Only a miracle could have allowed Ciaran to reach this room, guided him through twisted corridors past drowsing footmen, helped him thwart locks no master thief should have been able to break through. But he'd begun to believe in miracles ever since Fallon had entered his life. And tonight he needed all the help he could get.
He grimaced. No high king's tomb could have been sealed more tightly than Phineas Butler's bedchamber, Ciaran thought as he slipped into the room, but then, a man who would murder his own brother and rape a defenseless child like Ailis MacGrath had much to fear—a fact that could only work to Ciaran's advantage. A grim smile twisted his lips.
Butler's massive bed stood like a fortress amid a sea of discarded clothing, spilled wine and half-eaten food. Thick wooden posts jutted to the ceiling, the old-fashioned bed curtains drawn tight despite the warmth of the night.
The air was too thick to breathe. It reeked of brandy, Hungary water and cheap perfume, the mustiness made far worse by windows all but nailed shut.
Ciaran drew aside the curtain and found the master of this rotting elegance huddled under masses of satin coverlets. His face was bloated with dissipation, his balding pate gleaming with sweat in the flickering of the firelight, a dribble of wine staining the front of his nightshirt.
The debris made it clear a woman had been part of the evening's entertainment, but she was gone. It seemed Butler liked to sleep with a more deadly mistress— pistol just visible beneath his pillow.
Had that weapon been there when Butler had dragged Ailis MacGrath up to this chamber? Ciaran wondered as the woman-child's face rose in his memory, her delicate body swelling with Butler's bastard.
He glared down at the man in the bed, poisonous hate welling inside him. This was the craven monster who had forced Ailis into his bed, then when she was pregnant with his child, had tossed her to the crude, greedy dog of a crofter. She'd been no more to Butler than the scrapings from the plates littering the room, a surfeit of delicacies to be devoured, then disposed of to the dog scrabbling at his feet.
It must have been laughably easy for Redmayne to get Butler to agree to his scheme. If the man was willing to destroy the lives of young girls like Ailis, why wouldn't he be eager to see the castle tumbled into the sea?
Disgust filled Ciaran as he drew the ancient dagger from the belt at his waist. He pressed the blade to Butler's throat, and it was all he could do not to slash it deep.
Butler would have awakened screaming if he could have drawn air into his lungs. Instead, his eyes bulged, his mouth gaping open on a hoarse, choked cry.
The myriad sins the man had committed were written in his eyes. Terror and confusion contorted his features, as if he were groping through the filth of his life, trying to decide which wrong his assailant had come to revenge.
"No! Don't kill me! For the love of God!" Butler croaked, his gaze flicking from Ciaran's face to the costume Fallon had put together—billows of linen shirt, belted at the waist, a flowing mantle, the ancient cloak brooch's cabochon jewels gleaming like red eyes.
"Wh-who are you?" Butler choked out. "Wh-what do you want?"
Ciaran had rehearsed what he was going to say to the man, plotted it with Fallon. What would Ciaran of the Mist say? What would he do? What would most terrorize this craven cur with the dagger at his throat? Yet as Ciaran stared down into that bloated face with its eyes gluttonous from selfish pleasure, every speech vanished from his brain, leaving only a red haze of rage.
"Who am I?" Ciaran echoed. "I am your worst nightmare—the reason you keep that pathetic pistol beneath your pillow at night, set guards at your doors. Did you really believe such paltry measures could keep me away?" Was it possible for the man to blanch any whiter?
"J-James?" Butler stammered, shrinking back. "No! No, you're not... I've never seen you before!" Was there the tiniest hint of relief in the man's face? "Then why—" Butler hesitated.
"You've committed crimes aplenty, Butler. There are many who would fight each other for the chance to put a dagger in your heart, as you well know."
"The guards! Wh-what happened? What did you do to them—kill them?" Sweat slickened his jowly features. "The house must be crawling with rebels."
"I come alone."
"No lone man could get into this room! It's impossible! I made certain.”
Ciaran laughed, the sound brutal. "If you had an army, they could not stop me from fulfilling my quest."
"Q-quest? Who are you? What do you want?"
"I come to give you a choice, Butler. Leave my people in peace, keep their bellies full, their bodies warm, and I might decide to let you live."
"Your people? Y-you have family on my estate? I'll give them the best cottage on my land..." he babbled eagerly. "Anything you want... if you'll just tell me who they are."
"Not one family. All of them. Every poor soul unfortunate enough to live on Butler land."
"All the crofters? You can't be serious! They're like animals—filthy and constantly breeding—"
The dagger bit deep. A line of blood welled above the bright edge of the blade. "Not too filthy for you to take to your bed. Innocent young girls, barely more than children. You rape them and—"
"Not rape! Never rape!" The spark of offense in Butler's eyes nearly cost him his life. "I gave them a choice—"
"Submit to your pawing or have their families flung out to starve on the open road? I will give you the same kind of choice. Do as I tell you, or I will carve up your rotting carcass the way you carved up the lives of those girls."
