"I pledge to you that I'll do all in my power to keep her safe. And this land, these people, they'll be my people, too." Ciaran began, then stilled at a blood-freezing noise—a shriek of terror from somewhere back in the labyrinth, then the sound of flesh and bone slamming into rock far below, the scream cut off as if someone had slit the sufferer's throat.
"Someone's in the tunnel—" Hugh's face paled, his mouth hardened, as voices erupted—English voices, shaken, angry, one clipped, military voice above them all.
Redmayne.
"Forward, you fools, before they escape!"
Ciaran turned to Hugh, stricken. "They must have followed me." Close, they were so damned close, he realized with cold certainty.
"Sir, hurry, to the boats! We have to flee—" Martin choked out, alarmed. But there wasn't room for all of them in the small vessels packed with smuggled goods. Even if there were, they'd never have time to launch the boats and get away. The little vessels were too heavy, too cumbersome.
"A passageway—there's another passageway—" Martin piped up. But even that wouldn't save them.
There was no time. Ciaran knew it instinctively. Redmayne would only close the gap between them, destroy everything—these brave men, the land that Fallon loved, her brother. The fates of all the people in Misthaven were in the hands of Hugh Delaney. If he died...
"Go, damn it," Ciaran snapped. "I'll stay behind and delay them. It's your only hope."
"They'll kill you!" Hugh snarled. "I won't leave."
Ciaran swore, surrendering to the inevitable. He drew back his fist and slammed it into Hugh's jaw. His brother-in-law's eyes widened in surprise, then rolled back as Silver Hand collapsed, unconscious, his head cracking against the stone floor as his men clustered around him.
"Get him the devil out of here," Ciaran ordered. "Or do you all want to hang?"
Moran hoisted his master up, slung him across burly shoulders, the thunder of English boots drawing perilously near. "Sir, I..."
"Go!" He watched them vanish down another tunnel, Martin easing a stone before the opening. Ciaran could only pray that by the time the English found it, they'd be long gone.
Time. He had to find a way to give them the precious time to escape.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, the shouts drawing nearer, the footsteps closing in on the cave. In that frozen instant faces danced behind Ciaran's closed lids—memories, infinitely sweet, new memories, precious ones. Fallon dancing in the moonlight, Tom Dunne with little Caitlin on his shoulders, Maeve placing the flower crown on Fallon's sunset curls, Siobhan Moynihan offering the bit of sugar rock, telling Fallon that love, that life could be sweet, despite the quiet suffering in the Irishwoman's eyes. And Hugh, who had risked everything with quiet heroism.
All these people belonged to Ciaran in a way that brought out all that was best in him. He had found himself again in their eyes. Fierce love and loss burned in his chest.
There was only one way to save everything, everyone Fallon loved. She had tried to summon a hero back from the mist, needed a champion to fight for her. He prayed he had the courage to be that man for her now.
Ciaran turned to face the entryway, his shoulders squared, his jaw hard as Redmayne and his soldiers poured into the stone chamber. He knew exactly what he had to do.
"MacDonough." The slightest hint of triumph curled Redmayne's lips. "I knew if I waited patiently enough, someone would lead me to the smuggler's lair."
Ciaran let go of any hope of forever with Fallon and stared into the face of his nemesis. "My lair, Redmayne. I am Silver Hand."
Chapter 18
Waiting was driving Fallon mad. She glared out at the darkness, apprehensive about the strange restlessness that pulsed through her. Hugh and Ciaran had been gone for hours. Dinner had been readied, a valiant battle fought to keep things warm. But after two hours, even Misthaven's stalwart cook had been forced to surrender, carting the ruined feast back to the kitchen in high dudgeon.
Not that Hugh's absence from the table should have alarmed her. He frequently missed meals because of business affairs that stretched long into the night. But he'd always made certain the servants knew beforehand, and sent his apologies to the kitchen. Yet tonight, not so much as a word had been carried back by some crofter lad. The silence made Fallon skittish as bedamned.
There was no way to even know if Ciaran had found her brother. For all she knew, he might have taken a wrong turn and ridden off a cliff, she thought, struggling to make even the vaguest jest about the situation. But her attempt fell flat, her uneasiness cinching tighter.
Only the echo of Ciaran's words kept her from going out searching herself.
I'll not be shamed by having my wife trail after me.
How could she have been so insensitive, and not realized how difficult the situation must be for a man with Ciaran's pride and sense of honor? Not even to be able to provide for his own wife. No meaningful work to fling his heart into. No place to feel useful.
In penance, she'd tried to respect his wishes, damn the man. She'd spent the long hours making bargains with herself. They would be home by the time she finished stitching an inch of seam for every day she and Ciaran had been married. They would return when the shadow from the moon crossed the rose in the center of the Aubusson carpet. They would be home in ten minutes more.
But neither Hugh nor her husband would be conjured out of the night, no matter what she did.
