"Butler!" Ciaran cried, stunned. "Phineas Butler!"
Even Redmayne couldn't pare away the shock from his voice. "Impossible!"
The thunder of hoofbeats neared, but Ciaran barely heard them as both he and Redmayne stared at the corpse before them. But in an instant, a flurry of skirts and thick flame-bright hair rushed to his side. Fallon's hands clutched his rigid arm.
"We came the instant we heard!" she gasped. "Ciaran, you're free!"
"Fallon, don't—" Fear this chance would be snatched away was far too great for Ciaran to feel anything but stunned. He scarcely dared believe it.
But Fallon had already wheeled away to confront Redmayne. "It's obvious you've made a terrible mistake. Free my husband at once."
Ciaran's heart squeezed. She looked as if she were some Celtic queen of old and no one would dare refuse her command. Yet there was desperation, too, half hidden in the ripe curve of her mouth. Desperation born of love. The knowledge humbled him, and the thought of the pain his lady would suffer if he died terrified him.
"You heard my sister, Redmayne," Hugh said, striding forward. "Release this man at once." Ciaran raised his gaze to the man he'd thought dead, scarcely able to believe—believe what? That sober, responsible Hugh Delaney could be neck-deep in such a crazed plot? Who could have concocted such a mad charade? It seemed even beyond the powers of Fallon's wild imagination.
But would anyone be demented enough to believe that Phineas Butler, that sniveling, whining, cowardly little bully of a man was really the smuggler Silver Hand? Not even an inmate in a mad house could be so crazed.
Redmayne crossed his arms over the breadth of his chest, one brow arching. "How convenient to have Silver Hand delivered mere hours before your husband was to die, madam. It seems a miracle, almost beyond belief, does it not? Of course, Butler here can scarce defend himself, so I've no evidence save a corpse and a somewhat sodden mask that might have been stitched by any woman in three counties." His eyes narrowed on Fallon. "Even you, I would imagine."
Ciaran hazarded a glance at his wife. The tiniest flush darkened her cheekbones. She might as well have flown a banner of guilt.
Ciaran couldn't breathe, his chest was so tight with fear for her. Blood and thunder, did the woman have any idea what kind of penalty she would suffer if Redmayne was able to prove she'd staged this scene? Blast, she'd promised she wouldn't endanger herself or Hugh. He'd believed her love for Misthaven would keep her safe and that Redmayne would see him hanged before she could get into trouble. He should have known better. The instant the woman had left his cell, Ciaran should have found a way to hang himself!
"Don't let your imagination run wild, Redmayne," Ciaran snarled. "My wife had nothing to do with—"
"Captain Redmayne, what is the meaning of this?" The clipped, military voice sounded behind them. Every face in the group turned to where a stocky, florid-faced man with iron gray hair was striding down the stairs, his uniform proclaiming his rank. Scargill. It had to be the general who had come to see Silver Hand die. Now the officer's hawk-like eyes surveyed the scene before him with rank impatience.
Despite the sense of peril, Ciaran took fearsome pleasure in the dark flush that spread across Redmayne's cheekbones.
"General Scargill, sir—" the captain began.
"General, there has been a terrible mistake!" Fallon broke in, trying to hasten to the man's side, but Maeve darted in front of her, the old woman astonishingly spry.
Maeve fluttered over to Scargill, laying one hand on the general's sleeve. "It is just a wee problem we're havin' here, but now you've come, I can take care of it in a twinklin'." She winked at the officer. "We've a bit of misunderstandin', that's what we have here, general darlin'. Yer good captain, here, he—"
The general stared, transfixed, at the old woman, then snatched his arm away as if he'd been struck by lightning, his militant features stunned. Doubtless, he couldn't believe a lowly Irish peasant woman had dared to crease his uniform. "My captain can speak for himself!"
Only the slight restless twitching of one of Redmayne's hands betrayed the captain's unease. "General Scargill, sir, I fear there has been some sort of misunderstanding. A ridiculous ruse played upon us. These people are claiming this is the body of Silver Hand." He gestured toward the cart. "But I knew this man—one Phineas Butler. He was a sniveling coward. If he is Silver Hand, sir, I will gladly swallow every medal that's been pinned on my chest."
Scargill scowled. "You couldn't possibly have made a mistake, Captain?"
"It's simple to make a mistake when one is working such—such long hours as the captain has," Fallon exclaimed, and Ciaran stared at her in shock as she rose to Redmayne's defense. "From the instant Captain Redmayne arrived here, he's been scrambling to bring Silver Hand to justice! Why, he's barely slept, scarcely eaten. It's little wonder he became confused."
"My dear lady," Redmayne began coldly.
But Fallon was a picture of innocence. "You needn't be humble, Captain. Everyone in Glenceo knows how much you've wanted this matter closed. I'm certain the west of Ireland is not the place an ambitious officer like yourself wishes to spend any length of time."
"Are you so eager to leave Ireland, Captain? Eager enough to be slipshod in your work?" the general demanded.
Redmayne's mouth hardened, and Ciaran was stunned to glimpse something like outrage, almost wounded pride in the officer's face. "I do my duty, sir. Follow my orders to the letter. In all my years in the army, I've never left a post until the job I was sent to do was finished—to the best of my ability. I swear on my honor that this man, Ciaran MacDonough, is the criminal we've sought. He is the smuggler. I would stake my life on it."
"Then why is another body lying here?" the general demanded.
"That is what I was attempting to find out when you joined us. This is some sort of trick."
The mere idea flooded the general's face with furious color. "Someone has arranged this charade? Do you mean to tell me that these... people"—the general cast a scathing glance at Maeve and her little family—"dared to mock the king's soldiers by producing a false brigand? Do they have any idea what they will suffer for such insolence?"
Fear for Maeve and her kin shot through Ciaran. "They said they found Butler by the side of the road," he reasoned desperately. "How could they know he was an imposter?"
