Awkwardly dismounting, he turned to lift Fallon down, felt the trembling in her. The need to protect her turned fierce inside him.
"If you will follow me?" Redmayne invited, as he cast the reins of his mount into the hands of one of his inferiors. "We will get through this as quickly as possible, in deference to Miss Delaney's delicate condition."
Ciaran's jaw clenched against the instinctive denial that rose in his throat. Their lives were in peril. Why should it matter so much to him that any man—especially a cur like Redmayne—thought he had seduced Fallon? But the fact ate at Ciaran's pride, seared him as if taking this woman's virginity, dishonoring her so, was a betrayal of everything he believed, everything he was.
He swore inwardly, pulling his attention back to the situation at hand. He had to keep alert, focused, or he'd come awake to find Redmayne's blade at his throat, figuratively if not literally.
He paced after the captain, taking in their surroundings. Flags and sabers lined the walls of the military post. Artist's renditions of men's quests for glory brightened the walls like blossoms of blood on the chest of a dying general.
Each nook and cranny of the building was decked out like the soldiers themselves, every inch of uniform that could be emblazoned with some medal or award or trophy was crammed tight with something glittering. With every step, Ciaran attempted to memorize what he saw, in an intuitive attempt to know the enemy he now faced.
Redmayne ushered them into his private office, a place far different from the corridors they'd just passed through. Ciaran's hope of learning of some weakness in the man died.
The chamber was like a secret, tightly guarded.
The walls of Captain Redmayne's study were bare, everything else in the room so precisely in its place it bespoke a man who left no detail to chance, no avenue unexplored. A man this merciless in ordering his quill pens in their box would be even more ruthless in trying to bring order to the suspicions in his mind, Ciaran thought grimly.
The door closed behind them, and with a look of concern, Redmayne ushered Fallon to a chair as if she'd suddenly turned invalid. "You mustn't tire yourself, my dear. We would not want anything untoward to happen to your baby."
Ciaran sensed that Fallon's nerves were stretched so taut she could barely keep from pacing. "I prefer to stand," she said.
"But I must insist." In Redmayne's voice there was something as forceful and irresistible as a hand on her shoulder, nudging her down. She sat, looking suddenly terribly young and vulnerable in her soft muslin gown.
"Now, let us begin at the beginning," the captain said. "Where did you and Mr. MacDonough meet?"
"You can have no interest in such a tedious story, and such a personal one," Fallon began.
"I assure you, I am interested in anything concerning your... betrothed." There was the tiniest hesitation, yet Redmayne's doubts rippled along Ciaran's nerves. "Where and how did you meet?"
"I... we... I was on my way home from visiting the widow Treacle. I met him on the road. My horse had bruised its fetlock on a stone."
"With his talent for riding, it's obvious to the most untutored eye that Mr. MacDonough is exactly the man you'd wish to have on hand when you were having difficulties with a horse. An expert equestrian."
Ciaran tensed at the blunder, but Fallon covered it neatly. "I didn't say he was able to help me with the horse, only that I met him when Cuchulain began to limp. But once I did see Mr. MacDonough, I was glad enough to walk the rest of the way, as long as he was at my side. You see, we—"
"You what?" Redmayne prodded.
"We fell in love at first glance."
That much was true, Ciaran thought, wincing in discomfort. The woman had gazed on him with embarrassing adoration the minute he'd walked out of the mist. But then, it must be easy to fall in love with a legend rather than a mortal man. Why did the knowledge give him a twinge?
The captain laid one finger along his jaw. "Miss Delaney, I wish I could believe you. But there is something in your countenance that troubles me. Where exactly are you from, Mr. MacDonough?"
Ciaran shrugged. "Nowhere. Everywhere. I travel where I'm needed."
"Or where you are able to find a hot bed in which to plant the seed of rebellion? Smuggling goods in defiance of the Crown? This ground would be as fertile as Miss Delaney's womb, I assure you."
"Captain Redmayne—" Fallon started to protest, but Ciaran cut in.
"Keep your crude comments regarding my relationship with Fallon to yourself, Captain," Ciaran warned. "I am no rebel, Redmayne. I have no family, to my knowledge, and no place to call home. That is no crime, that I'm aware of."
"You were raised in a poorhouse then? A foundling home?"
Why couldn't he think of something to say? Why couldn't he fabricate one of the tales that tripped so glibly off Fallon's tongue, desperate as she was?
"You seem most reluctant to impart simple information, Mr. MacDonough. Is there something you're concealing—not only from me, but from the lovely Miss Delaney as well? Something you are ashamed of? Perhaps you are not a fit mate for a lady such as she?"
Fallon thrust her chin in the air. "I don't care if he was born in a cow byre! I love him, and I will have him!"
