"It doesn't matter," Fallon lied. "It would just have been a lot of trouble. It's most likely better this way."
But Dunne peered up into her face, and she was certain she hadn't fooled the man for a moment. "Ye're our own kind o' princess, ye know. Ye're the closest we'll ever get to Maeve the Fairy Queen."
But I'm failing you, a voice inside her cried.What if I can't stop Redmayne from destroying the castle? The standing stones? What if...
"I have to go," she said, the tiniest of quivers in her voice. "My husband is probably halfway to the castle by now."
"The castle?Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo?"
"Captain Redmayne was searching for signs of the smugglers there. That's where my husband is headed."
Dunne frowned. "Miss Fallon, some things shouldn't be meddled with. It's not always good to be pokin' into things. Sometimes ye find things ye wished ye never had."
"I know."
"Miss Fallon," he said again, his frown softening. "It's not me place to say, I know. But it's glad I am ye're not alone anymore."
Fallon nodded, urged her horse away, wondering if Thomas Dunne, with his loving wife, Eileen, and bevy of children, realized how dangerous that could be. She'd been alone forever, had almost embraced her solitude. But now, now she'd tasted what it was like to let someone into her heart. What would it be like once the inevitable happened, and she was alone again? When there was no one to answer the most secret echoes of her soul?
She'd ridden past three more rolling hills and around a ruined abbey when she reined her horse to a halt, the dread she'd managed to calm during her talk with the Dunnes returning full force. She groaned as she saw the spur of road Ciaran had taken. He couldn't have chosen a worse place to begin his prying if the devil himself had whispered in his ear.
Once upon a time, Ferghall Moynihan had been famous hereabouts as the hardest worker in three counties, a wizard who could fix anything that broke, cure any lamb that was sick, coax music out of the most battered fiddle in Glenceo. But all that had changed when he'd collided with something he couldn't make right, no matter how desperately he'd tried.
Grief had banished his legendary patience, rage at the English had sharpened his temper, and helplessness had burdened his spirit until he did his best to drown his pain in drink. But all the whiskey in Ireland couldn't blind him to the anguish in his wife, Siobhan's, eyes, or make him forget the two empty spaces at the family fireside.
Two of their large brood had been sacrificed to the ill-fated rebellion: Samuel gunned down at Vinegar Hill on his seventeenth birthday, nineteen-year-old Michael transported to the convict colonies across the ocean, most likely a slower, more tortuous path to death.
Sickly, pale and rail-thin with mourning, Siobhan was expecting another babe despite the fact that she was well past her forty-first birthday. The doctor Hugh had sent out was grim, and Ferghall was nearly out of his mind with worry. The last thing the Moynihans needed was someone prying about after Silver Hand. Even the gentlest probing could bring disaster. For if, by some chance, Ferghall thought Ciaran was one of Redmayne's informers, God alone knew what might happen.
Digging her heels into her mount, Fallon started down the road at a dead run. She wasn't certain what she expected—Ciaran's hands clamped around Ferghall's throat as he tried to shake loose the information he sought, Fergall swinging the wicked blade of a scythe at Ciaran's stomach, Siobhan and her brood terrified. But no such dreaded image met her eyes.
She drew her horse to a halt, her heart squeezing as she peered down at the scene below her. Ciaran the warrior who had stalked from her bedchamber with fire in his eyes was transformed. He was on foot, all signs of his gentleman's garb vanished, his dark hair gleaming, his shirt hanging open to bare a slice of his chest.
He led his horse toward the Moynihan cottage, his handsome features softened, while atop his mount sat Siobhan Moynihan, her stomach so swollen it seemed ready to burst, exhaustion lining her once lovely face. Still, she managed to have the dignity of a queen. A toddler was perched in front of her, sporting the handsome frock coat Ciaran had worn this morning. Balanced between Ciaran's other arm and his hip was a rough-woven basket brimming with freshly washed laundry.
Fallon watched as he drew rein at the cottage door, set down the basket, then lifted down the child and pressed coins into his hand. The few coins Hugh had doubtless given him the night before.
Sioban started to struggle down herself, but he stopped her, and, gentle, reverent, sorrowful as if she were the Holy Mother herself, Ciaran lifted Siobhan into his arms and gently set her on her feet.
In that instant, he glimpsed Fallon watching on the path, and the expression on his face awed her, stunned her, broke her heart. It was as if all the tears shed, all the pain endured, all the dreams lost on this embattled island gathered into the soft green of Ciaran's eyes. Understanding—stark, complete. A sudden meeting of souls more intense in its way than any physical union of their bodies could ever be.
Without a word he carried the basket into the tiny cottage. Fallon watched as he went to the well, drew up a fresh bucket of water, and took it inside.
Then he mounted his horse and came toward her. He'd never looked so strong, so honorable, so beautiful.
"I was afraid you would get into trouble," she said, her voice unsteady. "Searching for Silver Hand."
"I meant to find him. But then—"
"Then you found Caitlin and her da, and Siobhan and her babies."
"I looked around me, and I saw..." He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I couldn't even remember why I'd ridden out. I could only... How do they survive, Fallon? All those children—and this soil so harsh, so barren, for all its beauty. How can they believe in fairy songs and bard's hero tales?"
How could she ever explain? She looked down at the tiny cottage. Its thatch gleamed, rose vines clambering up to weave among the straw. "The stories feed their souls. The tales are their lifeblood. Every time they trace the ogham script carved into a standing stone, every time they enter a fairy ring of stones, they remember that they're part of something greater, more powerful, more beautiful than anything their conquerors have known."
Ciaran's voice dropped to a soft murmur, his solemn gaze meeting hers. "That's why you called me back."
She trembled at the enormity of what he'd said. "Called... called you... Does that mean... Ciaran, do you remember something?" She hovered on the brink of something wonderful, something terrible.
