Her Magic Touch (Celtic Rogues Book 3), Page 3

  It took all her strength of will not to glance in the direction of the secret entrance to the tunnels that wound beneath the castle.

  For generations, the labyrinth had given shelter to those in need. Priests had sought shelter there when they were hunted down like dogs, and scholars had struggled down beneath the castle, reading forbidden books in the time when English law forbade any Catholic to learn to read.

  It was a haven for rebellion, where time after time men had sharpened rusty swords and hoarded questionable ammunition, readying themselves to throw off English rule. It was there the tattered remnants of defeated rebel armies had staggered, to tend their wounds before fleeing to France. And there, in the dark tunnels beneath Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, their sons and their sons' sons had drawn out the battered weapons, brushed off the dust and taken up the battle again.

  Five years had passed since the last rising, and the scars were still visible in the land—the hollow-eyed grief of mothers who had watered Irish soil with the blood of their children, the whipping trees where the lash had fallen on innocent and guilty alike, and always the crushing poverty, the English stranglehold on any trade that might leave Irish shores.

  Was it possible that someone might be in the souterrains tonight? Fallon wondered, dread tightening her throat. No. It was Beltane tonight. Most likely everyone was at the celebrations, the tunnels empty.

  But would anyone be truly safe in these glens until Lionel Redmayne was far away?

  "If you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way." She started to stride past but, with a deceptively negligent shift of booted legs, Redmayne blocked her way.

  "I must repeat my warning. Even now I am searching for a most elusive fellow—not some bumbling crofter thrashing about with his grandfather's rusted musket, but an adversary far more subtle. He is as insubstantial as your precious Irish mist. No one sees his face, and yet he leaves his mark everywhere. Known rebels about to be taken up by the soldiers disappear, never to be seen again. Families whose men have died on the gallows, or who have fled like the base cowards they are, suddenly produce their rent money just before the landlord is about to evict them. From Dingle to Galway, people whisper of him, but no one, not even under the most persuasive torture, has ever given him a name except Silver Hand—a ridiculous sobriquet."

  Fallon had heard of the mysterious force that had done so much good the past five years. But the people of Glenceo were as ignorant of his identity as the English. She'd tried, herself, to discover who he was and had failed, just as everyone else had. The only ones to see Silver Hand had been his own men, and they were as elusive as their master.

  "I understand this person has kept the garrison chasing its tail for an embarrassing length of time."

  "Indeed. I intend to change that. He has made a fatal mistake. Killed my predecessor, a general's nephew. You, of course, would offer any help you could give. You might have seen something?"

  "You are the only person I've met tonight."

  "Little wonder, considering the weather. I'm certain you understand my curiosity, Miss Delaney, finding a lady such as yourself out on such an unpleasant evening. Exactly where are you bound for? Are you an angel of mercy braving the coming storm? Have you succumbed to a pressing need to deliver calf s foot jelly at this late hour?"

  Even through the haze of darkness she could feel the probing of those unnerving eyes.

  "No, you couldn't be on a mission of mercy," Redmayne answered his own question. "You're carrying no basket. Besides, who would live here on the cliffs except, of course, spirits of the dead, and legends that should have faded away generations ago?"

  She feared he'd see the pounding of her heart beneath the bluebell muslin of her walking dress. "I often walk at night," Fallon said. "The castle is beautiful in the mist. It's quiet here. A place where one can be alone, think. Or is thinking against the law now, Captain?"

  "That depends." His voice felt like fingers trying to pry into her mind. "During my visits with your neighbors, they've mentioned that you have some rather unsavory acquaintances among the peasantry. That can be very dangerous, Miss Delaney."

  Fallon swallowed hard, images flashing behind her eyes. Uilleann pipes filling the night air with haunting refrains, sweet Irish tenors weaving ballads filled with heartache and hope that never died. Hushed whispers that were already rising among the young men— fight again... die again... this time, perhaps, the sacrifice will be enough. Freedom.

  Dangerous? Perhaps. But only with these simple crofters did she feel truly alive.

  It was obvious the man wasn't going to let her leave until she gave him some reason for her outing tonight.

  Best to stick as close to the truth as possible to keep from stumbling. "I happen to love storms. The power of them, the wildness. I often go to the cliffs to watch them."

  "And your brother allows it? A guardian should take better care of his ward."

  "My brother has more pressing concerns."

  "A pity. A young woman of your kind needs guidance. Women are so easily moved by romantic tales and such nonsense, they can easily be led astray."

  He shoved himself away from the wall and started pacing, running his fingertips over the stones as if searching for some weakness in the structure—or for the loosened brick that had hidden Fallon's treasure.

  "I was told that torchlight often flickers here, late at night, have you ever seen that?"

  Fallon shook her head.

  His teeth flashed, white, in a feral smile. "I fear I'm never able to resist solving a puzzle, Miss Delaney. And this place puzzles me exceedingly."

  "It's a castle ruin, just like so many others."

  "This is no ordinary castle, or so the simple folk say. It's supposed to house some sort of ghost—a hero who is doomed to return generation after generation to perform epic feats. Abominable waste of energy, in my opinion. If he fixed things right the first time, he wouldn't have to keep coming back to do the job again. But then, you know all about this Ciaran of the Mist person, don't you, Miss Delaney, despite the ignorance you feign? The legend is linked somehow with your family."

  He was watching for the slightest shift in her features. Fallon swallowed hard. "You don't strike me as the type of man who believes in fairy tales, Captain Redmayne."

  She surprised a laugh from him. "No, I am not. I expected a nest of smugglers, or rebels or gypsies at the very least—not a wayward young woman, or a mythical hero. But I do believe in learning everything I can about my adversary, Miss Delaney."

  God in heaven, Redmayne did know or at least suspect that the smugglers were linked to Caislean ag Dahmsa Ceo? He must. What could she possibly do to distract him, turn him away?

  "You aren't likely to learn anything of value here, Captain Redmayne. The castle has been abandoned for almost two hundred years."

  "You disappoint me, Miss Delaney. I had begun to hope you were a lady of some intuition and subtlety. From the moment we English set foot on Irish soil, this island has been nothing but a hornet's nest of trouble. Even now, I can feel the hum of rebellion, just beneath the surface, waiting to break free. I think it is time we put an end to this countless round of revolution and destruction."

  "Then pack up your soldiers and go back to England."

  "And let your good friends the French sail in? Set up camp such a short way from English beaches? I think not. No. I'm afraid I must take another tack. A more permanent one."

  "After six hundred years, you believe you have the answer?"

  He met her gaze with such calm certainty it chilled her to the bone. "Astonishingly enough, I do. Men think countries can be subdued with pistols and swords, but that's not true. Bloodshed only crowns more martyrs to feed the fires of rebellion later on. If you want to destroy your enemy once and for all, you must look into his soul. Every man—or woman—every people has a weakness, some fatal flaw. Apply the right pressure to that vulnerable point and they shatter."

  Sweat trickled down Fallon's spine, her fingers trembling wher
e they clutched the brooch. Ireland had faced formidable adversaries before. But even devil Cromwell who had swept through Ireland in the seventeenth century like the horsemen of the Apocalypse could not have been more dangerous than the man who stood before her now.

  "One can reassemble broken pistols, smuggle more ammunition ashore. One can even grow more sturdy sons to take up their fathers' place in battle. But if you burrow into a peoples’ soul and destroy the very essence of who they are, they'll lose the will to fight back. Rebellion will be at an end, not just for a decade, but forever." Redmayne's theory was hellishly clever. Terrifyingly true.

  His voice dropped low. "You wonder what I'm doing here tonight, Miss Delaney? Searching for the soul of the Irish. And I think—" His fingers ran over weather-pitted walls. "—I have found it."

  "I can't imagine what you mean."

  "The trouble with Ireland, Miss Delaney, is this absurd clinging to past glories. Tales of high kings and heroes that have been dead for centuries. Every urchin who can lisp can recite three hours of tales about such nonsense. The people behave as if those feats happened yesterday at the site of their own pigsty. It's time they faced the truth—that natural order placed them where they are. They need to stare into the mirror and see what they are—dirt-scraping, illiterate beggars, the offal on the boot soles of those who now rule, tolerated only because one cannot find an expedient way of scraping them off."

  "You English were still painting your faces blue when the Irish held all the learning of the world in their hands!"

  "Ah, yes. I had forgotten. That is your overriding flaw, isn't it, Miss Delaney? You are tainted by Irish blood. A high enough crime, in the eyes of many. Of course, according to the local gentry with their ties to England, your unforgivable sin is that you take pride in it."

  Her chin jutted up. "I could not care less what that pack of greedy, pompous fools think of me!"

  "Perhaps not. But it's obvious you do care about this island, the people here. This... place." His gaze swept the castle, as if it held every secret in her heart. "This entire country is littered with standing stones, ancient dolmens, tombs of warriors long dead. Castles, like this one, towering over their meager little cottages, whispering to them of past greatness. A greatness they believe they can achieve again, if they only have the courage to reach out, take it."

  He understood them, Fallon knew with a sick clenching in her stomach. Understood these people she loved, this land of mist and magic and dreams no sword could cut down. To be understood so completely by such an enemy was terrifying.

  But the Irish had clung to the past with astonishing tenacity, through the most horrendous trials imaginable. One lone Englishman couldn't destroy what they'd built over a thousand years. "You cannot obliterate a people's history, Captain."

  "Perhaps not. But I wonder how many of your precious Irish would recall the ancient stories without constant reminders?"

  "Reminders?"

  "What would happen, Miss Delaney, if there were not a ring of standing stones in their pasture, or a dolmen halfway up their hill? If fairy rings and castles steeped in legend no longer existed?"

  She froze, staring into the chasm of that possibility. Ireland without the ancient stones carved with pagan symbols, Ireland without the whispering of ages past. It would become a place hollow-eyed with hopelessness. She must not betray that to this man with his fiendish gift for peering into the soul.

  She tossed her hair and gave a scornful laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. "You should send a missive to the king regarding this brilliant plan, Captain Redmayne. Considering the massive debt left from the war in the Americas, I'm certain His Majesty would be overjoyed to pay an army while they tumble piles of rock God knows where. I only wish I could be present when you explain your strategy to your superior. Is there a military ceremony for being stripped of one's rank?"

  Even white teeth flashed in the moonlight. The sick knot tightened in Fallon's gut.

  "It's been most illuminating speaking with you tonight, Miss Delaney. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance. You'll forgive me if I confess that I can't recall when I've been this intrigued by a lady."

  The words unnerved her, and she could almost feel him reaching out to her with his razor-sharp intellect, trying to untangle the tightest secrets in her breast. Her hand trembled, the brooch she held suddenly seeming like a ridiculous bauble to fend off such a man.

  He sketched her a bow, then turned and walked back out into the night. Fallon shifted to peer out the empty eye of a window, watching as he mounted his horse, guided it into the mist. She listened, long after horse and rider disappeared, tracing the fading sound of hoofbeats, straining to hear them over the thundering of her heart and the crash of the sea.

  But was he really gone?

  Heaven above, what was she going to do? The castle, the standing stones ripped from the earth? It would be like tearing out Ireland's soul. But what could she do to stop him? It would take a miracle. A miracle...

  The edges of gold bit into her hand, the wicked-looking pin thrusting through the brooch and drawing blood. She stared down at it, as if she had never seen it before.

  Had the old ones who watched over Ireland made certain she learned of Redmayne's diabolical plan tonight? On Beltane, the one night of all Ciaran could be summoned from the mist?

  He can appear only once every three hundred years... her mother's warning echoed through her. When things are most desperate.

  But what could be more desperate than this threat, hovering over Glenceo? And once Redmayne's plan worked, once the English high command saw the effect it had, wouldn't the destruction spread throughout the whole island, sucking the life from it, the way consumption had drained the life from her mother?

  Madness. Was she stepping into madness? Or reaching out for a miracle? Even now, she wasn't certain which.

  She only knew one thing.

  She had to find a way to stop Redmayne before it was too late. Ireland needed Ciaran. Desperately.

  And what if she bumbled? Made a mistake? So many years had passed since her mother had spun out the instructions for summoning the hero from the mist. What if Fallon had forgotten something vital? Worse still, what if the tale of Ciaran was nothing but pretty words, a mother's attempt to soothe her grieving child, to make her feel safe?

  The thought twisted in Fallon, spilling hurt in its wake, and understanding. But the ancient brooch felt heavy. Real. If only the legend had as much substance. Soon she would know for certain.

  Did she dare even attempt to summon Ciaran now? The thought of Redmayne's inscrutable eyes watching from the shadows as she performed the rite made her cheeks burn. If she failed he'd be so amused.

  No. She had to do this as quickly as she could. Surely a legend could dispatch one English captain.

  Fallon hurried to the stone hearth and laid the brooch upon fire-blackened stone. She cast a desperate glance toward the windows. What had Mama said? That the light of the full moon would strike the jewels? But it was so misty, the silvery light a darting, uncertain thing. What if it never touched the jewels at all?

  This was crazed. And yet, they needed Ciaran more than ever now, to battle an adversary like Redmayne.

  Mama had said to call Ciaran with her heart, her soul. She settled for her lungs. "Blast it, Ciaran, wherever you are, we need you! Please, for God's sake—" But they'd been pagan when Ciaran walked Ireland. Had she committed some sort of blasphemy?

  "Please... Mama said you'd come." Tears stung her eyes, the mist swirling, mocking, darting about in feathery wisps, obscuring the moonlight. She wished she could reach up, bend the rays with her hands.

  "I don't know what else to do," she choked out. "Please, Ciaran, we need... I need... This is hopeless! Hopeless!" She caught up a broken piece of stone and hurled it at the brooch, the pin skittering to one side. At that moment, a piercing ray sizzled down, burying itself in one of the jewels.

  Fallon couldn't breathe. She stared, ha
lf afraid, half hopeful, disbelieving, yet believing with all her heart.

  She stared at the golden circle until her eyes burned and blurred and her head ached. Was it her imagination, or did light sparkle, fragment, swell within the stone? Was it some trick born of her desperation, or the mist itself? The brooch burst into countless fragments of light—red and green, blue and gold, leaping like a hungry flame up the beam of moonlight. Even if Redmayne hadn't doubled back to the castle, what were the chances that this odd light might bring him riding? If it was real...

  The fire in the jewel soared, raged, half blinding her. A gust of wind buffeted Fallon as if to punish her for her lack of faith. She stumbled back, half expecting Ciaran to emerge from the pin like Athena bursting from the head of Zeus.

  Then, in a heartbeat the wind stilled, the brooch dulled, emptied of all its magic.

  Fallon sank down, drained, tears searing her eyes, disillusionment battering at her. Had she truly believed in the legend? She'd wanted it to be real, needed it so badly. A hollow ache swelled in her chest. What had she done? She'd been a fool. A fool. How could she have failed to realize how much she would risk by testing the brooch's power? Now she understood, but it was too late to change anything, she thought, sick at heart. A world that could summon Ciaran from the mist was a far brighter place than the world she stood in now.

  "Hugh was right. It was only a story, something to drive back the chill, or the hopelessness. I was a fool ever to believe it was true."

  She stilled, the sound of a footstep making her cheeks burn and her hands tremble. It must be Redmayne. If he had seen what foolishness she'd been about, she'd never recover from the humiliation.

  She pushed to her feet, swiping away her tears and squaring her shoulders as she turned.

  Damned if she'd let him see her heartbroken.

  "Come out, Captain Redmayne," she ordered. "Show yourself."

  No one. Nothing. Fingers of unease trailed down her nape. Silence stretched out to what seemed an eternity, and she felt like a doe facing the barrel of a huntsman's musket.