If Ciaran was Silver Hand, he needed to know the truth before he plunged deeper into a future with his lady love. And if he was not Silver Hand, he needed to warn the smuggler that Redmayne was determined to see him hang. His jaw clenched at the memory of Tom Dunne's words: the books on the doorstep to fill the greedy minds of his children, the shoes left for those in need. Silver Hand, a guardian angel, hunted now by the most ruthless of men. There must be some way to keep him alive.
He glanced at the window, the sky beyond tinted with the first lavender ribbons of twilight. He needed to slip away from Fallon without her suspecting what he was up to. But how? They'd lived for each other, these past, precious days. He'd barely been able to endure letting her out of his sight.
Now how was he supposed to explain the fact that he didn't want her anywhere near him for the next few hours? After a moment, he cleared his throat, but that didn't change the bitter taste he had in his mouth because he was about to lie. "Fallon, love, I thought I'd ride out for a bit, see if I can find Hugh. He said he was going to Tom Dunne's to talk about adding another room onto their cottage."
She let the stitching fall to her lap. Her eyes brightened. "I'll ride with you. If you'll wait just a moment—"
"No!" His voice sounded brusque even to his own ears. He saw her eyes widen in surprise, a hint of hurt about her lips. "Fallon, forgive me, it's just..." He paced to the window, groping for some logical reason to explain his snappishness. "It's time I took my place here, on Misthaven. Found some sort of... work to occupy myself. I've been lounging around on your brother's charity far too long."
Her laugh was a little ragged about the edges. "You've only been here a few weeks," she said, setting her sewing aside. "Give yourself time to settle in. Hugh doesn't mind."
"Perhaps not, but I do. I need something useful to do. To feel as if I'm giving something back in return for food and shelter, the new clothes, everything you and Hugh have given me. I need to take care of you myself, provide for you as a man should. Is that so hard to understand?"
"No. But that still doesn't explain why you don't want me to ride with you," Fallon said softly. Trust his lady of the mist to cut straight through his babble to the main point. For such a dream-spun maiden, she could be practical at the most inconvenient times. Her hand drifted down to rest on his arm.
Ciaran pulled away, driving his fingers back through his mane of hair, hating himself for this ruse. Yet it was based on truth, wasn't it? Could Fallon even guess what it cost him not to be able to give her a home, provide her with the things she needed, books filled with adventures for her to dream upon, sweets to tempt her with as he eased her down onto a bed he had provided for her, a cradle where she could sing Gaelic lullabies to the babes given life from their love?
Yet, it sickened him to use that truth in order to manipulate her.
"This is something Hugh and I need to work out between us ourselves, Fallon." He tried to gentle his voice, failed. "It would shame me to have you hovering over me as if I were a helpless boy."
The hurt in her eyes deepened, and Ciaran hated himself for putting it there.
"Fallon, Fallon, Fallon," he breathed, drawing her into his arms. "Don't you know I'd rather surrender my last drop of blood than hurt you? But I have to make my place in your world if I am ever to be able to stay. I have to make it alone."
He could feel her reluctance, the stiffness in her spine, a subtle resistance, but after a moment she shrugged. "Men. You'll probably get lost if you go to search for Hugh, and—"
"If I do, it's my own problem." His mouth hardened, doubtless Fallon thought from stubborn male pride. "I won't have my wife trailing after me. Blast it, I've felt so inept ever since you found me, I need to do this alone."
He wished she would yank herself away from him, storm off in a temper. He wished she would tell him he was an ungrateful wretch and could go to the devil. It might have made him feel a little better to get the dressing-down he deserved, and his lady wife could tear anyone down to their knees when she had a mind to.
But she dealt him a punishment infinitely worse.
Trusting, vulnerable, more than a little hurt, she gazed up at him. "I-I suppose I have been demanding all of your time, and there's nothing more annoying than a clinging wife. It's just that, it's so wonderful having someone to talk to, someone to touch, that I suppose I got greedy."
"Fallon—" Ciaran protested, unable to bear her sudden aura of uncertainty. For a moment he considered telling her the truth. Only the fact that she'd follow him into danger stopped him. He traced the sweep of rose darkening her cheekbones, wishing he could scoop her up into his arms, carry her to their bedchamber and love every shard of doubt away.
"Fallon," he breathed, his voice ragged. "You're more than I could ever deserve in a wife. Please, just try to understand."
She brushed a lock of hair back from his brow, the slightest touch of her fingers infinitely sweet. "All right. I'll stay home and stitch like a good wife." She made a wry face. "I have to pick apart this last seam anyway. I stitched the armhole closed."
She surprised a laugh from him, one filled with love, with pain, with the sudden fear of losing her. "You don't have to do anything to be my wife except... love me." He cupped her cheeks in his palms, and tasted her lips—their flavor so familiar, yet always so new.
When he drew away, she gave him a tremulous smile. "Strange," she said, "who would have believed that after only two weeks, I would have forgotten."
"Forgotten what, treasure?"
She touched his lips. "You've made me forget how to be alone."
Could any words have cut him more deeply? Ciaran drew away, strode from Misthaven House, hating the lies he'd told, the hurt he'd caused, the wounds he'd unwittingly opened. And the trust he was about to betray. As he spurred his horse into the deepening twilight, he vowed that once this night was over, he'd make it up to Fallon. He would come to their bed, take her into his arms, and spend the rest of forever loving her.
But tonight belonged to the shadows, the subtle sense of danger. Tonight he would confront the smuggler Silver Hand. He only hoped he didn't discover that the dread lord of smugglers was himself.
* * *
Violet shadows spreadin thick pools about the underbrush, the first faint glimmer of stars barely visible in the evening's veil as Ciaran dismounted outside the castle and found the hidden entryway. Torch in hand, from Fallon's store of supplies, he made his way into the souterrains. Yet the winding passages seemed far different without his lady leading the way, like a fairy maid guiding some ancient hero away from an enchantress's cave. The objects were still where he remembered them, treasures of other lives in other ages. But this time, his footsteps seemed to echo through the tunnels as he drew closer to Silver Hand's hidden lair.
Twice he nearly fell into traps set centuries ago, and once he barely avoided stepping on something alive as it scurried past. But he scarcely noticed. He could hear something, down in the bowels of the place. Low, tension-filled voices, the scrape of boots, the thunk of what must be the boxes full of goods he and Fallon had found there days ago.
