"No mask or cloak?"
"Emblazoned with the smuggler's coat of arms to announce his presence to half the county? No."
"What kind of an outlaw were you, for pity's sake?"
"A damned poor one, by your standards, I'm sure!" A muscle twitched in Hugh's jaw, hurt tempered with infuriating patience darkening his eyes. It was an expression she'd seen far too often before. One that spoke of his sorrow at failing her.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you again, but blast it, Fallon, all I wanted was to sell the wool from my sheep, put clothes on my tenant's backs! I wasn't interested in being written about like Sixteen String Jack or Rob Roy. My best disguise was just being myself. Who would ever suspect me? No one ever saw Silver Hand."
"No one saw you? Then no one would know..." Fallon grasped his arm. "How would the English know you didn't wear some sort of disguise?"
Hugh's brow furrowed. "What the—"
"They wouldn't know, Hugh! If we threw together some sort of—of makeshift costume, put it on and rode, they would think it was Silver Hand." A smile broke over her face. "After all, what kind of smuggler king would run about without hiding his identity?"
"A very inept one," Hugh said, but she could see the spark of hope m his eyes. "But where would we get such a disguise? There isn't time."
"I could fling it together before morning—one of papa's old cloaks, that old silver gauze mask I used to play highwayman in. And a letter—you know, one like the sheriff of Nottingham posted in the Robin Hood legends—'To whom it may concern: No innocent man shall hang in my place.'"
"And this costumed Silver Hand would what? Saunter into Redmayne's office, deliver the missive, then saunter back out?"
"Of course not! We'd have to find another way! But Hugh, at least it's something. It just might work."
Hugh looked at her, grim. "As long as the rider doesn't get caught by Redmayne's soldiers. The place is crawling with them."
"It's a chance we'll have to take," Fallon said.
"But we vowed not to endanger Misthaven. Promised Ciaran. The tenants—"
"That is why we'll have to be incredibly careful. But we can do this, Hugh. I'm certain of it." Her voice cracked, her fingers trembled. "Hugh, I can't lose him."
Hugh stood, gathering her in his arms. "I know, little one. We'll make this work somehow. Together."
She hugged him fiercely, taking comfort in his steadiness, loyalty. Hugh was as solid and unchanging as the cliffs nearCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceo. Why had she never known, all those lonely years before? She drew strength from him, gave him hope in return.
After a moment, she straightened. Sucking in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. "There's only one question left to settle."
"What's that?" Fallon raised her eyes to her brother's troubled face. "Which one of us puts on the cape and mask and rides as Silver Hand?"
* * *
The billowsof the shirt Fallon had stitched should have offered comfort, but the folds she'd labored on so lovingly brought Ciaran no peace. He paced his cell, half wishing Redmayne would let the vindictive sergeant return for another inquisition. It would have been less torture than being alone with his thoughts. Every minute Hugh or Fallon might be concocting some mad scheme to free him. Every hour so much teetered in the balance. Dawn seemed a thousand years away.
What had Redmayne claimed? That all could be ended come morning? Even now, the sun was almost at its crest. It must be nearing noon, and still no word. Nothing except the foreboding knotting his gut, the dread that with each tick of the clock, disaster might be careening closer.
It was treacherous ground he and Fallon and Hugh were treading on, until his trial and the inevitable execution. Redmayne claimed he would be satisfied with the death of Silver Hand. But who could guess what was going on beneath the Englishman's inscrutable mask, what he might be plotting? He was a brilliant strategist with a blazing intellect and an innate ruthlessness no one could mistake. He might be waiting for the exact moment to spring some kind of trap.
And this General Scargill—he might be so hungry for blood he'd not be satisfied with one corpse dangling from the gibbet. And if he were eager for a bloodletting, who better to feed that sort of appetite than the woman who had done all in her power to protect the man condemned as Silver Hand?
Ciaran could stand before Scargill and swear by every god who had ever ruled over Ireland that Fallon knew nothing of his role as the smuggler, but if Redmayne and Scargill chose not to believe him, how could anyone ever prove that she was innocent?
He stalked to the barred window and stared out at the impossibly green hills bathed in buttery rays of sun. Death would be a relief. He vowed he'd embrace it gladly for his lady. And yet, some part of him wanted to cling to life. A man who had had nothing, suddenly with so much to lose.
He took Fallon's handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped the cloak pin she'd believed so firmly had been fashioned for the fairy king. It had been her greatest treasure since her mother had died. Yet, could his lady know that what he found even more precious was the bit of linen she'd wrapped the brooch in?
He held the soft square of cloth to his face. The scent of her, ever so faint, still clung to its folds, and he knew that it would be in his hand when he mounted the scaffold to meet his death.
Soon, he pleaded with the fates. Let it be soon. Before Fallon had time to get into trouble. Before Hugh had too much time to think. Before both these valiant spirits he'd come to love hurled themselves into danger in his name. And they would, if given half a chance.
