Maeve McGinty edged over, her eyes, lost in pockets of delightful wrinkles, sparkling. "It was the most obligin' thing Phineas Butler ever did, drownin' and depositin' himself on that beach. Though he couldn't have been in the water very long. Most unforgivin', the sea can be, when she gives up her dead."
"Fallon was the one who came up with the plan to dress him as Silver Hand," Hugh said, pride shining in his eyes.
"So she did, clever child," Maeve pinched Fallon's cheek. "An' me an' me family, we were jest too happy to help."
"When I think what might have happened if you hadn't found Butler..." Ciaran couldn't suppress a shudder. "If Hugh had been foolish enough to come, they'd have shot him."
"More than likely, I fear," Maeve put in. "Our Mr. Delaney is a good man, me darlin', an' a wise one most of the time, but he's weighted down with honor somethin' terrible. Only one man I ever knew was more so." She patted Ciaran on the cheek. "And as fer the general rememberin' ye—why, it was a fine piece of luck, don't ye think? Hard to believe, if I say so meself."
He should have been relieved, Ciaran knew. Grateful. Without the general's announcement, would he be free right now? And yet, he couldn't help but feel unsettled, as if the revelation chafed him.
"I just wish..." Ciaran frowned, searching for some way to explain. "I should feel something, shouldn't I? Some stirring of recognition? I was in Butler's house, but I felt nothing, no link with it at all, nor with the man himself. And when Scargill said my real name I felt nothing. It's as if—as if it doesn't fit me." Or was it that he wouldn't allow it to fit? Recoiled from owning anything that might drive a wedge between him and Fallon?
"Don't let it trouble ye, me fine darlin'." Maeve's wise eyes seemed to understand not only what he'd said, but what he'd left unsaid. "A mere name could never change the man that ye are. Ye'll get used to it in time, and the crofters, they'll bless ye for it. Ye're a man of means, now. Landlord to plenty who need ye."
Fallon brightened, and she clutched his hand. "We'll be able to help them, Ciaran. Build them new cottages! Make certain they're never hungry, never cold."
"And you, Fallon, you can feed their spirits, their imaginations, spin out the stories they cherish. Stories like Ciaran of the Mist." He reached into his pocket, withdrew the brooch, wrapped in delicate linen.
"I'll do my best by the people on my lands. See them safe. I swear it, by the stones ofCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceo,and by the brooch of the fairy king."
Hugh nodded, too moved for words, a wise ally Ciaran knew he'd need in the days to come. Fallon's face shone with joy. But it was Maeve who held his gaze, her lips smiling.
"Maeve, I—"
"Ye needn't say a word to Maeve McGinty, lad. I know ye better than ye know yerself." She stroked the cloak he had given her on that rain-slick road what seemed an eternity ago.
Ciaran stared into Maeve's ageless eyes, so wise, so merry, so filled with courage and beauty—the face of an aged Celtic goddess despite her ragged clothes. He'd never know what moved him, only that a tribute was due to this woman with inner strength that reminded him of his Fallon, a woman who would never surrender to death the way his own mother had, betraying the boy he had been. Slowly, he dropped to one knee before her, took up her withered hand and brushed it with a kiss.
"What is it ye're doin' that for?" the old woman asked, a lovely blush staining her cheeks.
"To thank you. You were the first to give me a glimpse of myself."
"Caught more than a glimpse of ye, too, in the process, me boy." Her eyes twinkled with tender amusement. "Take yer love back to the castle, back to the cliffs. Ye've won yer freedom now, and yer lady. No hero, be he flesh and blood or woven of legends a thousand years old can ask fer more."
Had he won his lady? Fallon had claimed she loved him, risked her life to save him. Yet, had he lost some precious part of her heart when Scargill had helped him to find himself? A part he would never be able to win again. Because of who he was. Who she was. The possibility was far more terrifying than the prospect of hanging could ever be.
He had to know for certain.
Ciaran held out his hand, closed Fallon's in his own then led her to where Cuchulain was waiting. He mounted the horse then gathered Fallon up before him, holding her in his arms.
They left the garrison behind, with its iron-barred cell and uniformed soldiers.
He carried away something as well—the tiniest seed of doubt.
Chapter 20
Something was wrong. Fallon could sense it, with each ripple of Ciaran's muscles against her as he guided the horse across the fields.
A sea of green embraced them, the salt-scented breeze offering benediction. Cherry blossoms waved on their tangled branches, their loosened petals floating on the wind to spangle her hair and the folds of her gown.
Life had been offered to this man anew. A name—his own. A home—rich enough to care for a wife, for children, as he'd told her he yearned to do so long ago. And yet, unease carved deep into the planes of his face, his eyes dark with some hidden unease.
Scargill had flung open the door to Ciaran's past, given him a place to begin to put his life together again. Why did some part of Fallon want to slam that door shut, to keep things as they were—Ciaran, her husband, her love, conjured as if by magic out of the Castle of the Dancing Mist?
Because she was afraid all this news would change things between them, might make him regret—what?
Having married a wild Irish girl who believed in fairy kings? A woman who had spent a lifetime hating what he was—English.
