The captain strolled away from the door and leaned against the wall with a long-suffering sigh. "I was warned that the Irish are an ungrateful lot, even when one attempts to do something for their own good. I see now that it is true. I suppose we can talk later, Mr. MacDonough. I still have a number of questions that need to be answered. But we're civilized men, are we not? We can wait until after I've asked them to decide whether or not to add chains to your apparel."
Redmayne turned to Fallon. "As for you, Miss Delaney, it is a little-known fact that I adore children."
Fallon grimaced. Doubtless he liked to eat one or two lightly toasted with his breakfast each morning.
"I shall await the birth of your child with great anticipation. Considering all my efforts to get you wed today, you might even consider me for the position of godfather."
Ciaran snarled out an unintelligible oath, but Fallon couldn't keep from shuddering. The thought of Redmayne hovering near any child—even an imaginary one—chilled her blood.
She said nothing, only swept out behind Ciaran. The ride back to Misthaven gave a new meaning to the word "torture." Hell, Fallon learned, wasn't fire and brimstone and shrieks of agony. It was silence, tension strung fiendishly tight.
But she said nothing. It was difficult enough trying to ignore the rigid fury of the man mounted on the horse behind her, while keeping her gaze as far away from the devastated features of her brother as possible.
When they reached Misthaven, she wanted nothing more than to stumble up to her room, fling herself facedown on her bed and pull the covers over her head. Not that she'd cry—devil if she'd do that. Just time to gain a little peace, time to think what to say, what to do.
When she climbed down off Cuchulain in Misthaven's carriage circle, she staged a dramatic little stumble for effect. Hugh winced, but Ciaran only hauled her upright none too gently.
As they entered the house, questions showed in the haggard lines of Hugh's face, but he only dragged his fingers through his hair. "Perhaps you should just go to bed, Fallon. After all, this upset can't be good for... I mean, we have to... to think of... your child." It was obvious the words twisted like knives in her brother's chest.
Fallon could hear Ciaran's teeth grinding. "She is a great deal stronger than you think," he insisted. "We need to have our discussion now."
"Wh-what discussion?" Fallon glanced up at him, dread thudding in her chest as she saw the mulish jut of his square jaw. "Hugh's right. I'm exhausted. And there's nothing more to say, at least, nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."
"It can't wait another blasted minute," Ciaran insisted.
"But you and I need to... to discuss what we're going to tell—"
"The truth, Fallon," Ciaran snapped. "We're going to tell him the truth. That is, if we can even sort it out from this infernal tangle we've made."
Hugh's brows rose in question, but he strode down the corridor and opened the door to his private study. Fallon would sooner have entered a lion's den.
"I don't think this is a wise idea," Fallon drew back, stammering. "Surely Hugh understands that we need some time alone." But Ciaran grasped her wrist, all but dragging her into the chamber where her brother had spent so many hours.
In their father's day, the curtains had always been drawn to protect eyes from too much brightness after an evening of excessive wine. The chamber had been scented with the smoky tang of tobacco and brandy, the walls decked with hunting prints, the tabletops more likely to hold silver-handled riding crops or lists of horses to be sold at fair. Pamphlets about races and scandal sheets from London had littered the desktop—a country gentleman's pursuits, uncluttered by anything so vulgar as actual business affairs.
But all evidence of their father had been swept away. The new blue draperies at the window were flung back to let the sun spill in. The massive mahogany desk was weighed down with papers and heavy ledgers.
The only picture in the room was a portrait of their mother, dressed as simply as any shepherdess, while three-year-old Hugh twined heather in her hair. Her cheeks bloomed, rosy and plump, and her eyes sparkled. Jealousy jabbed at Fallon. The woman in the portrait was a stranger to her, an image lost during the years, replaced by the fragile, hollow-eyed mother who had lived in the sickroom. But Hugh had known the woman in the portrait. He could remember her.
"Fallon, what is this all about?" Hugh demanded. "When young Kevin Dunne came dashing up, telling me the priest had been fetched to the garrison, that you were getting married, I scarce believed it. And now to find out you're bearing a child? How could you be so reckless?"
"She was reckless," Ciaran said. "So much so I've wanted to throttle her a dozen times since I first met her. However, she was also generous and brave."
"Ciaran, no," she protested. She wasn't certain what she would say to Hugh, but whatever it was, it would be a sight easier without Ciaran in the room. Could she possibly shove over six feet of male out the door as if he were a hunting dog? No. Reasoning had a far better chance—infinitesimal instead of none at all. "This is really something between my brother and me. Why don't you go upstairs, and leave Hugh and me to speak alone?"
"So you can keep sheltering me?" Ciaran looked as if the very thought of any more deception made him want to retch. "Keep digging yourself into deeper and deeper trouble with lies? No. It was one thing to lie to that bastard Redmayne. Your brother deserves the truth."
She couldn't have summoned back a reasonable legendary hero. No, she'd had to call back the noblest of them all. She'd just never realized how damned inconvenient honor could be until now.
Ciaran turned to Hugh. "Your sister found me wandering near some castle ruins last night. Head gashed, my memory shattered. She claimed she'd been working some sort of magic, trying to summon up some long-dead hero."
Hugh blanched. "My God. Fallon, you couldn't... you didn't really believe the legend?"
Ciaran grimaced. "I know. It sounded preposterous to me, even with my head bashed in. Worse still, I could have been dangerous and she damned well knew it. She'd encountered Redmayne at the castle earlier. He let her know that he was prowling around that area searching for someone."
"At the castle ruins?" Hugh scowled. "Who was he searching for, a ghost? The one thing you can be certain of is this: whatever fantasy Fallon was chasing, the captain wasn't out trying to find some accursed legend that probably never even existed."
"He was searching for a man they call Silver Hand."
