Redmayne straightened his cuff. "You needn't look so surly, man. I was hardly going to drag the woman off and ravish her. You, above anyone, know I abhor crude methods. And nothing is more unrefined than taking a woman by force."
Faint amusement played about the corners of the Englishman's mouth. "Do you really think she would have me, even if she'd never met you? A woman like her? Not if I were the last man in Ireland." It was a mockery, a jest. Ciaran might have dismissed it as such if Redmayne's shoulders hadn't sagged just a trifle.
"Go, Butler," the captain ordered. "Take your wife and go. You're free."
The concept was still too incredible to grasp as he faced this man who had been his nemesis, this brilliant, ruthless opponent no one could hope to defeat. A man so single-minded, so fiercely determined, he seemed invincible. Yet now, Redmayne seemed to be surrendering, letting go of the enmity, as if it had no more substance than ashes carried in the wind.
"Why?" Ciaran knew he was a fool to ask it. Somehow, he couldn't stop himself. "We both know Phineas Butler was no Silver Hand. Why are you doing this for us? Or are you merely waiting for another time to strike again?"
"No. You are quite safe." The hard line of Redmayne's mouth softened, something flickering in the captain's inscrutable eyes. A strange sensation swept through Ciaran, as if for the first time the dreaded captain had allowed him a glimpse, just a glimpse of the man behind the smooth marble mask. "Perhaps I've grown bored with this whole business." Redmayne gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
Fallon spoke softly. "Or maybe, just maybe, the magic of the castle touched you, too?"
The slightest flush darkened Redmayne's cheekbones, his eyes hooded. "Don't be absurd. The notion is laughable. Come, madam, surely your Irish castle wouldn't spare any magic on the English soldier who attempted to destroy it?"
But he didn't wait for Fallon's response. Instead, he turned and signaled to the soldiers nearby. "Take Silver Hand to the stable until the general decides what to do with the body. And give these people a moment alone. It isn't every day a man is given a second chance at life, MacDonough. I've never envied any man before, but I believe I could learn to envy you."
The soldiers hastened to do his bidding, and Redmayne turned away. Ciaran slipped one arm about Fallon as they watched the officer mount the stairs, his back ramrod straight, his austere features still hinting at ruthlessness. And yet, an aura of something painfully solitary clung to him, something Ciaran knew both he and his lady understood far too well.
A hush fell over the little cluster of people gathered outside the garrison. Within moments, they were alone.
Ciaran turned to Fallon, still reeling from all that had happened, feeling as if ghostly hands had drawn the noose away from his neck. A life he'd surrendered for her already in his heart, returned to him.
"Fallon, I still don't believe this—it's too incredible. I'm free. Free."
She held his hand, tight, so tight, as if she were trying to feel the very beating of his heart, and he felt the dampness of her tears against his chest.
"Lady," he breathed against her meadow-scented hair, "however did you manage this?"
"Hugh was going to ride in as Silver Hand. Don't be angry. We had to try it. We were on our way here, yet so afraid something might go wrong, when we saw something wash up on the shore. You know Hugh. Even though he was coming to rescue you, he couldn't just turn away from anyone who might need his help. When we got there, it was too late. We found Butler, dead. Maeve and her family happened on us moments later."
Maeve McGinty edged over, her eyes, lost in pockets of delightful wrinkles, sparkling. "It was the most obligin' thing Phineas Butler ever did, drownin' and depositin' himself on that beach. Though he couldn't have been in the water very long. Most unforgivin', the sea can be, when she gives up her dead."
"Fallon was the one who came up with the plan to dress him as Silver Hand," Hugh said, pride shining in his eyes.
"So she did, clever child," Maeve pinched Fallon's cheek. "An' me an' me family, we were jest too happy to help."
"When I think what might have happened if you hadn't found Butler..." Ciaran couldn't suppress a shudder. "If Hugh had been foolish enough to come, they'd have shot him."
"More than likely, I fear," Maeve put in. "Our Mr. Delaney is a good man, me darlin', an' a wise one most of the time, but he's weighted down with honor somethin' terrible. Only one man I ever knew was more so." She patted Ciaran on the cheek. "And as fer the general rememberin' ye—why, it was a fine piece of luck, don't ye think? Hard to believe, if I say so meself."
He should have been relieved, Ciaran knew. Grateful. Without the general's announcement, would he be free right now? And yet, he couldn't help but feel unsettled, as if the revelation chafed him.
"I just wish..." Ciaran frowned, searching for some way to explain. "I should feel something, shouldn't I? Some stirring of recognition? I was in Butler's house, but I felt nothing, no link with it at all, nor with the man himself. And when Scargill said my real name I felt nothing. It's as if—as if it doesn't fit me." Or was it that he wouldn't allow it to fit? Recoiled from owning anything that might drive a wedge between him and Fallon?
"Don't let it trouble ye, me fine darlin'." Maeve's wise eyes seemed to understand not only what he'd said, but what he'd left unsaid. "A mere name could never change the man that ye are. Ye'll get used to it in time, and the crofters, they'll bless ye for it. Ye're a man of means, now. Landlord to plenty who need ye."
Fallon brightened, and she clutched his hand. "We'll be able to help them, Ciaran. Build them new cottages! Make certain they're never hungry, never cold."
"And you, Fallon, you can feed their spirits, their imaginations, spin out the stories they cherish. Stories like Ciaran of the Mist." He reached into his pocket, withdrew the brooch, wrapped in delicate linen.
"I'll do my best by the people on my lands. See them safe. I swear it, by the stones of Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, and by the brooch of the fairy king."
Hugh nodded, too moved for words, a wise ally Ciaran knew he'd need in the days to come. Fallon's face shone with joy. But it was Maeve who held his gaze, her lips smiling.
"Maeve, I—"
"Ye needn't say a word to Maeve McGinty, lad. I know ye better than ye know yerself." She stroked the cloak he had given her on that rain-slick road what seemed an eternity ago.
Ciaran stared into Maeve's ageless eyes, so wise, so merry, so filled with courage and beauty—the face of an aged Celtic goddess despite her ragged clothes. He'd never know what moved him, only that a tribute was due to this woman with inner strength that reminded him of his Fallon, a woman who would never surrender to death the way his own mother had, betraying the boy he had been. Slowly, he dropped to one knee before her, took up her withered hand and brushed it with a kiss.
"What is it ye're doin' that for?" the old woman asked, a lovely blush staining her cheeks.
"To thank you. You were the first to give me a glimpse of myself."
"Caught more than a glimpse of ye, too, in the process, me boy." Her eyes twinkled with tender amusement. "Take yer love back to the castle, back to the cliffs. Ye've won yer freedom now, and yer lady. No hero, be he flesh and blood or woven of legends a thousand years old can ask fer more."
Had he won his lady? Fallon had claimed she loved him, risked her life to save him. Yet, had he lost some precious part of her heart when Scargill had helped him to find himself? A part he would never be able to win again. Because of who he was. Who she was. The possibility was far more terrifying than the prospect of hanging could ever be.
He had to know for certain.
Ciaran held out his hand, closed Fallon's in his own then led her to where Cuchulain was waiting. He mounted the horse then gathered Fallon up before him, holding her in his arms.
They left the garrison behind, with its iron-barred cell and uniformed soldiers.
He carried away something as well—the tiniest seed of doubt.
Chapt
er 20
Something was wrong. Fallon could sense it, with each ripple of Ciaran's muscles against her as he guided the horse across the fields.
A sea of green embraced them, the salt-scented breeze offering benediction. Cherry blossoms waved on their tangled branches, their loosened petals floating on the wind to spangle her hair and the folds of her gown.
Life had been offered to this man anew. A name—his own. A home—rich enough to care for a wife, for children, as he'd told her he yearned to do so long ago. And yet, unease carved deep into the planes of his face, his eyes dark with some hidden unease.
Scargill had flung open the door to Ciaran's past, given him a place to begin to put his life together again. Why did some part of Fallon want to slam that door shut, to keep things as they were—Ciaran, her husband, her love, conjured as if by magic out of the Castle of the Dancing Mist?
Because she was afraid all this news would change things between them, might make him regret—what?
Having married a wild Irish girl who believed in fairy kings? A woman who had spent a lifetime hating what he was—English.
Fallon winced. Wasn't that exactly what she'd scorned the English for? Their loathing of people just because they were Irish? She'd never thought that such prejudice was a knife that could cut both ways.
She closed her eyes, hardly noticing where Ciaran took her, misery a knot in her chest. She wanted to smooth away the tightness about his mouth, wanted him to kiss and laugh, wanted to feed him ripe, crimson cherries and pretend to enchant him the way the fairies had enchanted Ciaran of the Mist.
Yet when she opened her eyes again, she saw something that made her heart squeeze. He was taking her to the castle on the sea cliffs. To the place where magic began. Was it possible there was enough enchantment left to wash away the doubts clouding his eyes, asking a thousand questions?
Towers of stone still soared skyward. Garlands of rose-tinted mist draped the gray stone. Arched windows in broken walls shaped the light, while intrepid wildflowers nestled into any small pocket of earth, blooming between the cracks in the stone.
Her place.
Ciaran dismounted, then reached up to help Fallon down. He peered into her lovely face, feeling suddenly, achingly unsure.
"Ciaran," she began then gave a strained laugh. "I-I mean, James. I should grow used to calling you that, shouldn't I?"
"I suppose." He looked so bleak she couldn't bear it. "But—"
"What is it? What is wrong? Something is. I can tell." She was babbling. But she was afraid. To lose him to death would have been unthinkable. But to lose even some tiny part of his heart while he lived would be torture. "Please, tell me what you're thinking."
He paced to the nearest stone wall, pressed his palm against it. "I'm an intruder here now. Not part of the magic anymore."
"You can't know—"
"No, Fallon. Let me say this. If I am a Butler, I'm part of a family who has let their people suffer for generations. Abandoned them to hunger, to cold, let them die hopeless." The words were laced with despair, far deeper than when he'd faced hanging.
"You were a child when your father stole you away—" she began, desperate to comfort him, but he laid his fingertips on her lips. His eyes burned with pain and hope, sadness and love, the expression of a man suddenly, terribly lost.
"You wed a stranger, a man with no name," he insisted. "A man you thought was a hero born in the legends you love. Now they say that I'm English. James Butler. I don't even know what kind of man he was, what kind of man I am."
"But I do know," she said fiercely. "A name can never change who you are. A man who would give his cloak to shield an old woman from the rain. A hero who would sacrifice his life for those weaker, more helpless than he. Whatever blood flows through your veins, this much I can tell you. You have an Irish heart."
A soft groan tore from his throat. "Ah, Fallon, I love you so much. But you vowed you'd die before you wed an Englishman. That it would make you a traitor to the people you loved. If you have any doubts now, any fears—lady, I will set you free."
"Is that... is that why... why you looked as if you were hurting? Did you think for even a moment..."
"You were so still, so pale, when Scargill identified me, I thought perhaps you might have regrets. That was always my greatest fear—that if I ever discovered who I was, it might somehow hurt you. That was the one thing I could never bear. You believed in me so fiercely I wanted to be a hero in your eyes. Now, this changes things."
"No." She curved her hand along the hard line of his jaw, her thumb stroking his lower lip. "I love you, no matter what the world calls you. I want you in my arms, in my bed. Forever."
Her voice broke, tears burning her eyes. "All my life, I believed that happy endings were for other people. I would always be alone. I was brave enough to dream of castles and heroes bewitched by enchanted cherries. But I didn't have the courage to dream about someone who would love me forever, someone who would never leave me."
"If you want me, Fallon, then no power on earth could take me from you."
"I want you more than dreams or magic or bard song. I love you more than the mist or the sea or the castle."
His eyes burned. "The first time you brought me here, took me down into the souterrains, I felt something... something I can't explain. That no one ever leaves this land completely. That no matter where else on earth they wander, they return—to the hills and the sea, the cliffs and the castle. If I had died—"
"Don't even say it!" Tears broke free, trailed down her cheeks. "If I'd lost you—"
"You never could. I'd wait for you here. And when you closed your eyes in eternal sleep, I'd carry you in my arms to whatever comes after."
He smiled, believing in Fallon's dreams. "And when our babes are born, we'll bring them here."
"And we'll tell them about a lonely girl who came here, searching for a legend,” Fallon said. “What she found was so much better."
"What was that, mo chroi?" Ciaran whispered, drawing her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"She found you." Fallon raised her gaze to his, her eyes filled with tears. "That is when she discovered what the real magic was, the magic she'd been seeking forever. Love. You'll always be my very own Ciaran of the Mist."
"And you the valiant maiden who set me free from the fairies' spell."
Her lips, flavored of enchantment as old as time, found Ciaran's in a kiss that promised the kind of love bards would sing of for a thousand years. Heart filled with joy, with love, with hope, Ciaran took his lady up into the castle tower to fulfill every vow they'd made to each other the day they had wed, and other covenants, more ancient still: to worship her with his body, to cherish her bright spirit, to drink of her dreams.
And the mist shimmered around them in a veil of rose and gold, silver and blue, weaving its ageless magic as if the fairies themselves were offering their blessing from the land where legends were born.
Epilogue
Maeve McGinty perched on the castle wall and popped a cherry into her mouth, her eyes twinkling as she peered at the figures below—two long-legged boys of nine and eight running and leaping with their handsome father, hurling sticks slicing the air.
Saffron-colored leine billowed about them, caught at the waist with thick leather belts as if they'd just stepped through the mists from the time of Cuchulain and Deirdre of the Sorrows.
"They are beautiful, are they not? And strong. So much like their father when he was young." Maeve smiled at the man beside her, a delighted laugh rippling from a throat smooth and fresh as new cream, cascades of sun-gold hair floating about her supple form.
"It's most unbecoming for a king to pout, my love, just because you've lost a champion. After ten years, one would think you'd get over your disappointment. After all, hurling is just a game."
"A game?" Jarlath folded his arms across his chest, his handsome face crumpling in a scowl. "Humphf! Just like a woman to spout such nonsense! 'Tis a tragedy I'm
watchin' here. The finest man ever to raise a hurley, he was. And he could've remained so forever if he'd stayed in Tir na nOg. Now, look at him. 'Tis a trifle gray at the temples he's growin'. And he's a wee bit slower, I'll be bound."
"Only because he keeps rememberin' last night, when he brought our Fallon here for their lovin'. He can't keep his eyes off her." Maeve cast an affectionate glance to where Fallon sat beneath a tree, attempting to dissuade a most determined toddler from eating the strings of an exquisite harp—Fiachra's, resurrected from the depths of the labyrinth, the most coveted prize to be awarded to the finest harper, entrusted to his keeping for the year to come.
"Sure, an' even you can't begrudge them such happiness," Maeve said. "The good they've done—well, it pure makes my heart ache. When they surprised Siobhan Moynihan by bringin' back her lost Michael, 'twas the most touchin' thing ever I saw. And Ailis MacGrath and her babe—the way they've cared for them—"
"I couldn't be carin' less about the doin's of mortals."
"Even when they keep the old magic alive?" Maeve smiled, tender. "Look about ye, ye great fool! This promises to be the most glorious festival ever. Every child who can lisp, memorizing the old epic poems to recite, Tom Dunne collectin' every musician in the county to play in the bard contest. Rememberin'—all of them rememberin' where they came from—the glory of it, the pride in it. The past. They'll keep the magic alive here, when the rest of the world stops believin'."
"Ye expect me to believe that people will stop trustin' what's in front of their very noses?"
"You don't seem to see what's in front o' yours," Maeve pointed to the family framed by billows of green hill. "Look at them, Jarlath. Her face pure glows with love for him."
"Love! Bah! I offered him immortality. He could have stayed, forever young, forever beautiful if not for your meddling."
Maeve's face softened, and she looked down tenderly at Fallon. "I had little enough to do with it. She was the one who broke the enchantment by winning his love. A love so strong not even fairy magic could hold him."
Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3) Page 32