"I'm not afraid."
Sensual lips widened in a smile that chilled Fallon.
"Would you be afraid if I told you I was searching for a band of smugglers? Desperate men who might enjoy having the sister of one of the landowners in their power?"
Was that what Redmayne was doing here at the castle? Had the captain traced the smugglers so close to their lair?
It took all her strength of will not to glance in the direction of the secret entrance to the tunnels that wound beneath the castle.
For generations, the labyrinth had given shelter to those in need. Priests had sought shelter there when they were hunted down like dogs, and scholars had struggled down beneath the castle, reading forbidden books in the time when English law forbade any Catholic to learn to read.
It was a haven for rebellion, where time after time men had sharpened rusty swords and hoarded questionable ammunition, readying themselves to throw off English rule. It was there the tattered remnants of defeated rebel armies had staggered, to tend their wounds before fleeing to France. And there, in the dark tunnels beneathCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, their sons and their sons' sons had drawn out the battered weapons, brushed off the dust and taken up the battle again.
Five years had passed since the last rising, and the scars were still visible in the land—the hollow-eyed grief of mothers who had watered Irish soil with the blood of their children, the whipping trees where the lash had fallen on innocent and guilty alike, and always the crushing poverty, the English stranglehold on any trade that might leave Irish shores.
Was it possible that someone might be in the souterrains tonight? Fallon wondered, dread tightening her throat. No. It was Beltane tonight. Most likely everyone was at the celebrations, the tunnels empty.
But would anyone be truly safe in these glens until Lionel Redmayne was far away?
"If you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way." She started to stride past but, with a deceptively negligent shift of booted legs, Redmayne blocked her way.
"I must repeat my warning. Even now I am searching for a most elusive fellow—not some bumbling crofter thrashing about with his grandfather's rusted musket, but an adversary far more subtle. He is as insubstantial as your precious Irish mist. No one sees his face, and yet he leaves his mark everywhere. Known rebels about to be taken up by the soldiers disappear, never to be seen again. Families whose men have died on the gallows, or who have fled like the base cowards they are, suddenly produce their rent money just before the landlord is about to evict them. From Dingle to Galway, people whisper of him, but no one, not even under the most persuasive torture, has ever given him a name except Silver Hand—a ridiculous sobriquet."
Fallon had heard of the mysterious force that had done so much good the past five years. But the people of Glenceo were as ignorant of his identity as the English. She'd tried, herself, to discover who he was and had failed, just as everyone else had. The only ones to see Silver Hand had been his own men, and they were as elusive as their master.
"I understand this person has kept the garrison chasing its tail for an embarrassing length of time."
"Indeed. I intend to change that. He has made a fatal mistake. Killed my predecessor, a general's nephew. You, of course, would offer any help you could give. You might have seen something?"
"You are the only person I've met tonight."
"Little wonder, considering the weather. I'm certain you understand my curiosity, Miss Delaney, finding a lady such as yourself out on such an unpleasant evening. Exactly where are you bound for? Are you an angel of mercy braving the coming storm? Have you succumbed to a pressing need to deliver calf’s foot jelly at this late hour?"
Even through the haze of darkness she could feel the probing of those unnerving eyes.
"No, you couldn't be on a mission of mercy," Redmayne answered his own question. "You're carrying no basket. Besides, who would live here on the cliffs except, of course, spirits of the dead, and legends that should have faded away generations ago?"
She feared he'd see the pounding of her heart beneath the bluebell muslin of her walking dress. "I often walk at night," Fallon said. "The castle is beautiful in the mist. It's quiet here. A place where one can be alone, think. Or is thinking against the law now, Captain?"
"That depends." His voice felt like fingers trying to pry into her mind. "During my visits with your neighbors, they've mentioned that you have some rather unsavory acquaintances among the peasantry. That can be very dangerous, Miss Delaney."
Fallon swallowed hard, images flashing behind her eyes. Uilleann pipes filling the night air with haunting refrains, sweet Irish tenors weaving ballads filled with heartache and hope that never died. Hushed whispers that were already rising among the young men— fight again... die again... this time, perhaps, the sacrifice will be enough. Freedom.
Dangerous? Perhaps. But only with these simple crofters did she feel truly alive.
It was obvious the man wasn't going to let her leave until she gave him some reason for her outing tonight.
Best to stick as close to the truth as possible to keep from stumbling. "I happen to love storms. The power of them, the wildness. I often go to the cliffs to watch them."
"And your brother allows it? A guardian should take better care of his ward."
"My brother has more pressing concerns."
"A pity. A young woman of your kind needs guidance. Women are so easily moved by romantic tales and such nonsense, they can easily be led astray."
He shoved himself away from the wall and started pacing, running his fingertips over the stones as if searching for some weakness in the structure—or for the loosened brick that had hidden Fallon's treasure.
"I was told that torchlight often flickers here, late at night, have you ever seen that?"
