When the clock struck one in the morning, she couldn't bear it another moment. Shoving her needlework aside, she grabbed her cloak and plunged into the night. When she reached the stable, Padraic, the new head groom, was in one of the stalls, applying a poultice to a horse's leg.
"Mistress?" The gnome-like man stared at her in surprise. "Is there somethin' I might do for ye?"
"Saddle a horse and tell me exactly where my brother was going."
The little man's face shut tight as a miser's purse strings. "Miss, if I let ye ride out this late and alone, yer brother'd turn me out without a farthing, and I'd not blame him."
She glared at the Padraic. "It's nearly one in the morning. I'm afraid something is wrong."
"With the master? No. Ye know how he is. Always ridin' about, turnin' his hand to whatever needs doin'. More'n likely he and yer new bridegroom are sittin' watch over the birth of Tom Dunne's calf, or helpin' thatch a roof what's leakin'. And those ships o' his—tends them like a mama duck with a raft of wee ones."
"My husband hasn't returned either, and he doesn't know the countryside at all. Now, saddle my horse, or I'll—"
The sudden sound of horse's hooves made her stop, and she pressed her hand to her heart in relief. "They're back."
"Aye, miss. Told ye there were no use in worryin'—" Padraic began, but suddenly, he stilled. "It is a wagon I'm hearin'. And it's comin' fast. Master Hugh and yer husband were on horseback."
Alarm tightened in Fallon, and she turned, ran out into the torch-lit stable yard. What she saw made her knees tremble. Young Martin Feeney, white-faced, driving the horses like a madman, while bulky Phelan Moran sat in the back of the cart, pistols drawn, his gaze searching the road behind them.
"What is it? What's wrong?" she cried.
Martin yanked on the reins so clumsily the horse shied, nearly oversetting the wagon. "It is Master Hugh. He's hurt."
Fallon's stomach plunged. "Hugh!" She scrabbled up into the back of the wagon, saw her brother there, face ashen, a wicked, purpling bruise on his jaw.
"Padraic, send someone for the doctor."
"No. No. Can't..." Her brother grasped her arm. "F-Fallon. Oh, God, no." The sight of her seemed to stir him. He struggled to sit up. "Moran, why bring me here?"
"Where else would he bring you? Hugh, you're making no sense."
"Dangerous... too..."
"Nothin' else to do but bring ye here," Moran snapped. "All Glenceo is crawlin' with soldiers, and ye know damned well they'll end up here eventually. Ye'd better be in yer nightshirt and cap when they come."
"Soldiers? Redmayne? Did they do this to him?"
"No,” Moran said, climbing out of the wagon and dragging Hugh into his arms as if he were no more than a boy. "It was yer bridegroom what done it. Wicked right cross to the jaw, and his lights blinked out like somebody snuffin' a candle."
Fallon tried to grasp the crotchety Irishman's words. "Ciaran did this? Why? Where is he?"
Hugh struggled against Moran's iron hold, agitated. "C-Ciaran. We have to... to help him. Won't let him..." Hugh's unsteady gaze snagged on Fallon's face, and his features contorted in anguish, fear and regret. "Sorry... so sorry... I tried not to... let him..."
Fallon could scarcely breathe. The night was closing in, her fears clawing inside her. "Hugh, where is Ciaran?"
"Get dressed. I'll take you t-to him. Promise... won't let him die."
"Die?" A sob rose in her throat. "Tell me where he is!"
"Redmayne captured him. My fault. All my fault. Took him prisoner."
"But why?"
Martin climbed down, his beardless face young and frightened. "We heard on the way here, miss. Yer husband—he confessed to bein' Silver Hand."
"Confessed? Silver Hand?" Fallon echoed, reeling. "But... but he said he was going out to help Hugh."
Hugh struggled from Moran's grasp, stood braced against the crude wagon, wobbling on his feet. A chill worked through Fallon as she looked into his face, so pale and grim. "He did find me, Fallon. In the lair under the castle."
