Cates, Kimberly (15 page)

"I'll return in a little while. I have some business to attend to," she said, her voice calm, even, yet nothing could stop the flush from blooming in her cheeks.

"What business?" Redmayne inquired. "Extending an invitation to dine to the garrisons of soldiers supposedly searching for me? God knows, you've made enough food to feed half the barracks."

The flush darkened. "It's the week's worth of baking. I didn't..." She stopped, as if knowing she was revealing far more to him than she wished. "If you must know, it's time to finish what I came here to do in the first place."

"Now that I think on it, I should have wondered about that. I suppose I thought you'd come to commune with the fairy folk or the ghosts at Ballyaroon."

"I came to release this vixen. She's well enough now to go back to the wild."

"There are plenty of woods closer to civilization, my dear."

"And plenty of huntsmen ready to run her to ground." She clutched the basket tighter against her breast, as if she'd shield the little fox from danger herself, as if it were a babe in her arms instead of a wild thing that might snap off her fingers at any moment.

"Perhaps I should carry it?" Redmayne was surprised to hear himself offer. After all, he reasoned, seduction could be much hampered by a bunch of bandaged feminine fingers.

"No!" she said a little too hastily. "I can do it alone. I wouldn't want you to strain your wounds. I'll return soon enough. Just rest and..."

She didn't finish. She didn't have to. He could hear her plea as clearly as if she'd voiced it:
Stay away from me!

She turned and hurried toward the stream as if she feared he'd catch hold of her skirt and haul her back.

He intended to do as she wished—enjoy the peace and quiet of the camp for a few precious moments, smooth out the ripples the woman was forever stirring up in his mind. But he surprised himself by starting after her, just to make certain she didn't get herself in any more trouble. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could steal another kiss, or manage a brush of fingertips, something to begin the night's onslaught where there weren't dishes to putter about, animals to tend to, or pots to stir.

It took him far longer to trace her path, hampered as he was by his limp. But he took his mind off of the aching by imagining the best tactics to use with the lady—a swift strike, putting both of them out of their misery quickly, or something more subtle?

He'd nearly decided when he glimpsed something—a splash of blue muslin—beyond a tangle of underbrush, heard the quiet sound of a woman's tears.

His pulse tripped, a strange sinking in his chest. He stood still, feeling as if he were prying yet again, peeling back another layer of this woman's soul.

He'd seen her all but naked in her shift beside the stream. But this nakedness of the spirit unnerved him far more. She cradled the little creature in her arms, stroking its russet head, crooning to it, just loud enough for him to hear.

"No more tangling with foxhounds, Duchess," she warned. "Don't let poor Milton deceive you. They're not to be trusted. And don't be casting your heart away on the first handsome male who crosses your path."

The curve of her lips turned wistful, her eyes a little touched with pain, and Redmayne couldn't help wondering about the softness he'd seen in her face, the tenderness just before he'd kissed her.

"Find a mate who will build you a cozy den and fill it with darling little kits. And someday, when my cart comes rattling past, promise you'll bring them out and display the lot of them. You see, I'll never have any babies of my own, so it will be like—like I'm their auntie. Perhaps they can belong to me a little." There was the slightest break in her voice. Redmayne felt it in his gut.

The fox squirmed, gazing up at her with large questioning eyes. It was as if the creature who had been content under her care during her convalescence scented freedom, that most intoxicating of elixirs. Damned ungrateful, Redmayne thought as he watched Rhiannon stroke the pointed ears one last time.

"I'm glad, really I am, that you're all well, and so bright and ready to scamper off. It's pure selfishness, this crying nonsense, because I'll miss you. Good-bye, little one. I'll never forget you."

No, Redmayne was certain she wouldn't—wouldn't brush aside this pain, bury it where it could never hurt her.

She dropped a kiss on the fox's silky brow. Then her grasp on the creature loosened so slowly that Redmayne could feel her reluctance and her exhilaration. No matter how painful the letting go had been for her, there was also triumph in it. Joy.

The fox wandered a little distance away, her delicate body quivering. Then she lifted her nose to sniff the wind. Was she hesitating because of the woman she'd left behind? Jewel-bright eyes glanced back at Rhiannon for a long moment. Then the creature scampered out of sight.

Rhiannon sat there alone, her skirts a pool of blue against the grass, tears streaming down her face as she grieved. For what? For the fox she had tended and come to love? For the barrenness of her own life? The things she couldn't have? Her own cozy den and nest full of kits?

Bloody hell, after having taken in so many creatures, she must know the price that would be exacted of her. If she suffered this much every time she let something go, why the devil take in any injured creatures in the first place? Why leave herself open to this kind of pain?

Some men might have been tempted to go and comfort her. But all Redmayne could think of was how
he
would feel, were he in her place. God's blood, if anyone witnessed him in such a state—stripped bare emotionally, hideously vulnerable—the humiliation would likely prove fatal. Even now, standing here, watching Rhiannon's tears, he felt as if he were violating her. His stomach churned.

Hellfire, Captain Lionel Redmayne had never been tempted to turn tail and run from any field of battle, but now, confronted with one totally oblivious weeping woman, he was coward enough to turn on his heel, ready to beat an ignominious retreat. If only a stick beneath his boot hadn't turned traitor and snapped with a deafening sound.

Rhiannon scrambled about, her green eyes sparking with fear, no doubt thinking that his assassins had returned. He expected her to recoil in horror, to scrub the tears from her face, shamed as if they were a thief's brand. He expected loathing, outrage, any ploy so she might gather the tattered remnants of her dignity about her. But she only looked into his face, tears welling over thick crescents of eyelash, trickling down cheeks a trifle too pink.

Redmayne would rather have faced a horde of screaming Sikhs, brandishing scimitars. He was stunned to hear himself stammering, making excuses. "I was merely stretching my legs."

"You don't fool me, Lion. You were worried about me."

No one had ever accused him of such a motive. He was struck dumb.

"But as you can see, I'm quite safe." Her gaze shifted to the direction the fox had vanished. Her voice sank to barely a whisper. "Do you think Duchess will be?"

Drat the woman! She was looking at him as if he could reassure her. He didn't have a blasted crystal ball. It was a fox, by all the saints. A fox. One she had tended as if it were her own wee babe. He took shelter in gruff levity.

"From what I overheard, you prepared her for her first season as well as any mother could have. Warned her about rogue suitors, advised her as to what a lady needs in a suitable husband. The lack of white muslin gowns and dancing slippers might be lamentable, but she seemed like a most resourceful young lady, and considerable beauty can make a gentleman overlook such a lack of accoutrements."

Her cheeks darkened, and he winced. He might not know the first thing about mopping up feminine tears, but he'd hardly wanted to make things more uncomfortable—for her or for himself.

Why hadn't he pretended he'd heard nothing? Or merely walked away? Why had he stepped on that damned stick? Why had he followed her up this accursed trail? Hell, why had he ever set foot in Ireland where he had run afoul of the woman in the first place? At the moment, he wished himself in Jericho.

But suddenly she managed the most heroic little smile he'd ever witnessed. "I suppose you are right, Lion. I've done all a mama can do. But"—her lip trembled—"sometimes it is so hard to let them go, you know?"

You know?
She was looking at him as if she expected him to understand. Hell, he'd never
let
anything go, reluctantly or otherwise. He'd slammed the door in the face of anyone who dared attempt to get to know him. He'd shoved away anything he might get attached to as if it were poison. He'd made certain there was nothing anyone could take away from him. But he just hadn't realized that also meant that he had nothing precious.

Precious as a wounded fox or an almost blind dog, a one-eyed cat, or a gypsy cart. Or a woman's tears dampening his breast as he held her.

Lunacy. This was insane! He'd followed Rhiannon in order to continue his campaign of mock seduction. He'd intended to take shameless advantage of her. To discover any weakness and use it against her. This could have been a perfect opportunity for a ruthless bastard to press his advantage. Perhaps he wasn't quite as ruthless as he'd thought. But no one else need ever know.

Feeling chagrined, he closed the space between them. Grabbing her hand, he drew her to her feet, wanting to be quit of this clearing, and the emotions he'd witnessed here. "Your skirt is damp from the ground, and I haven't seen you eat a bite of food, despite the fact that you've been cooking all day," he scolded, leading her back toward the campsite.

"I haven't been hungry. I've been too unsettled by our kiss." How could such brutal honesty be spoken so gently?

Redmayne said nothing; his mouth was grim as he retraced his steps. When they passed the shadow of the gypsy cart, she pulled away from him.

"If you wish, I can serve up a feast to you in a few moments."

"What I wish is that you will sit down. The table would be a good place to do it."

"Lion..."

"Sit,
Miss Fitzgerald, or I will make you." He called her 'miss' in a conscious effort to put some distance between them. It didn't work worth a damn.

She looked as if she wanted to break ranks and start bustling about, serving up the meal she thought he wanted, but she did as he'd ordered, sinking down into the chair with a bone-deep weariness that was all too easy to see. Her fingers curled around a rose-painted teacup, translucent as a ray of sunshine. The only problem was that a chip of china as large as the nail of his little finger was missing from the rim.

Doubtless she had nothing else, and with that irrepressible hospitality of hers would sooner swallow china shards herself than set such a cup out for a visitor to her camp.

Grimacing, Redmayne ladled out a heavenly-smelling stew, balanced breads still warm from baking on the rims of the bowls, and set them on the table, then went in search of the accoutrements to brew tea. Going to the cupboard inside the caravan to retrieve a charming creamware pot with a spout in the shape of a sea monster, he happened to glimpse several other cups with not so much as the tiniest flaw in their rims.

He took one back to the table. "Rhiannon, there are half a dozen of these in the cupboard," he said, reaching for her broken cup. "There's no need for you to—"

She all but snatched the chipped cup to her breast. "I prefer to use this one."

He would never know why he didn't just acquiesce. After all, why should it matter to him if the woman drank her tea out of a broken cup—or out of her Sunday bonnet if she wanted to? But her hands were still slightly unsteady. The fine tremor would put the fragile pink of her lips in imminent danger from the jagged glass edges, a risk that irritated him beyond all reason.

"I regret I must insist. I prefer my dinner partners not to drink from cups that could slice them at any moment. Blood on table linens can be so unsightly."

"You'll just have to risk it this time, Captain. I'm not surrendering." She ran one fingertip tenderly along the unbroken part of the rim. She raised her soft green eyes to meet his gaze. "This cup was my mother's. At least Papa always said it was. Whenever I was sick or tired or sad, he would take this cup down from its special place in the sideboard and let me drink from it—lemonade, cambric tea, fresh milk, or juice from the orangery. It always made me feel better."

"But it's broken." Who in his right mind would hand something so jagged and sharp to a child?

"It's broken because it was loved so much." A shadow crossed Rhiannon's face. "Often the most precious things of all are flawed. That's part of what makes them so rare, so unique. Look at it, Lion. Even broken, it's beautiful, don't you think?" She held it up so that the light filtering down through the branches of the trees shone on the delicate surface of the cup.

He wanted to scoff, to tell her she was being ridiculous. The cup was broken. Broken. But the sunshine illuminated the delicate surface, the painted roses alight with an almost unearthly glow. The way he'd once imagined the Holy Grail must have glowed when Galahad found it at last. He could remember his own father's voice, low and awe-filled, as he read the ancient tale, Mama stitching by the fireside, and Jenny, his sister, her face glowing, seeing far more clearly than any of the rest of them, despite the fact that her eyesight was failing, slipping away a little more every day.

God above, he hadn't thought of that night for so many years, it seemed as if the memory should belong to another man. One buried in the churchyard with the rest of his family an eternity ago.

He knew he should stand up, stride away from Rhiannon's vulnerable eyes and from the wisdom and the pain, the grief and the piercing sweetness of remembering. But he sat as if chained there—by what? His own weakness? Or the strange power of Rhiannon's tale? "It was your mother's. The cup." Redmayne heard himself saying. Why? To fill the silence? Or was there some secret part of him that was envious—for he had nothing that had belonged to his family. Even the few memories he'd once hoarded so carefully were faded and tattered and cast aside.