"Until we meet again, madam." With military precision, the captain turned and strode from the crowd.
Silence was a deafening roar behind him, the magic of the night stripped away, anger and fear and helplessness left behind in Redmayne's wake.
Without a word, the glen folk were beginning to melt away, all except for Tom Dunne and his family fleeing to their own hearths, the cottages that gave some small illusion of protection.
Ciaran couldn't blame them. He felt a fierce need to scoop Fallon up, carry her as far away from the sinister Englishman as possible. Keep her safe.
Safe? As Siobhan's sons had been safe? As Caitlin and Tom Dunne were safe? Could there be safety in a land under Redmayne's boot heel?
But almost more dangerous than the Englishman's threats were the temptations he had dangled like sweetmeats before starving children. More coin than they could earn in a lifetime, coin that could restore lost sons, set whole families sailing to a new beginning. If it were Ciaran's child suffering somewhere, his sons and daughters lost to poverty and hunger and sickness, might he betray…?
No. But Redmayne had played the scene like a master spider, catching them all up in his web. Under the crushing pressure of threat or temptation, chances were that someone would break.
He heard the crunch of a footstep near him, Tom Dunne's low voice. "Redmayne—he's a devil, is that one, an' it would be the finest day's work Silver Hand ever did if he were to cut the English bastard's throat."
"Why doesn't he?" Ciaran demanded, itching to have the knife blade in his own hand. "Why doesn't he rid the countryside of the accursed soldiers?"
"He's tried it, right enough. Rid us of the commander 'afore Redmayne, he did. General Scargill's nephew, it was, and a viler man ye've never met. But the English only send another man to fill his boots. And one a hundred times more dangerous. I'd wager Silver Hand figures better to outwit the one we've got than to stir things up so much the English come crashin' down on Glenceo the way they did after the rebellion. None too choosy about who they trample in the process, the English are."
Ciaran's eyes narrowed, something in the Irishman's voice driving him to question. "This Silver Hand—do you know him?" Ciaran asked. But Dunne's features closed, hardened.
"In a way we all do. He belongs to us, like your Fallon does. She keeps hope alive, dreams and hero tales, a bit o' the ancient magic we can touch. Silver Hand keeps bellies full, roofs over our heads, clothes on children's backs. Without him, the people hereabouts would've starved, lost everything after the rebellion. If there be such a thing as guardian angels, then the angel of Glenceo sails a smuggler's ship and wears a pistol instead o’ wings. No one I know of has ever seen his face, but he's always there when we're in need."
Ciaran looked into Dunne's eyes, bright with intelligence, inborn wariness veiled by quick humor. Doubtless the man could spin tales that Fallon's saints themselves would believe, but Ciaran didn't think the Irishman was lying now. He didn't know who Silver Hand was. Even if he did, he'd not betray it.
"If ye're thinkin' of lookin' for him yerself, ye might as well save yerself the trouble. It is as if he doesn't have a face. If it weren't for the shoes that end up on me doorstep, or the warm coats or books fer me boys, I'd say Silver Hand was as much a legend as Ciaran of the Mist. Even our Fallon, here, has done her best to find Silver Hand, but she failed to find him, same as all of us. Take yer bride home, MacDonough. Finish what ye started before we all came chargin' in on ye. Celebrate life, love, happiness. It is far more fragile, far more fleetin' than ye know."
Dunne was wrong, Ciaran thought. He did know how fleeting happiness was, every time he looked into Fallon's eyes, felt the enmity in Redmayne, remembered the vulnerability of his own lost memory.
"Tom." Fallon's voice was quiet, shaken, as she pressed the Irishman's strong, hoary hand. "Thank you, for tonight. Don't think Redmayne could spoil what you did for us. I'll always remember... the beautiful part. The pipes, the dancing."
Dunne's face reddened, his voice gruff as that of one of his sons caught in some sentimental act. "Wanted it to be perfect fer ye. Blasted English cur came to ruin it."
"The English tried to destroy this castle, too, but it's the broken edges that makeCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceoso beautiful." She smiled at Tom and his family clustered about, and Ciaran had never loved her more. "Redmayne could never taint the gifts you've given us."
"Ye're a fine one, Mary Fallon Delaney MacDonough. A fine one," Dunne said, and Ciaran saw tears glisten in the brawny man's eyes. "But have a care, girl. I'm that fearful fer ye. There's somethin' in Redmayne's eyes when he looks at ye."
It was true, and it made Ciaran's blood run cold.
"Nothin' can hurt Miss Fallon!" Caitlin declared, pushing forward, her face upturned, her eyes fierce with believing. "She can just call Ciaran o' the Mist back, and he'd crunch Redmayne up in a million bits! She has magic!"
Magic. Could something so ephemeral triumph over a man like Lionel Redmayne? Over a race of conquerors like the English? Or was Redmayne right? Would time run out? Would some weakness be exploited, some vulnerability discovered? Would someone desperate turn betrayer?
Ciaran's arm tightened about Fallon.
"Ye'll take care of her for us, MacDonough?" Dunne asked fiercely.
"I would die for her," Ciaran vowed before the castle wreathed in legend, before Dunne and Caitlin and the echo of the music from the pipes, and before the eyes that watched them beyond the mist.
Dunne nodded. "Me boys will see yer gifts get delivered up to Misthaven. Ye jest be takin' our Fallon home."
Dunne gathered up his daughter, his sturdy sons taking up the humble offerings that were so precious. Then the family made their way down the tangled path. Ciaran felt Fallon's hand grasp his arm. He looked down into her face: the ethereal joy had vanished, the bright challenge, the hunger that had driven him near mad with wanting her. Her fairy-kissed features were subdued with worry, her eyes heavy with quiet desperation.
"Now that he has Butler's permission, Redmayne won't wait to start destroying the castle. Ciaran, what are we going to do?"
Ciaran's mouth hardened, grim. "I think it's time the squire had a visit from Ciaran of the Mist."
Chapter 16
