Fallon bristled. "Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceodoesn't 'belong' to anyone. Neither do the fairy rings of stone. It's impossible to own the soul of an entire people."
Perhaps that was true, Ciaran thought, but he was discovering it was possible for a woman to hold a man's soul in her hands. He dared not let Fallon suspect—what? That he loved her? That he would walk through fire for her? That despite the tragedy that had given birth to a legend, he envied the long-dead Naosi for what little time the ancient Celtic lover had had with his lady? He battled back the raw emotions with his own anger.
"If the monuments can't belong to anybody, why did you go to all the trouble of summoning Ciaran of the Mist in the first place? Why didn't you just storm up to Captain Redmayne and tell him that? Your problem would have been solved with a lot less trouble."
Her cheeks flamed. Her embarrassment stung Ciaran, her anger chafed him, but it was the hurt in those eyes that had glowed with passion such a short time ago that undid him. "I know what you're trying to do, Ciaran. You're just trying to distract me—keep me busy, like a troublesome child, so I won't insist on going with you to find Silver Hand. But it won't work. Hugh hasn't been able to control me since our mother died. And you won't be able to keep me from doing what I know is right, either."
The woman would have made a glorious warrior queen, marching off to disaster, her head held high. Not waiting for a man like Naosi to do battle for her, she'd fling herself into the fray, to take the sword thrust meant for him. Not once would she stop to count the cost to herself. If legends could still be born in manor houses instead of castles, Fallon was the kind of woman who could play the heroine in one. Naosi should be grateful his Deirdre accepted his shelter, allowed him to protect her. Fallon never would.
"Fallon," Ciaran said, low. "It's true that I don't want you near these smugglers. But that isn't why I'm asking you to stay behind. I've asked you to perform vital tasks, tasks that might hold the key to whether or not the Castle of the Dancing Mist falls. If we could find out who owns the property, we might be able to reason with them, talk them out of destroying something so ancient."
"And exactly how would we do that? Most of the landlords would be thrilled to rid themselves of the ruins. They mock the crofters for their superstition, but you won't catch one of the pompous idiots with the nerve to walk into a fairy ring at night. The stones are a reminder that Ireland might not be subdued, but only sleeping. That it might awaken at any moment and scatter its conquerors to the winds."
Ciaran frowned. To someone logical, like Captain Redmayne, Fallon's image might sound absurd, yet Ciaran couldn't discount it. Even in the brief span of a few days, he'd felt the undeniable pulse of this land, as if rivers of enchantment flowed just beneath its surface. Every stream or pond sparkled with water nymphs, every hidden glen was a haven for magic, an unearthly power he sensed was unique to this island.
To anyone who hadn't been bred here, it must be not only beautiful but also a little frightening, as unpredictable as the weather that cast rain across the heather, then an instant later set the drops sparkling with sunshine.
"You claim that the gentry are uneasy?" Ciaran prodded.
"Squire Harry Biddleston once claimed it was like being stalked by a ghost whenever he rode past one of the standing stones in his parkland. Doubtless, the ghosts of all the people his family starved out, abused, stole from. Every family in the county has some sin to haunt them."
Ciaran scowled, mulling over Fallon's comments. Fear—it could be far more powerful than a sword. Because it was an enemy that had already breached the walls, one that lived inside you. "Perhaps reasoning isn't the answer. There might be another way," Ciaran mused slowly.
"What are you saying?"
Ciaran crossed to where her sketchbook and pencils lay. He gathered them up and brought them to her. "Draw up a map charting all the ruins you want to protect. Add the names of the landlords who hold sway over them. Note down anything about the landlords that might be useful—skeletons in their family closets, secrets they might have, any weakness we might be able to use."
"Use for what?" Fallon asked, as she pressed the sketchbook to her breasts.
"You've almost managed to make me believe in this nonsense—a nine-hundred-year-old hero called back from the mist. Isn't it possible that we can make them believe it as well?"
"Make who believe? The gentry?"
"Why not, if they're as vulnerable to suggestion as you seem to think. But I'll need every weapon you can give me, every detail from this legend. After all, if Ciaran of the Mist is to walk again, he'd better not be bumbling about as I have the last few days. It's damned hard to be intimidating if you don't even remember your name."
"You? Portray Ciaran of the Mist?" She nibbled at the full curve of her bottom lip, perplexed. "It's a wonderful idea, but isn't it too late? The servants already know you as my husband. And the rest of the neighborhood soon will if Hugh has anything to say about it. One ball or soiree, and they'll all recognize you."
"I'll deal with your brother."
She forgot to be angry about the bond between the two men, the knowledge that Hugh would listen to Ciaran when he wouldn't listen to her. All thoughts were banished except her sudden realization of the import of Ciaran's words.
Her eyes widened, her features fiercely intent. "Wait. This plan. Does it mean... Do you mean you believe? That you're Ciaran?"
He should tell her not to be absurd. The whole story she'd spun was ridiculous. No sane man would believe it. Instead, he turned away, loving her, wanting to be a hero for her, fearing he never could be.
"I don't know what I believe anymore," he said with searing honesty. "But I don't have to believe it, Fallon. As long as they do."
Chapter 12
She'd married the stubbornest man in Ireland, Fallon thought grimly. And if he didn't fall off an obliging cliff or get his throat slit by some amiable smuggler, she just might murder him herself. Once she managed to catch up with him, that is.
She urged her horse to a faster pace, eyes searching the dirt road for signs he'd passed this way.
Blast the man. He'd lulled her into thinking he was going to lock himself away with Hugh to discuss his plans. She'd relaxed a little then. By the time Hugh, the ever-cautious, decided to go after a nest of smugglers, the thieves would have died of old age. But Ciaran had only used the ruse as an excuse. In reality, he'd slipped outside to the stables when she wasn't looking. The insufferable wretch! The High King of Brainless Honor, Sir Noble-Peat-in-His-Head had ridden off without her.
She might still be pacing the garden, trying to sort out the wild tangle of emotions Ciaran MacCailte had unleashed in her if young Taliesin, the groom, hadn't slipped away from his tasks long enough to warn her.
"While I was readying his horse, yer husband said he's that determined to be wrenching information about Silver Hand from the first crofter he meets. I warned him it wasn't a wise idea," the groom had said. "People hereabouts are still stinging suspicious of anyone poking about, asking questions, ever since the Sassenachs put down the rebellion. Plenty of people still see the whippings, the hangings when nightmares come upon them. And now, with that new devil, Captain Redmayne, about—got everyone on edge, he does."
