Ciaran swallowed hard. How did one announce oneself to a band of smugglers without them doing something rash like blowing one's head off with a pistol ball? He might have figured out some sort of smuggler etiquette in time, but something slammed down on the back of his head.
Pain exploded through his skull, the torch flying from his hand in a rain of sparks. He plunged face-down on the ground, a black tide of unconsciousness trying to pull him under as a cacophony of sounds rang in his ears—angry shouts, the hastening of footsteps.
"Should'a jest killed him—saved the trouble of havin' to throw him into the sea to drown," a voice snarled. "Cursed spies pokin' everywhere!"
Another voice, younger, objected. "And have Silver Hand take me own head? Ye know how he feels about the killin'."
"What he don't know won't hurt him, I say. Somebody has to see he doesn't hang! Too soft fer his own good, is Silver Hand. Roll the blighter over and see who 'e is." Rough hands closed on Ciaran's shoulders, and with a brutal yank, he was on his back, staring up into faces garishly lit by his own torch.
"You!" The younger of the two gasped. "Holy mother of God, Moran, ye fool! It is ye who'll be hangin' now, and Silver Hand'll be tyin' the noose!"
"How was I to know—" The burlier of the two protested in alarm.
"You... know who I am?" Ciaran choked out, a sick twisting in his stomach. His worst fears were realized: he was somehow linked to this place, these smugglers, a criminal to be hunted.
"O-of course. D'ye take me fer a fool? I'm passin' sorry this happened, sir. It is a calamity, this is. Pure disaster."
What was a disaster? Ciaran wondered through the thundering haze of pain that used to be his head. Cracking the smuggler king over the head with the butt of a pistol? Why the devil couldn't he remember he belonged here?
He struggled to sit up, and the younger of the two was quick to help him, brushing the dirt off his clothes with the eager desperation of a rambunctious boy who'd just overset the parish priest in his mother's dust heap.
"It's true, then." Ciaran's shoulders sagged, and he stared at the ground, fingers pressed to his nape, warm with his own blood. "I am... Silver Hand."
The sudden crunch of a boot sounded behind him, and a low voice, stunningly familiar, reverberated through the cave. "No. I am."
Ciaran tried to wheel toward the sound, but the world still heaved and swayed. For a heartbeat, he didn't believe his eyes. But his vision cleared, the image still remained, standing tall, with world-weary eyes the color of Fallon's.
"Hugh," Ciaran breathed in disbelief.
Hugh Delaney moved farther into the light. He was garbed all in black, face smudged with soot. Twin pistols were shoved into the waistband of his breeches, and a sword hung from his side. How many men had felt the bite of that blade? Ciaran wondered. But even here, in his lair, Hugh looked distinctly uncomfortable in the guise of Silver Hand.
"It's all right, Martin, Moran," Hugh said in a tired voice. "Fetch my brother-in-law a cold cloth for his head."
The two men hesitated for a moment, reluctant, and Ciaran could see by the hero worship in their eyes that they would plunge headfirst into a school of sharks before they'd betray their leader. Loyalty. A fierce protectiveness. Yet, also a blind faith that made Ciaran's throat tighten. The look of men who would follow their leader through a wall of fire, and gladly. Memory flickered. Men had peered up at Ciaran that way once—as if he could defeat dragons. The responsibility had terrified him.
Ciaran contained himself until the pair of smugglers disappeared deeper into the cave, then burst out. "What the blazes are you doing here, Hugh? A smuggler? Blast, I still can scarce believe it."
"I know it's difficult. Stolid, boring, plodding Hugh Delaney is Silver Hand." Hugh gave a laugh, half bitter, half amazed. "I can hardly believe it myself. The question is, how did you find me here? Did you follow me?"
"Fallon brought me through the labyrinth the day after we were married. She found me here at the castle, and we both thought that I might be Silver Hand."
"Of course Fallon brought you." Hugh shook his head in affection and irritation. "Blast that girl, she's made it pure hell from the beginning trying to keep my identity a secret. She can be damned tenacious."
Realization dawned. Ciaran straightened, staring at his brother-in-law as if for the first time. "You knew from the first that I wasn't the smuggler. That is why you allowed me into your home."
"You'd make a far better lord of the smugglers than I do, that's certain. It's a position that calls for a sense of the dashing, the daring I could never hope to achieve. But I could hardly let Redmayne hang you in my place for the sake of appearances."
"Why risk hanging in the first place? You have to know what kind of danger you've put yourself in. Redmayne is hunting you. He'd sell his soul to see you on a hangman's gibbet."
"Doubtless he'll succeed eventually. Or someone else will. Until then, I do what I have to do."
"Do what you have to do? That makes no sense! The master of an estate like Misthaven turned smuggler. Why?"
"I'm certain Fallon hasn't told you about our father."
"She said he deserted you after your mother died."
Hugh's eyes widened in surprise. "She's never spoken of that to anyone I know of. Especially not me. She's pretended none of it mattered—Mother's death, Father's desertion. I always worried about her, keeping all that hurt locked up so tight. Thank God she trusted somebody enough to give them the key. I-I was never very good at comforting her."
