Ciaran reeled, remembering the only possession he'd had when Fallon found him—the ancient dagger. From the first it had puzzled him, a mystery he couldn't solve. Was it possible Scargill was right? That it had belonged to him even as a boy? Yet, if it was true, hadn't he been everything Fallon hated? He glanced at her, saw her face, white, strained, every bit as shocked as he was. He wanted to touch her. Couldn't.
"Release Mr. Butler at once," the general ordered, "and offer him a gentleman's apology, Captain Redmayne. Sixteen years ago, James Butler was known as one of the bravest men in the king's navy, blooded in countless battles. You should thank God these people delivered the real Silver Hand into your custody before this innocent man died in his place."
Redmayne's gaze flashed from Scargill to Fallon, Hugh to Maeve McGinty and back to Ciaran as if they were the teeth of a trap snapping shut around his neck.
"Do it at once, Captain!" Scargill snapped.
Redmayne sketched them a stiff bow. "I regret not having been more... thorough... in my investigation." Ciaran's jaw clenched. He was certain the captain did regret it—that he'd not built up unshakable evidence, so that Ciaran would hang.
Fallon struggled to smile at the general. "Thank you so much for saving my husband's life. I am most grateful."
"You mean to tell me that this man married you, and he didn't even know his name?" The general turned to Ciaran, his features taut with distaste. "Tawdry business, this marriage—and to an Irishwoman no less." He suppressed a shudder. "Never approved of such hasty alliances. Always regret them in the end. Perhaps you can have it annulled." Scargill brightened at his own suggestion.
Ciaran started to dismiss the notion, then stopped. He tensed. Perhaps he didn't wish to annul their union, but Fallon had married him, not knowing who he was. She'd married a man with no name, a man she'd believed to be an ancient Celtic hero. Yet to marry an Englishman—an enemy, one of the heedless gentry she had loathed. He winced at the memory of her hand, so warm, so filled with love, suddenly falling away, her face so strained.
The general's voice broke through his tangled thoughts. "Now, I've spent a long night's journey anticipating the hanging of the man who killed my nephew. Since I've been cheated of that pleasure, I intend to console myself with more of that brandy you offered me, Captain."
For an instant, Redmayne looked as if he wanted to argue again, but after a moment he only nodded. "Of course, sir. My cellar is at your disposal."
The general turned on the heel of his polished boot, and stalked back into the building. Redmayne stared after him long minutes, then, suddenly, Ciaran was stunned to see a slow smile curve the captain's lips. "It seems you are free, MacDonough—or should I say Butler? I don't know how, but you've won our little game. Not only your life, but you've won a good deal more."
Hugh Delaney laid a hand on Ciaran's arm. "Phineas Butler's estates. With his death, they are rightfully yours."
"Quite an impressive victory. One that includes a particularly fine castle ruin," Redmayne said. "And a wife." His gaze flicked to Fallon, and for a heartbeat something raw glinted in his eyes.
"You wanted her." Ciaran drew her tighter into the protective circle of his arm. "After I died."
Redmayne straightened his cuff. "You needn't look so surly, man. I was hardly going to drag the woman off and ravish her. You, above anyone, know I abhor crude methods. And nothing is more unrefined than taking a woman by force."
Faint amusement played about the corners of the Englishman's mouth. "Do you really think she would have me, even if she'd never met you? A woman like her? Not if I were the last man in Ireland." It was a mockery, a jest. Ciaran might have dismissed it as such if Redmayne's shoulders hadn't sagged just a trifle.
"Go, Butler," the captain ordered. "Take your wife and go. You're free."
The concept was still too incredible to grasp as he faced this man who had been his nemesis, this brilliant, ruthless opponent no one could hope to defeat. A man so single-minded, so fiercely determined, he seemed invincible. Yet now, Redmayne seemed to be surrendering, letting go of the enmity, as if it had no more substance than ashes carried in the wind.
"Why?" Ciaran knew he was a fool to ask it. Somehow, he couldn't stop himself. "We both know Phineas Butler was no Silver Hand. Why are you doing this for us? Or are you merely waiting for another time to strike again?"
"No. You are quite safe." The hard line of Redmayne's mouth softened, something flickering in the captain's inscrutable eyes. A strange sensation swept through Ciaran, as if for the first time the dreaded captain had allowed him a glimpse, just a glimpse of the man behind the smooth marble mask. "Perhaps I've grown bored with this whole business." Redmayne gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
Fallon spoke softly. "Or maybe, just maybe, the magic of the castle touched you, too?"
The slightest flush darkened Redmayne's cheekbones, his eyes hooded. "Don't be absurd. The notion is laughable. Come, madam, surely your Irish castle wouldn't spare any magic on the English soldier who attempted to destroy it?"
But he didn't wait for Fallon's response. Instead, he turned and signaled to the soldiers nearby. "Take Silver Hand to the stable until the general decides what to do with the body. And give these people a moment alone. It isn't every day a man is given a second chance at life, MacDonough. I've never envied any man before, but I believe I could learn to envy you."
The soldiers hastened to do his bidding, and Redmayne turned away. Ciaran slipped one arm about Fallon as they watched the officer mount the stairs, his back ramrod straight, his austere features still hinting at ruthlessness. And yet, an aura of something painfully solitary clung to him, something Ciaran knew both he and his lady understood far too well.
A hush fell over the little cluster of people gathered outside the garrison. Within moments, they were alone.
Ciaran turned to Fallon, still reeling from all that had happened, feeling as if ghostly hands had drawn the noose away from his neck. A life he'd surrendered for her already in his heart, returned to him.
"Fallon, I still don't believe this—it's too incredible. I'm free. Free."
She held his hand, tight, so tight, as if she were trying to feel the very beating of his heart, and he felt the dampness of her tears against his chest.
"Lady," he breathed against her meadow-scented hair, "however did you manage this?"
"Hugh was going to ride in as Silver Hand. Don't be angry. We had to try it. We were on our way here, yet so afraid something might go wrong, when we saw something wash up on the shore. You know Hugh. Even though he was coming to rescue you, he couldn't just turn away from anyone who might need his help. When we got there, it was too late. We found Butler, dead. Maeve and her family happened on us moments later."
