But she only clutched her blue velvet cloak more tightly about her, retracing steps she'd taken a thousand times in the years since her mother had died—the twisted, dangerous path that led to her castle in the sky.
How many times as a lonely child had she tried to outrun her grief, bathe it in an elixir of magic and legends and possibilities? She'd fought so hard to believe the tales she had hoarded in her imagination, the myths devoured in countless books. Even when the march of time and her own reason waged war against it. Even when she'd begun to doubt just a little.
It was well past time she leave off childish dreaming, her brother Hugh would say. She was in danger from other hazards on the road to the castle—thieves and wanderers. Men who had once been farmers, thrown off their lands by landlords attempting to squeeze the last drop of wealth from their holdings. English patrols, determined to drive the centuries-old talk of Irish rebellion into the dust.
Or, failing that, Hugh would predict, she'd face the pain of her own disillusionment.
No, Hugh would never understand why she had come.
Her eyes turned to where the ghostly battlements of the castle pierced through the unearthly haze, straining toward the full moon that sailed forever beyond its grasp.
AtCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceoshe'd never felt alone.
The earth trembled with the pagan rhythm of Beltane, the veil between the other world and the world of mortals thinning for this night of Bright Fire. She could almost see the shadowy apparitions of unquiet spirits, almost understand the language whispered between the druid-trees. And she was certain that if her mother's ghost was wandering anywhere on earth, it would be here, among the battered stone walls of the Castle of the Dancing Mist.
Fallon swallowed hard. The outermost wall of the abandoned castle rose up in front of her. Every year, she'd made this pilgrimage, every year she'd listened, waited, tried to hold the wispy edges of ages-old enchantment. But tonight was different somehow, the air too thick for her lungs, the floor unstable beneath her feet.
She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was being watched. By whom? The ancient spirits? The stones themselves? Was the castle waiting for her? Waiting for the summons that had been passed from generation to generation? Were the window spaces' all-knowing eyes fixed upon her? Or was there something else? Something far more sinister that had dared come out into the night?
No. She was being absurd. She shook away the odd sensations. She'd come here every Beltane, hadn't she? She'd taken out the magic brooch and sat on the flat stone at the edge of the cliff until dawn streaked the sky.
Every girl in Glenceo came to that stone at some time in her life, anticipation singing in her veins as she waited for the stone to conjure up dreams of the man who would be her true love.
The Lady Stone... one more piece of Ciaran's enchantment. A place to stir up dreams of love, and hope, bright ribbons leading to a man's embrace.
Not that Fallon had ever hoped for such a future. She was wed to her legends. Every dream she'd ever had while seated on that enchanted stone was of Ciaran, walking out of the mist.
She stretched out her hand and pressed her palm against the rough surface of the wall, making her way by touch until she reached the hiding place she'd found so many years ago. With the tips of her fingers, she loosened the stone and drew it out. Heart hammering, she eased her fingers into the dark space revealed.
Her fingers collided with something hard, and she gathered the handkerchief-wrapped bundle into her palm.
She froze at a sound out of synch with the night, the crunch of a boot sole nearby. Did thesidhemake such solid sounds when they moved? Her fingers clenched over the pin, and she turned, scarcely able to breathe. She wouldn't have been surprised to see the pagan son of the sun, Lugh himself, or Mannan Mac Lir, god of the sea, rising up from the waves. But nothing, no one could have chilled her more certainly than the figure silhouetted against the stone.
Redmayne.
Light from the full moon struck him like the shaft of an arrow, eerily illuminating the blood-red of his regimentals, shadow accenting the sharp planes of his face. And his eyes—even despite the mist and the darkness, they glowed as if they held some dark sorcery of their own.
She'd seen the man for barely a heartbeat when he'd come around to introduce himself to the neighboring gentry. But she'd never forget how terrifyingly civil the captain had been as he left no doubt what would happen to any of the landlords weak-hearted enough to give aid to those he'd come to destroy.
It was rumored Lionel Redmayne could peel the skin from his enemies' faces, pry out their darkest secrets with no torture-weapon but his eyes. Eyes that seemed to draw in every flaw, every sin, every weakness in the human soul, and take a jaded pleasure in them.
What in heaven's name was the man doing here? Now?
Was it possible he'd known she was coming to the castle tonight? Was it possible he knew why and planned to... to what? Arrest her? Fallon pulled herself back from the edge of panic. Calling centuries-old heroes back from the land of the fairies wasn't a hanging offense in Ireland. At least not yet.
"What have we here?" Redmayne asked in a voice so low Fallon had to strain to hear it.
Fallon groped for the mask other people donned so easily to hide their emotions.
Those inscrutable eyes raked Fallon from the top of her head to the mud-spattered hem of her cloak. "Miss Delaney of Misthaven. So we meet again."
Ruthlessness rippled from him in waves, an odd sort of omniscience all the more alarming because of the icy calm draped about Redmayne like some dark mantle. He was Satan surveying bumbling mortals with diabolical patience, certain they would sin.
Was it possible he had come searching for her? The prospect was too frightening to even consider. Fallon gripped the pin so hard it pierced her skin, but she didn't feel anything except the primal need to escape that probing gaze. She couldn't let him know how afraid she was, and yet, she longed to slice into that insufferable arrogance. What better way than to pretend she didn't remember him.
"Do I know you, sir?" she asked in her loftiest tone.
He chuckled in disbelief, a kind of admiration curling his smile. "We met at your brother's house a week ago. Captain Lionel Redmayne, your obedient servant." He sketched her a bow. "I'm surprised your brother has allowed you such freedom in a time of unrest. Hasn't he warned you that the night is full of dangers?"
