Authors: Briar Rose
Give the boy enough space. If he was indeed guilty, he would bolt. That would be all the answer Redmayne would need. Strange thing was, now that he'd come up with the plan, he had a sudden urge to bind the man to his usual tasks—so close by that Redmayne could hardly move without tripping over him. Blast, wasn't this complex enough without Redmayne sabotaging his own efforts?
"What are you going to do, sir?" Barton asked stiffly.
"I shall wait and see if your story bears out," Redmayne said. "I'm certain that duties can be found for you somewhere in the camp."
Barton swallowed hard. "Captain, sir, please. You have to believe I'm telling the truth. I've tended you for almost three years. I thought we'd begun to—to trust."
"You were mistaken, Kenneth." Why on God's earth had he used the boy's Christian name for the first time? One would almost think it was to soften his words. "I was taught never to trust anyone."
The words must have seemed harsh to the aide, as if Redmayne was brushing him aside. Barton could never guess that he
had
just trusted him, with a truth Redmayne himself had only just come to understand.
Turning away, Redmayne dismissed the aide. He stood for a long time in the growing darkness, candles unlit, as he probed the inner wound he'd exposed, at least to himself.
I was taught never to trust,
the words echoed through him. "Aye, Rhiannon," he whispered, the twilight filling with the glow of her eyes. "Nor was I taught to love. I just never knew I regretted it. Until now."
CHAPTER 13
Redmayne paced the confines of his office, cursing his chronic lack of concentration. Barely a week had passed since he'd been mad enough to consent to the dance. A week unlike any other he had ever known.
It would have been easy enough to blame his restlessness on his encounter with Barton or on the effort it had taken to regain control of his troops. There were questions regarding his attackers—more confusing than ever. But those were minor distractions compared to the real problem.
It was Rhiannon who had upset the balance of his existence. Fresh bouquets of meadow flowers crowded surfaces that had once been bare. Laughter and endless chatter broke up the crushing silences of his day. A glowing feminine face greeted him across the dinner table each night—at least those nights when he couldn't think up an excuse to avoid her. Rosy lips curved in welcome, eager to tell him about the goings-on of her day and equally anxious to hear how he'd spent his.
Even late at night, when he dragged himself into his own quarters, he couldn't escape the evidence of her presence—his coverlets turned down, a fire blazing merrily, a tray waiting, with slices of cake or warm shortbread, little sandwiches stuffed with roast beef, and tea brewed, miraculously, to perfection, no matter what the time. As if she'd been waiting just for him. And on days that had been particularly grueling, there, on the tray, Rhiannon's precious chipped cup, as intimate as a kiss good night.
It was astonishing, terrifying, the expectancy he was beginning to feel, almost as if he needed the things she offered without his ever asking. And it made him fight ever harder to appear unaffected— he would stay later at a meeting over cartwheels or supplies, avoiding her as long as he could resist the pull of her smile.
Perhaps the woman really
was
fairy-born. What else could explain the strange spell she'd cast over the garrison and its inscrutable commander. She'd been among them precious little time, yet already he'd wager half the members of the regiment would gladly lay down their lives for the woman with her heart in her eyes, be she Irish or no.
And because he'd brought her here, even
he
would never be viewed in quite the same way again. He'd been hated, feared, dreaded, grudgingly respected. But Redmayne suddenly realized that never in his life had he been envied—until now.
It was an odd sensation, as if the mere assumption of the other soldiers that he too loved Rhiannon and that, even more astonishing to the men,
she
loved
him
—had forged some sort of bond between the stern captain and his men. Occasionally he even caught the most rash among them smiling in his direction!
Of course, the betrothal was simply a ruse. The men had been duped, if they had but the intelligence to realize it. The love story was all in their imagination. A captain with a heart of ice and an Irishwoman with all the warmth of summer in her eyes—the mere thought of such a union was absurd!
Besides, there should be far more pressing matters for the troops to attend to—stamping out the ubiquitous sparks of rebellion that were forever flaring on this island, for example, or ferreting out the assassins who still lay hidden in the dark. And yet, despite his frustration, Redmayne couldn't blame the men for being enchanted.
She was like a breath of fresh air sweeping the length and breadth of the camp. Lonely men, who hated the oppression they stood for, marooned among a hostile populous, were exceedingly vulnerable to a woman's smile—not the camp follower's brittle come-hither grins, followed by bargains struck and a mockery of love in exchange for coin, but rather the smiles their mothers or sisters or sweethearts might have bestowed on them, filled with warmth and understanding and compassion.
Every man from the lowliest private to the highest in rank craved her attention, whether they would admit it or not. But Rhiannon, forever predictable, was kindest to the shy and the uncertain, the homesick and the injured, the men with troubled faces, who did their duty but hated everything the army sanctioned in Ireland.
He supposed he should be relieved at her popularity from a practical point of view. The men had kept her occupied while he tended to more important matters, but the entire situation had made him edgy, and nothing would please him more than to have the infernal ball over with, the assassins behind bars, and Rhiannon packed up and sent off...
Sent off where? That question constantly gnawed at him. Could he send her off alone again in her wagon, with her horse and her dog and cat and whatever injured creature she happened to stumble across? Humming where no one could hear her. Smiling where no one could see.
It had been difficult enough picturing her continuing in such a life before he'd seen her here. He'd managed to convince himself she enjoyed solitude, as he did. But the woman fairly thrived on the bustle of the camp, the countless hopes and dreams, secret woes and joys of the soldiers. The camp surgeon was ready to canonize her for sainthood. And Lieutenant Williams gazed at her with such sorrow in those spaniel-brown eyes, as if he pictured a cold, miserable future for her, with the icy Captain Redmayne.
At times Redmayne was tempted to tell the man to spare him the despondent looks. He had no intention of carrying Rhiannon anywhere, least of all to his bed.
Redmayne grimaced. It was true enough, he figured, though often at night when he closed his eyes he'd see her, so clearly, as she'd looked during those nights they spent together—tousled, completely vulnerable, the tender curve of her parted lips, the swell of her breast against her nightgown, the whisper softness of her sighs.
He swore under his breath as he felt himself harden beneath the flap of his breeches. An involuntary reflex, he'd learned during studies of anatomy. Still, he hadn't been troubled by such an embarrassing reaction since he was a raw lad. Nothing revealed a man's weakness more clearly.
A sharp rap on the door yanked a grateful Redmayne away from his thoughts. Sitting down behind his desk to hide his discomposure, he bade the person to enter.
Private Twynham saluted smartly. "There's someone here to see you, Captain. Wouldn't state his business, but said you'd know why he was here."
"I believe you've forgotten to enlighten me as to the gentleman's name, Twynham, assuming my visitor
is
a gentleman."
A dull red crept up from the private's collar, but he only grumbled. "Not much o' the gentleman about this man, I wouldn't say. But if a name would help, he calls himself Samuel Knatchbull."
Redmayne stilled. Gentleman? No. He'd agree wholeheartedly with Twynham's estimation of the man's character. But then, that was exactly why the captain had hired Knatchbull. Redmayne affected a bored shrug. "You might as well send him in. Oh, and I have a missive to be delivered to the head groom at once. It seems there was some question about my betrothed's horse running mad. I want to inform the man that he is not to take any rash action without direct orders. If anyone is to have the pleasure of shooting that animal, it will be me." He dug out the note, one that could have been delivered at any time, but would conveniently ensure a quarter hour of complete privacy.
Twynham took the missive and saluted, then ushered Knatchbull into the room, closing the door behind him with a military click. Redmayne surveyed Knatchbull for a long moment. All long bones and loose joints, the man shambled toward him, his face showing not a hint of symmetry, one eye lower than the other, a crooked nose, an overlong mouth filled with imagination and humor.
Knatchbull had never explained the wreck of his face, whether it was a curse from the time of his birth, or a hellish gift from someone's fist. But Redmayne hadn't hired him for his appearance when they'd met years ago. He'd taken Knatchbull into his employ because the man had the most fiercely intelligent eyes Redmayne had ever seen beyond his own mirror.
"Allow me to offer felicitations," Knatchbull said in a baritone so rich and beautiful it might have belonged to an archangel. "I hear you are to be married."
"That is the rumor," Redmayne allowed—the truth, such as it was. "I assume you haven't traveled all this way to congratulate me."
"Hardly. I came for another purpose. I received word that your grandfather is traveling to Ireland."
The boy still buried deep in Redmayne shuddered to life, chilled. He hardened himself against that child's sick loathing, almost supernatural dread. He'd long since discovered that Paxton Redmayne was not the omniscient god he'd delighted in making a little boy believe he was. Rather, he was only a particularly vicious mortal.
"He's to stay in an associate's country house to tie up some rather difficult ends in yet another of his business schemes, the story goes, this one involving shipyards near Belfast."
"Belfast. The other side of the island. That should be enough distance between us."
"I fear he is to be disappointed. The precarious family fortune he was hoping to shatter has taken a sudden turn for the better. It seems they have sparked the interest of an investor. One with enough nerve to board a, ahem, sinking ship."
Redmayne's lips curled in cold pleasure. "One can only hope the investor has the wit to keep them afloat."
Knatchbull met his gaze with complete understanding. "If I were a betting man, I know where I would place my wager. And so, I fear, will your grandfather, the instant he discovers what is afoot. I've heard whisperings that he is most displeased with his luck of late."
"He never was able to endure frustration, though he went to any pains to make certain others suffered it in absolute silence. The Belfast affair should be interesting to watch."
"That remains to be seen. I only wanted to make certain you were aware of his visit. And to deliver these." Knatchbull handed over a pouch full of documents. "More of the usual, I'm afraid. I can stay over until morning, give you a chance to peruse them, sign whatever you wish; then I can carry them away with me, if you prefer."
"Yes. That will be fine. As it happens, there is another matter I want to lay before you. An inquiry of sorts. It has to do with a country barrister who seems to have run afoul of Grandfather. Lost everything, including an estate by the name of Primrose Cottage."
For the first time something akin to worry darted into Knatchbull's sage eyes. "May I suggest that we concern ourselves with that affair somewhat later, Captain? At the moment things are somewhat unwieldy, and I think we would be ill advised to display too much of our hand at present."
"I don't give a damn what else you're roasting over those fiendish fires of yours, Knatchbull. I want this matter delved into, plumbed to the very quick. And I want it done now."
"I wouldn't presume to question your decisions. God knows, you've been a genius thus far. But I tell you, something is afoot. Paxton Redmayne is not a man who enjoys being made to look a fool. There is no predicting what lengths he might go to."
"You needn't fear, Knatchbull. Your fee will be paid regardless of what kind of temper fit Grandfather indulges in. I have provision for you penned neatly in my will."
"That is comforting to know. However, I much prefer you alive. I just want to warn you—"
Redmayne's jaw hardened, bitterness icing his voice. "Trust me, Knatchbull. No warning you could offer would be dire enough where my grandfather is concerned. That is one lesson the old man made certain I understood quite well. The barrister in question is one Kevin Fitzgerald."
"Fitzgerald?" Knatchbull's eyes glittered with interest. "Isn't that the last name of your betrothed?"
"It is. Fitzgerald was pursuing a case. Rhiannon remembers little about it, except that someone was anxious to see his inquiries at an end."
"And all he lost was his fortune and property?" Knatchbull chuckled. "If your grandfather was involved, perhaps this barrister of yours got off lightly. Paxton is more than happy to silence anyone permanently when it suits him."
"I doubt Kevin Fitzgerald was any match for grandfather, if he was anything like his daughter." Redmayne looked away, remembering the love in Rhiannon's eyes, and the grief, whenever she mentioned the father she had lost. Perhaps Kevin Fitzgerald had been a dreamer, head thrust into the clouds, a grown man with the innocence and optimism of a child, one who believed that justice would prevail, that people were innately good. No. Kevin Fitzgerald would have been like a lamb hurled into a pit full of adders.
"Captain, forgive me for prying, but I heard a rumor that you were missing for nigh a week, that you were wounded."