with you, MacDonough."

  "I wouldn't trust you if you said your coat was red," Ciaran snapped.

  "You would prefer I turn you over to the less civilized guardianship of my sergeant?"

  "I don't give a damn what you do with me."

  "That may be. But I would wager someone else cares. Your bride, perhaps?"

  A timid knock at the door sounded.

  "Enter," Redmayne said.

  A young soldier poked his head in. "Begging your pardon, sir. But there are two people come to see the prisoner. Mr. Hugh Delaney and his sister."

  Fear throbbed through Ciaran at the mere thought of Fallon anywhere near Redmayne. The look in the officer's eyes when he spoke of her filled Ciaran with dread. And Hugh—what was he doing here? Blast the man—there could only be one reason, Ciaran thought, considering the kind of man Delaney was. Ciaran was willing to give his life to keep them both out of this mess. Why couldn't they just stay away?

  Redmayne was watching him intently. "MacDonough? Do you wish to have a word with them? In private, of course. Permit me to point out that I am, once again, a most obliging gentleman."

  What he wanted was to shove Redmayne's teeth down his throat and carry Fallon away to some fortress where he could keep her safe. Since that was impossible, he'd have to talk some sense into the two of them himself. But what kind of game was Redmayne playing? And why was he making such a magnanimous gesture? Out of the goodness of his heart? If Ciaran were wagering, he'd bet the captain didn't have a heart. Yet, what choice did he have but to play along?

  "Yes. I want to see them." Ciaran glanced down at his battered chest, then hesitated, all but choking at the prospect of having to ask Redmayne for anything. Only the thought of Fallon seeing him this way and the pain it would cause her allowed him to speak. "My shirt," he ground out. "First let me put it back on."

  Redmayne's gaze flicked to the bruises his soldiers had left, and Ciaran thought for just a moment that disgust glinted in his eyes, something akin to regret. Then it was gone. "I suppose the misplaced enthusiasm of my sergeant has left you a trifle unsightly for a lady's eyes. And those ropes." Redmayne gestured toward Ciaran's bound hands. "So unnecessary." He sliced through the bindings with a knife. "Escape is impossible, unless, of course, you could enlist the aid of one of the local heroes. I might suggest that legendary one whose castle I intended to destroy, since he's made an appearance recently."

  "Is that so?" Ciaran gingerly eased his shirt over his bruised ribs, hoping the pain would disguise the sense of triumph he felt. But Redmayne was too canny to miss even the slightest twitch of his lips.

  "You might tell your bride that my plans for the castle have been temporarily abandoned. It seems Phineas Butler left Ireland—and on a particularly stormy night. But not before he'd withdrawn his permission for the demolition of the castle."

  Ciaran's eyes narrowed. "You can't touch it without his permission."

  "Not when it belongs to a proper English landlord, I'm afraid. But there are other castle ruins, other rings of standing stones. Even Ciaran of the Mist can't protect them all."

  "Someone else will."

  "I'm certain you're right. I've found these people most tenaciou
s. Some might even call such determination in the face of such odds heroic."

  Ciaran stared at the officer, astonished by his words.

  Redmayne strode toward the door, then stopped and turned to cast an inscrutable frown at Ciaran. "Whoever terrorized that pathetic wretch Butler played a master stroke. It quite astonished me. And I am rarely surprised."

  "I suppose your powers of omniscience don't stretch to untangling magic."

  "Magic." Redmayne rolled the word off his tongue as if he'd never heard it before. A smile played about the corners of his mouth. "There are times this land could almost make a man believe in it—until he comes to his senses." With that, Redmayne exited the cell.

  Ciaran's numb fingers were still fumbling with the shirt buttons when the door opened again. He looked up, swallowing hard at the sight of Fallon, her lithe body garbed in primrose yellow, her face pale and taut, her eyes filled with torment. And love, Ciaran realized with stabbing pain.

  Hugh's strong arm was around her waist in comfort, as if some new and precious bond had been forged between them. Ciaran's throat tightened at the sight of it.

  "Ciaran!" Fallon raced to close the space between them. She flung herself into his arms. Ciaran winced, but made no sound as waves of hot fire surged beneath his rib cage. Instead, he cradled her close, drinking in the clean scent of her hair, the satiny caress of her cheek against his jaw.

  He looked up to see Redmayne in the doorway, the captain's eyes piercing, intense, something unexpected softening his mouth. Envy? Impossible.

  "Captain," Hugh Delaney said. "There is something I need to discuss with you."

  Ciaran started to protest, then stopped, trapped. He couldn't afford to betray anything to Redmayne. "Hugh, wait. I owe you some explanation for all this."

  Hugh wanted to refuse. Ciaran could see the stubborn jut of a Delaney jaw he'd witnessed all too often in Hugh's sister. What could he do if Hugh walked out that door with Redmayne? There would be no way to stop him.

  "Please," Ciaran said, silently asking for help from every wandering spirit, every roving fairy, every ghost who called Ireland home. The safety of so many teetered in the balance. It seemed an eternity before Hugh spoke, his face grim, reluctant.

  "All right. For a moment only."

  Redmayne's gaze sharpened. "I'll await your pleasure in my quarters, Mr. Delaney," the captain said, sketching a bow. The cell door closed, the bolt rasping as it slid into place.

  Fallon drew away from him, her hands on his face, tears glistening in her eyes. "How... how did this happen? Why didn't you tell me you were going through the souterrains? Didn't you trust me?"

  Ciaran winced at the anguish in her face. "I trust you with my life, lady, but I couldn't put you in any more danger. You would have insisted on coming with me, and if you had—Fallon, if you had, you would be locked in this cell."

  "Maybe not! I could have... have helped somehow. Done something to stop this madness. God in heaven, Ciaran, they plan to hang you!"

  "He's not going to hang, Fallon," Hugh said, his voice steely. "I'll be damned before an innocent man dies in my place."

  Ciaran glared at his brother-in-law. Hugh was standing stiff, resolute. "And what about all the innocent people who will suffer and die if Redmayne puts the noose around your neck, Hugh? Fallon says the English have been attempting to take Misthaven away from the Delaneys for generations. And this would be the perfect opportunity for them to do so."

  Hugh's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively in his throat, his eyes darkening with guilt. "I wish there were some way to hold the land. But there's no help for it."

  "Yes, there is. I die as Silver Hand. You live."

  "Ciaran, no! I... oh, God, it's an impossible choice!" Fallon sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. He'd never loved her more.

  "No, Fallon. It's a hard choice, a painful one. And you know, deep in your heart, that it's the only choice we can make." He held her, stroked her hair. "What would happen if your brother died? The land taken away from you, put in the hands of some greedy fool like Phineas Butler? Think of how his people suffer under his rule. He's bled the land white, turned his tenants into starved shadows, with nothing to shield them from the winter except rags."

  "God in heaven, don't—" she begged for mercy. He could have none. He went on ruthlessly, tearing away any illusions.

  "Hunger, hopelessness, even eviction. That's the fate that will befall every person on Misthaven land if their master hangs as a smuggler, a murderer. Is that what you want, Mary Fallon? To condemn them all to death? Siobhan and her babes? Tom Dunne and little Caitlin?"

  "No! Of course not! But—"

  "Their survival has depended on your family for hundreds of years. You've never failed them. Can you turn your back on them now?"

  "This is hopeless!" Hugh ground out. "How the devil can I live with myself if you hang because of me—my rashness, my stupidity?"

  "Your courage?" Ciaran said quietly. "You held this estate together when it was on the brink of ruin. You risked your neck to give the people under your protection decent lives. And you'll spend the rest of your years doing the same thing—sheltering them from monsters like Butler and Redmayne, giving them a chance to watch their children grow up, fed and warm and healthy. Every soul on Misthaven will bless you for it. So will I."

  "God, what can I do? Desert the people who depend on me, or... or allow you to sacrifice yourself?"

  "I choose this path of my own free will. It's my sacrifice. My honor to do this for a man I respect above all others."

  Hugh attempted to speak, but it came out in a ragged groan. "But what about Fallon? I've done this to her. Hurt her again. Failed her."

  "Not that," Ciaran denied fiercely. "Never that. You love her, and you love this land enough to do the only thing you can. Live."

  Torment contorted Hugh's face, his eyes desperate. "I won't surrender in this. I'll find some way to save you. I swear it."

  Panic bit deep. "Don't do anything foolish, or all this will have been in vain," Ciaran said fiercely. "We'll both die, Misthaven will be lost, and Fallon will be alone. I need to know that you'll be there to comfort her after..." He hesitated, not able to put it into words. A loss so great, a love too new, a pain too fresh. "Promise me."

  Hugh swore under his breath then nodded. "I won't endanger Misthaven. That vow I give you. But I'll move heaven and earth to try to get you free."

  Ciaran reached out, grasped Hugh's hand tight. "I'm proud that you were my brother even for a little while."

  Hugh closed his other hand over Ciaran's, holding it in both his own. "When you and Fallon married and I found you in the chapel, I all but went mad thinking it was a disaster. I didn't realize that you were the only man in Ireland who could be worthy of her love. I only wish I'd had a chance to know you better." Hugh broke off with a strangled sound, his eyes over-bright.

  "I know," Ciaran glanced from Hugh to Fallon, his heart full. "Hugh, leave us... a moment."

  Ciaran could see exactly how much it cost him to turn away, this man of nobility and courage who had risked so much, given others so much. It was almost impossible for him to accept anything in return. But loyalty to the people under his protection would bind him, keep him safe. And his brotherly love for Fallon, freed after so many years, would help to heal her.

  Hugh crossed to the door, knocked on it. The soldier beyond let him out. Ciaran watched him disappear, feeling a bond with this honorable man, love for him, regret. And he prayed that Hugh would find a way to make peace with the sacrifice that had to be made.

  Ciaran turned back to the woman he loved, her tortured eyes cutting his heart. He forced a smile. "I fear I'll have to have a word with these legend weavers of yours, my love. Redmayne lost a soldier or two charging down into the labyrinth, but he came out unscathed. The enchantment promised that any enemy of Ireland—"

  "Don't make a jest of this! And don't ask me to watch you die!" Fallon choked out. "I don't think I can do it—even for the peopl
e I love."

  Ciaran peered down into Fallon's eyes, engraving every line and feature on his memory to carry with him like a talisman when the noose bit into his neck. "I came to you with nothing—not even the memory of my own name. You made me fall in love with you, Fallon, and with this land. The way the mist shimmers atop Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, the tales of courage and bravery spun by bards generations ago. And the people, with their dreamer's hearts and their work-battered hands, their haunting music and simple wisdom."

  He feathered his thumb across the creamy velvet of her cheek. "From the beginning, I wasn't certain why I'd come here—what unseen force had led me to this castle. Why the fates brought me here. Now I know."

  "You came to teach me how to love again," Fallon said. "To make me remember..."

  "I'll always be grateful for our time together—an infinitely precious gift. But the fates didn't put me here only to love you. When Butler fled, and I knew the castle was safe, I felt so restless, as if something was left unfinished. Now I know why. Don't you see? This is why I'm here. To die in Hugh's place. To shield the people of Misthaven from ravenous wolves like Redmayne. The night you went to the castle, you tried to conjure up a hero, Fallon, to do battle for you. Let me be that hero now."

  "But I didn't know I would love you," she cried. "That it would hurt so much. This isn't what I-I expected. Ciaran, I don't want a hero anymore—some fairy tale made of mist and magic. I want you. Your arms around me late at night, your laughter in my ear when I awaken in the morning. I want forever. A lifetime."

  Could she possibly know how much he wanted the same things? To love her, to free her from grief, from sorrow, from the make-believe world where she'd sought refuge. To listen as she cradled his children before the peat fire and spun out the glorious tales of Cuchulain and Deirdre of the Sorrows. To create a life together, and never be alone.

  There were no words of comfort he could offer, no way to salve the pain. He could only stroke her tear-damp face, will her to feel how much he loved her—a love as eternal as her castle in the mist, as honorable as the hero she'd dreamed in her heart, as beautiful as the land that had molded her into a woman of compassion and courage.