His hands tightened on the brooch. Blast, why didn't Redmayne send for him? Get this debacle over with once and for all?
It was as if some unseen force answered his plea. The sudden scraping of the bolt being flung back made him hasten to tuck away the precious gifts Fallon had given him. He turned to face the door.
Ciaran's eyes widened in surprise. What the blazes?
Redmayne himself stood there, his lean, aristocratic features oddly strained. His eyes that seemed able to strike dread into anyone who saw them glittered, piercing. "The general has arrived. He's waiting in my office."
"At last. Good." Ciaran stiffened, relief warring in him with despair. His judge and executioner awaited. It was time to make an end. "We can finish this, once and for all."
"It's not quite that simple." Redmayne grimaced. "I don't know why I am surprised. Nothing ever is in this infernal land."
Trepidation thrummed through Ciaran, suspicion overpowering his sense of relief. By all appearances Redmayne had come to fetch him to meet with the general, but why? He had countless underlings to tend to such menial tasks. Something was wrong. "What do you mean things aren't that simple?"
"Just that I was forced to leave the general in my office with a bottle of my best brandy until I could get some rather, er, unforeseen difficulties untangled. It seems you are not the only Silver Hand in Glenceo."
"Not the only—what the blazes?" Ciaran's throat went dry.
"The fates have delivered a second Silver Hand into our custody."
"A second?" Ciaran demanded. "Who?" But there could only be one person brave enough, foolhardy enough to take such a risk. Hugh—it had to be Hugh—captured in some mad attempt to free him. Ciaran closed his eyes, panic racing through him. No! He'd find some way to get Hugh out of this, Ciaran vowed to himself. There still had to be time.
"It's some sort of hoax, some sort of... of prank," Ciaran reasoned desperately. "I am Silver Hand! I confessed! Why else would I put a noose around my neck?"
"Why indeed?" Redmayne asked softly.
"Question this imposter and you'll see the truth!"
"Unfortunately, I am having a bit of difficulty interrogating this prisoner at present."
"Your sergeant misplace his cat-o'-nine-tails?"
Something unreadable flashed into Redmayne's eyes. "Even such crude methods would have little effect in this case."
"Why?"
Redmayne's gaze seemed to bore through Ciaran. "Because the man is dead."
Sick horror welled up in Ciaran, his hands knotting into fists. "Who—who is it?"
"I don't know yet. Some Irish peasants brought him in a cart. I thought you should be present for the unveiling. After all, it is your life that hangs in the balance. Come with me."
Ciaran followed Redmayne down the corridor, up the stairs, grief and fury already pulsing inside him. Damn Hugh! He'd begged the man to leave things as they were, not to endanger his own life and the lives of everyone who depended on him. But the honorable fool hadn't listened! And now, the instant the mask was pulled from his face, Fallon would lose everything she owned, everyone she loved. The tenants who had trusted in Delaney protection for generations would be cast into the hands of another landlord, one who might well be brutal and cruel, or, if they were lucky, only benignly neglectful. Fury surged through him at the incredible waste of it.
He stepped into the courtyard, blinking fiercely against the bright light, or was it the sting of something akin to tears? A ragged group of people clustered around a crude cart, the one-eared donkey in its traces restive, scenting death.
Ciaran caught a glimpse of blue, saw a familiar face among them. Maeve McGinty, wearing the cloak he had given her the night Fallon had found him by the castle. She leaned on the arm of the most beautiful young woman Ciaran had ever seen—a maid with hair like moonshine and eyes wise and knowing, a babe cradled against her breast. A tall, handsome man held the donkey's rope halter, and from the glance that passed between him and the young woman, there could be no doubt he was her husband.
"Ye might want to be hurryin', yer worship," Maeve said, without giving Ciaran so much as a glance. "Goin' to me wee grandbaby's namin' ceremony, we were, and there's a grand celebration waitin' fer us."
"You'll get there soon enough," Redmayne said. "Where did you find this man?"
"Washed up with the tide, he did. Heard ye kept another man prisoner in his place, and there was to be a hangin' and all. Even our wee Eve's celebration couldn't keep us from bringin' the villain here. How would it look to yer fine general, ye hangin' the wrong man?"
"That remains to be seen. MacDonough has confessed."
Ciaran stalked to the side of the cart, peered over the rough wood edge. There lay a figure swathed from head to toe in a length of sailcloth. Unable to endure another moment of wondering, he grasped the cloth, ripped it back from the corpse's head. His stomach plunged. The features were obscured by a water-sodden mask of shimmery silver—the mask he'd discovered in the priest hole the first night he'd come to Misthaven. A piece of the fantasy world Fallon had created as a lonely, motherless child.
Heartsick, he drew the mask off the corpse's face. The world tilted on its axis, and he clutched the side of the cart to keep his knees from buckling as he stared into the face of the one they'd claimed was Glenceo's smuggler king.
