Authors: Briar Rose
Redmayne gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take his accustomed long strides, praying with a grim humor that he wouldn't fall face down in the dirt. Damned if he'd let anyone see even a hint of weakness in him.
He couldn't afford it. Especially now, when his troops fairly hummed with discontent, their loyalties obviously fixed on the saintly lieutenant.
Redmayne grimaced. Reluctant though he might be, even he had to give the lieutenant credit. The man had welcomed him with barely a trace of stiffness, only a hint of regret evident in his warm brown eyes. He'd managed things all too well in Redmayne's absence, making small changes that had bettered the lot of the enlisted men. Yet the lieutenant hadn't overstepped any boundaries that would have made him seem to clutch greedily at another man's command. Even so, Redmayne had sensed regret in the man, but not because he'd been robbed of power or control. His regret was more like the reluctance of a superior horseman returning a borrowed mount to its rightful owner, who hadn't the wit or skill to appreciate such an exceptional horse.
The comparison should have rankled. But all Redmayne could think about was that some owners appreciated their beasts far too much—Rhiannon, for example, fawning over that pathetic excuse of an animal that no one in his right mind would call a horse. He'd seen her petting it and crooning to it as though it were something rare and precious, some silver-horned unicorn spun out of legend.
From the window of the map room, Redmayne had glimpsed the gypsy cart lumbering through the gates a mere hour after they'd arrived at the camp, Rhiannon obviously eager to be gone. Even now she might be trying to coax Socrates along, dangling some of the carrots from the garrison commissary in front of the ragamuffin beast's huge Roman nose. Doubtless she'd be singing or chattering or indulging in any number of noisy, irritating habits.
The image should have had the power to amuse him or at least fill him with heartfelt gratitude that she was miles away from him. Instead, it only left him feeling hollow, more tired than before. Because he knew that even if his untidy guardian angel was singing at the moment, she would be sorrowing as well.
Somewhere in that heart, which was far too tender for this world, she would be grieving for him as she'd grieved for the little fox she'd set free what seemed an eternity ago.
He tried to block her features from his memory— the tear-bright eyes, the trembling lips, the quaver in her voice as she'd pleaded with him to take care of himself.
As if he mattered a damn. Yet he couldn't help wondering who would take care of
her.
"Don't be a fool," he muttered. "She's better off where she is."
Alone, unprotected, on the open road?
a voice inside his head mocked him. Likely one more casualty of his grandfather's cunning and greed. Her home stolen, her most precious treasure a chipped cup? That circumstance was sobering enough, but what about the men who had hunted Redmayne and who might now know she'd rescued him? Lied for him? Sheltered him? What if they decided to make her pay for that folly?
No. He reined his thoughts in sharply. Striking at a lone woman wasn't logical. Why hunt her down when she obviously knew nothing? Assassins would concentrate on sending their main target to the grave. Even the most vengeful of bastards wouldn't waste time on her unless Redmayne himself was dead. The best way to protect Rhiannon was to make certain he was a generous target for them, one that would draw them out from hiding and keep them occupied until he could bring them to justice.
As for his grandfather, there would be time enough to tangle with him as well. He would see to it that whatever treachery Paxton had worked upon Rhiannon's father was undone and as much of her past life restored to her as possible. The thought of her tucked into the rose-draped cottage she'd described tightened a fist in his chest, awakening something almost forgotten... yearning. A wistful wondering of what it might be like to stride through Rhiannon's door in a rainfall of drifting rose petals, sink into one of the chairs at a table she'd weighted down with bunches of flowers gathered from her meadows, while she poured steaming tea into chipped cups, her eyes shining with gladness at seeing him.
Hell, Redmayne thought with a grimace, the pain must be affecting his wits. He no more belonged at Rhiannon's soul-warming table than a feral wolf. But there was something to be glad about.
With the complicated mixture of assassins, his grandfather's treachery, and regaining a tight hold on his unruly soldiers, Redmayne knew he would have plenty to keep himself occupied in the next few weeks. Perhaps if he kept busy, he wouldn't even think of Rhiannon more than thrice a day.
With grim determination, he mounted the steps to his headquarters, thanking God he'd had the presence of mind to dismiss even his aide-de-camp. Maybe it would be pure hell to tend to his own wounds, worn down as he was, but it was preferable to risking Barton "slipping" with the straight razor, and separating his head from his shoulders. A week ago, the image would have amused him. But tonight it only made his feet feel heavier. Why? Little enough about the garrison had changed since he rode out of here a few days ago, reining his horse for Ballyaroon. The flicker of awe and dread in his men's eyes, the sense of isolation, as if some invisible wall separated him from every other living creature. The boredom, the hints of weariness veiled behind dry wit and mocking humor. Yet somehow everything had changed.
Strange, how cold he felt, knowing that in this whole encampment, there was not a single person he dared to trust. In all the world, there was only one... And he'd sent her away.
He fumbled for his keys, relieved that the lieutenant had locked his rooms up the instant Redmayne went missing. It would have been uncomfortable in the extreme to know that anyone had been poking about in his things. Not that there was anything to find there....
Yet as he attempted to push the key into the hole with a hand unsteady from exhaustion, he stiffened, suspicion stirring in his gut. Without turning the key, he pushed down on the latch. The door swung open.
Every nerve in his body tight with battle-readiness, he drew the pistol at his waist, thanking God he'd had the presence of mind to request one from the armory before he left the lieutenant's chambers.
The front room was dark, but he could see a line of candle shine beneath the door to his private chambers. Don't let your imagination run mad, he thought. Perhaps someone had thought to light the fire in his bedchamber. But, no—perhaps they would have done so in another officer's room, yet Redmayne doubted any soldier in Galway would have had the temerity to invade Captain Redmayne's inner sanctum without a direct order from the captain himself.
And yet, wasn't it at least possible that there was a more sinister reason for the flickering light, the unnatural quiet?
He'd never learn the truth standing in the infernal doorway. With stealth born in countless childhood forays about his grandfather's house, he closed the door, locked it behind him. If there
was
anyone with a malevolent purpose about, damned if he would escape out the door before Redmayne had a chance to question them. And if there was only some sleepy-eyed private waiting in the room, Redmayne would feel like such a fool that he might just shoot himself.
Soundlessly he walked toward the door to his bedchamber. One hand on the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband, he used his other hand to swing the door open. His instincts fairly screamed with the primal awareness of a wild beast whose lair had been invaded.
Candles burned on scattered tables, awash in puddles of melted wax. A fire fought for its life in the hearth, while something merrily burned in a kettle slung over an iron hook above the flames.
The single wing chair was drawn up before it, its massive upholstered back to the door, the sooty point of the fire iron dangling over the chair's arm as if some archer had mistaken the piece of furniture for a promising-looking stag.
At that instant he heard a sound, ever so faint, come from the chair's confines. His eyes narrowed. He slid his loaded pistol from the waistband of his breeches, his finger curling around the trigger. After all, even assassins could fall asleep on the job.
Stealthily he rounded the chair, ready to blast his unwelcome visitor into eternity. At that instant the fire fell apart, hissing, crackling, spewing forth sparks.
The figure in the chair sprung awake, poker in hand. Redmayne stared down the pistol barrel at wide, frightened eyes, disheveled cinnamon-colored hair tangled about a pale oval face.
"Rhiannon!" He froze, choked out her name.
Her gaze flickered from the pistol barrel to his face, and she swallowed hard. "Is it army regulation to shoot people for disobeying orders, Captain?" she asked in a small voice.
Suddenly, horrifyingly aware of the cold butt of the pistol in his hand, he loosened his finger from the trigger, and set the weapon down on the nearest bare surface.
"Damn it, Rhiannon, I could have shot you!" he snapped, astonished at the way his stomach churned. Hell, he'd never bothered to concern himself about things that
hadn't
happened, spinning them out the way some men did, in a string of images that chilled the blood. This one time, though, he saw all too clearly what might have been: a bloody hole ripped in the lace at Rhiannon's soft breast, surprise and pain and sorrow clouding her eyes as life ebbed from her.
"You would never pull the trigger unless you were absolutely sure what you were shooting at. You're far too meticulous about little things to make a mistake in something so important." She spoke with absolute confidence in him. No knowledge of the way fear could quicken the reflexes, distrust tighten the nerves, cloud the eyes. How many soldiers had survived any length of time in the king's service without firing a bullet they wished they could take back? Her naivete irritated him. Her faith in him chafed. He sought shelter behind an icy voice and a cool glare.
"What the devil are you doing here? I saw you leave the camp with my own eyes."
Dusky roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her gaze flitted away, touching the armoire, the curtained window, the washstand in the corner, touching anywhere except on his face. "I fully intended to leave. I even managed to get half a mile along the road, but in the end I just couldn't do it."
"Do what?"
"Leave you here all alone."
She looked pensive and a little eager, as if hoping against hope he might understand. He did. Far too well for comfort. He shrugged one shoulder, then crossed to the stand where a decanter of brandy stood. He poured himself a glass. "My dear, perhaps you should consider getting a pair of spectacles," he said with far more amusement than he felt. "This garrison is fairly crawling with soldiers. One can scarce take a step without tripping over half a dozen."
"Yes, but not one of them..." she began, then stopped, turned away.
He should just let it go, not press her. Whatever she had to say, he doubted he wanted to hear it. Still, he heard the rumble of his own voice. "Not one of them... what?"
"Would look after you properly. You'd just glare at them, and they'd flee as if a sea of enemy calvary were swarming down on them. Captain, you are in bad need of someone with the nerve to defy you."
"Such insubordination might be easier to find than you think, since the revered lieutenant has taken command." He could scarce believe he'd spoken the words aloud. It was a confession of vulnerability. And, God forbid, the slightest admission of hurt? "Rhiannon, I thought I made myself clear: I don't want you here."
There was a cruelty in the blunt words. If only she didn't also realize that there was a desperation in them. He wanted her gone more than ever for one simple reason: the unmistakable welling-up of gladness he'd felt in the most secret, hidden part of him the instant he saw her face.
Dangerous... it was far too dangerous to allow himself the luxury of such an emotion, a tie to anyone so frail and mortal, fallible and tender.
The expected hurt to wash over her features, making her wilt like the most delicate of blossoms burned by ruthless rays of a too hot sun. But there was only the soft bruising of resignation about her mouth, offset by a recurrent hint of stubbornness.
"I know you don't want me here, but you can't make me leave you."
It was a challenge, no matter how gently spoken. "Oh, can't I? With the snap of my fingers, I can call down twenty men who would be happy to escort you to the farthest reaches of hell if I ordered it."
"You won't do that."
"Whyever not?"
"Because you're not a man given to ridiculous posturing and exerting power where it's meaningless. And to set a guard over me would be futile. They would have to leave me eventually to do whatever duties soldiers do. And the instant they did, I would come back. You'd find me in this same chair with the same fireplace poker."
"Brewing up a bowl of pap for me?" Redmayne was astonished by the angry edge in his voice. "I'm not some puling child who needs a nursemaid hovering over me every second. My wounds are negligible. They'll soon be gone."
"Perhaps. But if you're not careful, you'll have other wounds that won't be so obliging." Her brow creased, and he knew the thought pained her. Astonishing, this heartache over pain not yet felt except in her imagination. "You need someone you can trust to watch your back, Lion," she insisted. "I intend to do it, with your cooperation or without it."
He stared down at her, bemused. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone refused to do what he willed him to do. Any hint of defiance had been quashed easily enough. The slightest glare, the almost infinitesimal tightening of his mouth, the barest flash of warning in his eyes, and his soldiers fairly stumbled over themselves like raw schoolboys. It seemed Rhiannon was impervious to techniques that had brought battle-hardened brigades back to order.
Most astonishing of all was the discovery that the woman was right. If she persisted in her defiance, there was not a damn thing he could do to stop it, short of throwing her in the brig. And if he did that, doubtless she'd have her guards so charmed that they'd not only let her out of her cell but also build her a cozy fire in his quarters so she wouldn't take a chill. Besides, wasn't it possible she'd be safer here, where he could at least keep watch over her?