It was a violation, this man's presence in the shadow of this castle, amid the glen folk. An abomination. Ciaran wanted to rip him out, fling him away from this place, this night, these people.
Redmayne sighed. "You show a regrettable lack of a sense of humor, MacDonough. All this uncontrolled rage and passion—it grows wearying. It addles a man's wits, exposes his weaknesses. The first rule of strategy should be to conceal—"
"I don't need any lessons from you, Redmayne."
"I could argue with you, but I never waste time—a precious commodity. And it's obvious you can't be taught. Truth is, I have two missions to accomplish tonight. I have several army engineers examining these ruins to discover their weakest point—where to plant the explosives to blast it to rubble. A far less amusing pastime than dancing with so lovely a lady as your bride, MacDonough."
Fallon glared at the Englishman, her face contorted in loathing. "I'm certain if the castle falls, you'll be the one dancing in victory, devil take you!"
Ciaran expected laughter, more of Redmayne's urbane mockery. Instead, the captain's eyelids dropped lower, as if he had something to hide. His voice was suddenly strange. "Oddly enough, I doubt the destruction of this place will afford me much of a sense of triumph." The words were scarce out of Redmayne's mouth before he gave an edgy laugh, creases forming in his brow as if he'd surprised even himself. "Of course, I don't know what one could expect. A soldier can hardly hope that defeating a pile of rubble would compare to the pleasure in conquering a worthy human foe. In any event, this will all be over soon. Squire Butler has given us permission to commence the castle's destruction. Actually, he's quite anxious to get it over and done."
"Butler?" Fallon echoed, her fingers gripping Ciaran's arm so tight her nails cut his flesh.
"It seems he had a bit of difficulty during the last rebellion. Made him rather... excitable."
"If ever a man deserved to have his roof pulled down on his head, it is Phineas Butler!" Tom Dunne snarled. "Conspired to kill his own brother, he did, so's he could get his hands on the estate. All of Glenceo knows it to be true, even if none here could prove it! And ever since, Butler's people are all but starvin'. Rich as Croesus, he is, but every ha'penny he spends goes to gamblin' and drink and fancy women. Yet even that wasn't entertainin' enough for that craven coward. No, the devil-spawned bastard had to start ruinin' decent girls as well, fillin' up their bellies whether they said yea or nay."
Dunne cast a pain-filled glance at a tow-headed girl of scarcely fourteen, her stomach protruding just enough to be suspicious, her face ducked low with shame.
A bantam rooster of a man, red-haired and red-faced, staggered forward, reeking of whiskey. "Ye needn't be blatherin' about me wife. Squire seen that we were wed right proper, and he'll be payin' handsome fer the raisin' of this babe. We'll be bathin' in coin, won't we, me darlin'?" He pinched the girl's buttocks. "Bran MacGrath knows how to strike a bargain, he does!"
Ciaran wanted to yank the man away from the girl, beat him senseless, make certain MacGrath could never touch her again.
When his gaze flashed back to Redmayne's, Ciaran was surprised to see something flicker in the Englishman's eyes. Disgust? Distaste? As if Redmayne were repelled by MacGrath and by what Butler had done? In an instant, the spark of emotion vanished from Redmayne's face, leaving behind that cool marble mask.
"That is the beauty in dealing with Squire Butler. A man careening from one disastrous mistake to another is all too easy to... influence, is he not, Mr. MacGrath? I could scarce believe my good fortune when I found the squire owns this spit of land. He's only too glad to get rid of this eyesore, especially since I informed him it's a suspected den of smugglers. His family has been beset by an unfortunate string of accidents already, courtesy of this Silver Hand—warnings regarding the squire's, er, appetites, as it were. Butler has no desire to find a knife blade pressed against his throat anytime soon."
"Blade might be in his throat if he lets anyone topple so much as a stone from this place," one of the Dunne boys muttered, but Redmayne ignored the comment.
"I would advise against any attempt to follow through on that threat. Mr. Butler's home is quite protected. I've seen military encampments less prepared for battle. Pistols everywhere, footmen hired for skill with weapons instead of more civilized graces. It's a wonder some poor scullery maid hasn't been blasted into eternity coming down to stir up the morning fires."
"'E won't be able to hide forever," Gerald Sullivan snarled.
"That is the material point, is it not?" Redmayne observed. "No one can hide forever. Not the squire, and not even the elusive Silver Hand. You see, destroying the castle might be my main goal, but my commander, General Scargill, has another priority—hanging the man who shot his nephew. It's a dangerous pastime, shooting the relative of a general, no matter how unsavory his character. And Silver Hand is guilty of that crime."
"Aye, bless his kind soul!" someone deep in the crowd said.
"He'll need all the divine intercession he can get," Redmayne observed, glancing at the intrepid old woman. "Even now, my men are combing the area for signs of the rogue. An unmarked ship was spotted in the storm the other night. It disappeared in this area. There must be some sort of smuggler's nest nearby. I will find it."
Ciaran exerted every fiber of his will to keep his expression frozen so as not to betray what he had found in the souterrains below—an entire world Redmayne must never discover. But an insistent bubble of panic pushed at his throat. Had he and Fallon left any sign? The smallest scrape of a footprint, a broken twig, a bit of crushed underbrush that might betray the entryway to the hidden world belowCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceo?
"No smuggler in his right mind would use this place as a lair," Fallon scoffed, stepping up beside Ciaran. "The sea is too wild, the cliffs too perilous. Silver Hand would seek someplace calm and hidden."
Like the tiny inlet they'd discovered below the castle, Ciaran thought. A place so unexpected, it would take a miracle to find it. Then why did his gut knot with dread at the intensity in Redmayne's eyes, the intelligence, sharper than any blade, and—most terrifying of all—the chill resolve untainted by emotion? It was as if Redmayne were something not quite human.
A smile ticked up one corner of Redmayne's mouth. "My dear Miss Fallon, any smuggler who would ply his trade in a territory assigned to me must be... how did you say it? Out of his mind? A man ruled by anger, I would judge. One who surrenders to primitive passions instead of his intellect. A man very like your new husband, I would guess."
"A man with blood in his veins instead of ice?" Ciaran snapped.
Tom Dunne stepped up, the Irishman's eyes glittering with hate for Redmayne, but more so for the uniform the man wore, the eternity of oppression it stood for. "I can't imagine why ye think ye can capture this Silver Hand, whoever he is, Captain. He's been outwitting the garrison and excise men long before ye came here. There's none can touch him, the rogue Silver Hand."
Damnation, didn't Tom realize it was dangerous to poke a sleeping tiger with a stick? Redmayne's eyes narrowed. "You seem to have great faith in this criminal. From personal knowledge, perhaps?"
Oonagh leaped before her husband. "Please, yer worship, my Tom, he's just in a blather because of the celebratin'. Braggin' like all men do—"
"Enough, woman," Tom snapped. "It is just the truth I'm speakin'. Easy enough for anyone with eyes to see."
"I'm most interested in your... range of vision. Listen to me. All of you." Redmayne cast a glance about the silent, hate-filled crowd. He drew a purse from his pocket, emptied it on the turf. The coins clinked against each other, rolling to the bare feet of the crofters. "There is far more where that came from. Anyone who provides information leading to the capture of Silver Hand will earn a hundred pounds in gold."
