"A smuggler?" Ciaran echoed, intensity fairly crackling off his towering frame. "What is his name? Who—"
"They call him Silver Hand, because he is elusive as the fingers of the moon. A particularly slippery fellow who has been giving the garrison here quite a headache of late. Killed my predecessor, in fact."
"If ever a man deserved killing, he did," someone grumbled in the crowd. "Never saw such a man for whippings, wrecking houses."
"I'm afraid the high command disagrees, especially when the dead officer in question is related to a general. General Scargill has made it his personal quest to see the murderer hang."
"So he sent the most vile, ruthless cur he could command t' see to it," the baker groused.
Redmayne actually looked flattered. "I prefer to think he sent the most able man for the job. At any rate, it is only a matter of time. We will run him to ground." He cast Ciaran an assessing glare. "Or perhaps I already have."
"This is no rebel!" Fallon burst out, sweat beading her brow. "His name is Ciaran M—" She hesitated, groping for some name, any name that would serve. "MacDonough. He's my—" Her what? Her friend? Her ward? A total stranger she'd picked up out of the rubble of the castle and adopted like a stray puppy?
"He is your what, Miss Fallon?" Redmayne pressed. "I'm eager to hear the reason you and this man were atop that cliff, in a place known as a gathering point for traitors to the crown."
"Traitors?" Fallon stammered. "I know nothing of traitors, and I've played about that castle from the time I was a child."
"I can't image that you stole up to play at tea party with Mr. MacDonough."
"Don't be absurd!" she said, hating the heat spilling into her cheeks. "Ciaran and I were at the castle because we... we needed privacy. Time alone together because—"
She was babbling. She had to get hold of her wits. Redmayne was scrutinizing her so hard it felt as if he were peeling back her skin.
"Because?" Redmayne drawled.
Sweat beaded Fallon's brow. What possible reasonable explanation could she give for meeting a man at the castle? Why would anyone in their right mind trek so far up the treacherous cliffs in the mist at night when one misstep would mean certain death? Only desperation could drive one to take such a risk—the desperation of a rebel, a smuggler, or... a lover?
She raised her chin, relief rushing through her as an answer formed. "We were meeting at the castle because this man is my betrothed." She flinched at Ciaran's growl of surprise. She turned to him so swiftly she all but overset herself, her gaze pleading for his silence, warning him not to betray them both. But the tempest she'd unleashed in that fiendishly handsome face nearly made her stumble back a step.
"I-I know we weren't going to tell anyone, my love," she rushed on, clutching his hands. "But you must see we have to tell the captain the truth."
Ciaran of the Mist shot her the fabled glare that had made the mighty armies of Connaught turn and flee. "He can go to hell! I bloody well don't see why—"
She stopped his words by flinging her arms around his neck and crushing her lips against his in a desperate kiss—a kiss that stunned them both, that branded impressions into her consciousness despite their peril: hot lips that tasted of fury and passion, a living, breathing magic that shot to her toes, and the fierce pulse of a wild creature scenting the hunter closing in.
His arms curved around her, whether to steady her or to shove her away she wasn't certain. Her lips surrendered his, yet she knew she'd been changed somehow, forever.
"Please, Ciaran." She clutched his arm so hard her fingers ached, though they made not a dent in the rigid sheaths of muscle below. Then she angled her face toward Redmayne, praying she would be able to give the performance of her life. "Our engagement was to be a secret. You wondered why I was at the castle last night, alone. Ciaran and I were meeting there, trying to find a way to break the news of our engagement to my brother."
A rumble went up from the onlookers. Fallon's heart sank. This had to be the most idiotic lie she had ever told. Miss Delaney of Misthaven's engagement would be the biggest news the village had heard in years, a juicy tidbit to be squabbled over and dissected in detail for weeks to come. By sunset it would land right back on her own doorstep, where Hugh was waiting. The prospect of Hugh being dragged into this farce made her stomach clench.
"Do you mean to say that your brother disapproves of the match?" Redmayne arched one elegant brow in query.
"He doesn't know about it at all. I told you the engagement was secret."
"Surely you don't mean to tell me you are afraid of your own brother—your only living relative? The country folk claim that Mr. Delaney is the most just landlord who has ever collected rent on this benighted island. In fact, I've found him quite remarkably mild no matter what the provocation." The corner of Redmayne's mouth curled, turning the words into an insult, one that stung Fallon deeply.
Why didn't he just say it? That her brother had all the fire and substance of blancmange? That despite his Irish blood, he was more English than the gentry who had been born across the Irish Sea and had come to rule this island. Stolid, responsible, Hugh possessed all the passion and fairy-touched magic of a Hereford plow horse.
"No," Redmayne continued, "this whole affair still seems most irregular. I fear I must explore it. My duty, you understand. I'm certain that your betrothed could have no objection to returning to the garrison with me and answering a few simple questions. No great inconvenience for an innocent man. Just as a precaution, you understand. For example, how did he get that gash in his head? Unless, of course, you are having a particularly rough courting."
"That's none of your damned business," Ciaran snarled, but the captain's gaze didn't flicker from Fallon.
"Also, why wouldn't he go to your brother and ask for your hand as any honorable suitor would?"
This was getting worse by the second. She could feel Ciaran about to explode, Redmayne circling with the sinister patience of a wolf, searching for the perfect place to sink his teeth.
"He... we... I mean, I can explain. You see, I..." Her gaze snagged on a woman with a babe in her arms. "I was too ashamed to face Hugh. I'm with child."
