Cates, Kimberly (34 page)

Grief and resignation weighed down the youth's shoulders. "There are things the captain will never be able to forgive or forget. It's not his fault. He's just never learned how. I don't think he can start to learn it now."

A soft glow of happiness warmed Rhiannon, and she laid one hand on the boy's cheek in comfort. "I promise, he'll surprise you, surprise everyone one day. He wants to learn..." She stopped, blushed.

What had she almost done? Told Barton Lion's secret? That he'd asked her to teach him how to love? Perhaps Lion didn't know it yet, but learning to love also meant beginning to forgive—not only those who hurt you but also yourself.

"I don't think he'll ever forgive me, once he finds out—" Barton's voice broke, and he raised his chin. "But I guess it doesn't matter. I do what I have to do." So much pain in that voice, so much changed from the first time she'd met him. The aura that had been worried, yes, but wide open as a summer field was murky, more closed, as if he were drawing into himself, summoning up every fiber of... of what? Strength? Courage? Or was it possible that something darker was at work? What if she was wrong about Kenneth—not about his basic goodness—no, she could never have mistaken an intuition so strong—but the best of men could be trapped into doing things they were ashamed of, could be manipulated by those more ruthless, more cruel.

Even her father, with his gentleness, had warned that any man could break, if the right pressure was applied. That was why he had spent so much time, trying to help those who were being crushed by those stronger, trying to keep good people from betraying themselves.

Rhiannon caught her lip between her teeth, remembering the first time she'd seen young Barton, flanked by two others Lion knew as his enemies.

"Kenneth, whatever it is... you might feel better if you told someone. Nothing is beyond help, beyond hope. I'm always willing to listen."

For a heartbeat the boy's lean features turned desperate. But after a moment he shook his head. "Thank you for your kindness, miss, but I have to do this alone."

Alone... Why was it that men always believed such a thing? As if sharing their heartaches, their pain, was some sort of cowardice? She sighed, saddened not only for Barton but for Lion as well. Both men were trapped by rules that only they could understand.

Fortunately, she wasn't bound by their rules, by any rule except the need to heal, the gift of her mother, fairy-born or no. If Moira Fitzgerald had left her daughter nothing else, she'd left her that inescapable drive. And never had she felt it more strongly than she did for the tall, wounded soldier who had brought true love and passion into her quiet life.

The fates had delivered Lion into her hands, given her the chance to reach the deep, secret places in his soul where wounds still festered, tormenting him with their subtle venom. It was destiny. Certain as the faint whisper of her next breath.

Wasn't it possible that this meeting with Lion's grandfather was another act of fate? One that would purge Lion of that lingering poison forever? No matter what had happened between the two men before, she had to believe it could be mended. Needed to believe it, more than she could ever express.

It marked a place to begin. A place to hope.

No matter how angry Lion might be at what she was about to do, she had to take this chance.

CHAPTER 18

Rhiannon's hands twisted nervously in the reins, her freshly donned rose muslin gown rippling against the pant leg of Kenneth Barton's breeches as she stared up at the building growing nearer, ever nearer. The gypsy cart rattled and jolted up the wide sweep of carriage circle, a ramshackle interloper in a world she had all but forgotten.

Manion House towered in regal splendor, its entry flanked by grand Corinthian columns, the lion and the unicorn, symbols of England's rule, emblazoned time and again upon the dark gray stone. In her travels, Rhiannon had seen other great houses crowning other green hills, monuments to power built by absentee landlords whose greed and carelessness had bled Ireland white and kept a desperate population dancing upon the knife's edge of rebellion.

In the days before she and her father had left Primrose Cottage, she'd been invited to the occasional ball or musicale in these grand houses. She'd been a handy remedy during those socially distressing times when there weren't enough dancing partners available or when another person was needed to round out an awkward number at the dining table.

But even then, such places had made her feel like a traitor because she couldn't help loving the beauty, the majesty, of the grand estates even though they were exquisite masks hiding inevitable corruption.

Far beyond the gleaming glass windows tiny clay cottages huddled, families with ten, twelve children barely scraping out a livelihood, their meager coin filling the landlord's coffers.

She had paced the marble-lined galleries, disheartened, bemused, and wondered if there were enough magic in the world to bridge the gap between two such disparate worlds, to heal the hatred and pain born of centuries of conquest, oppression, rebellion. Generations of both Irish and English had buried sons and fathers, lovers and children, dreams, and their own fierce pride.

But even these familiar whispers of war in ages past, even the tragedy of hatred that threatened to afflict Ireland forever, had little power to trouble her now.

It was her own actions that unsettled her. The risk she had taken and the consequences that might come of her journey here, to meet a man she'd never seen before.

She swallowed hard. She'd been so certain it was the right thing to do, making the trip to this house. She'd even penned a quick note to Lion, explaining where she'd gone and why, not wanting him to worry. Yet even as she placed the missive on his desk, she'd felt so unnerved she almost threw it into the flames. And with every beat of Socrates's hooves, bringing her nearer her destination, she grew edgier still.

It was only because Lion's trust was so tentative, she assured herself. She feared making any mistake.

This meeting was so important, this chance to heal his old wounds so precious.

Besides, her unease was understandable in these circumstances. Any fiancee would feel nervous, meeting her beloved's family for the first time, especially someone from whom her betrothed had been estranged for many years.

She resisted the impulse to slow Socrates down, knowing she'd feel three times the fool if Lion's grandfather happened to see her approach, perhaps guess she was afflicted with a sudden bout of cowardice.

Far too soon she was reining her disreputable horse and cart to a halt before the vast entryway. The caravan looked as incongruous as a ribbon monger's wares cast into the lap of a queen, its bright colors absurdly garish in such stately surroundings as Barton hopped down from his place beside her.

"You've troubled yourself quite enough on my behalf." Rhiannon gave the haggard young officer a worried smile. "If you like, you may take a bit of a nap inside the caravan until I am finished. It's more comfortable than it looks, I assure you."

"No. I'll deliver you to the old man myself," Barton said with a sudden air of stubbornness. He offered her his arm and guided her up the few steps, to where the towering main door was swept open by a footman. Rhiannon stared in puzzlement—the man looked more like a pugilist than a servant in such an elegant household.

"Miss Rhiannon Fitzgerald," Barton announced, "come to dine with Mr. Redmayne at his invitation." It was as if he were daring the servant to take exception.

The footman's eyes narrowed, a thin gleam of contempt shining beneath his lashes. "We've been expecting you, Miss Fitzgerald. Permit me?" With a bow exaggerated just enough to convey contempt without being a blatant insult, he escorted Rhiannon and Barton deeper into a wonderland of gold leaf and gray-veined marble, gleaming armor and glinting pistols and swords arranged on the walls in graceful fans and circles, lethally artistic designs.

At the end of the long corridor, he gestured to a doorway guarded by two gilt statues—the first, Hercules wrestling the lion, the second showing the majestic beast in death throes beneath his mighty hands.

Rhiannon shuddered at the image, hating the triumph in Hercules' face, the lust for the kill. Was it possible that the statues had some hidden meaning? No. They were ancient, had obviously been in their places of honor for decades. Besides which, Lion's grandfather was only visiting Ireland, was he not? Likely borrowing this manor house merely to be close to his estranged grandson.

She tore her gaze away from the statues and glimpsed the footman watching her, his smirk evident as he sketched yet another bow. "The master will join you at his pleasure. There is a mirror in the corner if you would like to see to your hair." It could have been a kindness, pointing the way to that mirror. A boon gently given. But the man's lip curled with such impudence that there was no way to mistake his contempt.

Rhiannon smoothed the folds of her gown, fighting the feeling that she looked like a grubby scullery maid who had dared to dress up in her mistress's finery. This bout of nerves would never do! She squared her shoulders, determined to carry herself in a way that would make Lion proud of her, striving for comportment worthy of the betrothed of Captain Redmayne.

But the instant the servant left them alone in the blood-red chamber with its slashes of ice white, she felt strange, completely out of place.

It should have been a beautiful room, every detail the finest, every line and curve of the furnishings a study in perfection. Even the carpets were amazing, embellished with flowers so realistic it seemed you should be able to pluck them and draw in their scent. Oddly disappointed, Rhiannon felt as if it were all some kind of fraud.

A small table, doubtless set up for the occasion, was laden with gleaming silver urns, pots, and platters of every delicacy imaginable. A little distance apart, the most exquisite gaming table she'd ever seen occupied a place of honor on a dais by the window, light streaming across what looked to be a chess set of impossible beauty.

Rhiannon stole nearer, awed. Pieces carved perhaps in the age of Arthur and Guinevere were kissed with such genius they seemed to breathe. Opposing armies faced each other across a battlefield of varicolored marble squares, pawns like foot soldiers, kneeling with their shields before them, bishops in ecclesiastical splendor, knights on rearing horses, lances drawn. Castles and kings and, on only one side, a queen.

Rhiannon caught her lip between her teeth, staring at the empty space where the other queen should have been. Lion's queen, the one he had given into her keeping the night he had truly asked her to be his wife.

She touched the king who stood alone, the robes so intricately carved, painted with such skill, a perfect match to those that robed the chess piece she now cherished.

Was this not a sign of hope, then? This table, with its pretend armies awaiting combat? Lion had said his grandfather hadn't allowed any distractions, any other children, games, or toys. But the grandfather had obviously spent countless hours teaching Lion this game. Perhaps it was a stern, loveless old man's only way of showing his grandson the affection he'd felt for him. Perhaps his feelings were hidden away, as Lion had hidden his own emotions for so long.

Her throat tightened, and she imagined Lion, a tow-headed little boy already so bright, earnestly bent over the game, his blue eyes sparkling. How many hours had Lion and his grandfather spent bent over this game, plotting strategies, attempting to win? Time spent together that must have been precious to both of them, though likely neither would admit it now.

Yet some actions spoke far more clearly than words could have. His grandfather had kept the useless chess game, carried it with him even when he traveled. And not to play with other opponents. No, in all these years, Paxton Redmayne hadn't replaced the queen his grandson had taken.

Rhiannon smiled at the precision with which every piece had been placed exactly in the center of its square, reminding her of Lion's desktop, the top of his washstand—every object lined up as if he'd measured the distance between them. Had Paxton Redmayne taught Lion to be so meticulous? How much of the man she loved would she see reflected in his grandfather?

She glanced at Barton, fretting her lower lip. No matter what she discovered, she owed it to Lion to keep the exchange as private as possible. It was the only way she could keep trust with the man who was to be her husband.

To that end, she turned to Barton. "Please forgive me for my rudeness, Kenneth, but if you could remain... er, distanced from the conversation, I would appreciate it. Perhaps you would take a walk about the grounds?"

Strange, he'd grown more nervous as well, the closer they drew to Manion House. Now he looked as if he were perched on some precarious cliff edge, fearing he would fall. An inevitability clung about him, mingling with something like despair. He glanced over his shoulder, through the window, longing clear in every feature.

"Perhaps this wasn't such a wise idea, miss," he said. "The captain... he might not like it. We could be back at the garrison before—"

A voice as resonant and unforgettable as that of a modern-day Cicero cut in. "It is not often that men appreciate what is best for them. Do you not agree?"

Rhiannon turned, knew in an instant that she faced the man who had poured steel into Lion's spine, who had honed the ferocious intelligence behind those ice-blue eyes she had come to love.

Garbed in old-fashioned knee breeches and frock coat of the finest black satin, Paxton Redmayne stood like an aging emperor, so imposing he seemed to suck up every wisp of air in the spacious room. Wings of white hair swept back from his wide blue-veined brow and were tied at the nape of his neck with a stark black ribbon and diamond buckle.

Well over sixty years of life had done little to wither the powerful width of his shoulders. They were still squared with the same impossible exactness as his grandson's.

She'd come to understand Lion's rigid carriage as an attempt to control his emotions, to hide any weakness, an important ploy because it guarded a heart that had once been too tender. Were Lion's defenses something this man had taught him? Had the two of them shared that fear of showing vulnerability and that innate tenderness?