Authors: Briar Rose
He stiffened, drawing himself tighter against the outer wall of the caravan in an effort to put some space between them, frustration and something far too similar to alarm reverberating through him. He'd lost his virginity at fifteen, but never once had he spent the night lying beside any woman he'd bedded. Only a reckless fool let anyone see him in the vulnerability of sleep. Sleep... the place where nightmares stalked a man, and no amount of steely will could hold them at bay.
And this woman, with her keen intuition, had already learned far too much about him when he was half unconscious, racked with pain, and cried out for his father. The possibility that she might burrow even deeper beneath defenses he'd always thought unbreachable was unthinkable.
There was too much softness about her features, a terrifying tenderness in the full curve of her lips, her eyelashes, absurdly long and curled, lying in rich crescents against her cheekbones. She shivered in her sleep, closing the space he'd managed to put between them, her rosy cheek nuzzled against his bare chest.
When she helped him cauterize his wound with the white-hot brand, it hadn't jolted him this deeply. Instinctively he tried to draw back farther still, but the wall of the caravan blocked any further retreat.
God in heaven, what was wrong with him? He'd bedded his share of women, without so much as a ripple in the surface of his prized self-control. The most beautiful, most accomplished lovers society had to offer had viewed the notoriously omniscient Captain Redmayne as an irresistible challenge. They had amused him—their determination to crack his reserve, drive him to paroxysms of passion. And it had been diverting to observe their varying stages of outrage when they realized how little they had touched his emotions.
Yet never had the most accomplished siren unsettled him the way this lone, tousled, dream-mad little gypsy had managed to. He probed the unaccustomed sensation for a long moment, gazing down into her slumbering features, trying to determine exactly what it was about her that had elicited such a unique response. One couldn't quell unwanted reactions, after all, unless one understood the root of them.
Absurdly quixotic, fiercely innocent, tenacious of joy—Rhiannon Fitzgerald was the sort of woman who should have inspired nothing but ridicule in the cynical captain. Hadn't he learned early that "compassion" was only a prettier name for weakness, that "idealism" was the word used by cowards without the courage to gaze, straight-faced into life?
Why was it, then, that his fingers itched to smooth the strands of hair back from her cheek? An innate need for tidiness, no doubt. Surely nothing more. Forcing his voice into its usual cool tones, he spoke. "Miss Fitzgerald?"
For a moment she groped for the pillow, as if to draw it over her ear, block out the disturbance. Only then did Redmayne notice the dark circles beneath her eyes, the exhaustion draining some of the color from her cheeks. Why the devil should that cause him an unexpected twinge?
"Madam?" he said a trifle more gently. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion and astonishment swimming in their depths. "Wh-what... who...?" She scrambled to a sitting position, then seemed to gather her scattered wits. "Are you all right? Is there something wrong?"
"I must confess, I'm not accustomed to waking to find a woman in my bed."
Her cheeks washed so scarlet he couldn't help but be vaguely amused.
"Not that I would object except that you absconded with the pillow."
"I... There was nowhere else to—to sleep... except outside," she stammered by way of an explanation, "and—and then I wouldn't be able to hear you if you cried out."
Amusement vanished. Redmayne didn't move a fraction, but felt a hardening inside himself, a tightness in his chest. He mustered the tones that had never failed to send the offender scrambling off in retreat. "I won't be subjecting you to any more such nonsense."
I'll cut my own throat first,
he finished grimly to himself.
But Rhiannon's too tender mouth softened, her eyes flooding with compassion. "Once, when I had a nightmare, Papa told me that even the bravest of soldiers needed someone to hold on to when the dragons came at night. Even then I thought a soldier's dragons must be ever so much fiercer and more frightening than mine. I'm glad you had your own father to call for, Captain." She reached out one hand, laid it on his cheek. "You needn't feel ashamed."
Redmayne's throat closed. He forced a sneer onto his lips. "Ashamed? Madam, you obviously have a high opinion of your powers of intuition. This time, however, you are mistaken."
Her eyes glowed with earnestness. "You needn't worry. I'll never tell anyone about the night you cried out. And we don't ever have to speak about it again unless you wish to."
She'd
read
his
thoughts? How damnably strange, Redmayne thought with a chill. Not since he was ten years old had anyone been able to unravel the workings of his mind. He'd guarded them far more closely than any miser his treasure hoard. Lucifer was supposed to see into the souls of his prey. They were not supposed to go prying merrily into his.
And as for her vow that they would never speak of his momentary weakness again... Bloody hell, he'd never known a woman born who could refrain from ferreting out any intriguing tidbit of information once she'd caught the scent of a secret. Doubtless this woman was just better than most at disguising her intentions. But bedamned if any torture master wielding weapons of steel or of luminous green-gold eyes could wrench any confidence out of Captain Lionel Redmayne.
"Miss Fitzgerald, your vow of silence is immaterial to me. There is nothing more to speak of." He gave a careless wave of one hand.
"You don't believe me, do you? That I'll keep my word?"
Blast if she hadn't managed to disconcert him again! "What I believe is of no importance."
"I feel very sorry for you, Captain."
Pity? That most loathsome of poisons! How dare she! If she were a man... what? He'd have found a way to make her pay for such a violation. "Your sympathy is wasted on me."
"How sad. What kind of people have hurt you thus, that there is no one you trust? Someone must have betrayed you. I never will." The stark sincerity in her forest-hued eyes should have pierced clean through to Redmayne's heart. Fortunately he did not possess one. Yet there was something singular about so much earnestness, so much innocence, combined with a fearlessness any soldier on the field of battle would envy. Something that affected Redmayne in a way he couldn't quite name.
A lazy contempt was his usual reaction to too much goodness, and curiosity as to how long it would last if confronted with real pain, real adversity. He'd made a game of estimating exactly how much pressure it would take before virtue snapped. If there was one valuable lesson his grandfather had taught him, it was that a man's powers of deduction needed to be kept honed sharper than his sword. And just as a master swordsman practiced every day the movements of his craft until they were second nature, so the warrior of the mind sharpened his skills at every opportunity.
Only twice had Redmayne been unable to discover a crack in the armor of his opponent—when he'd matched wits with Mary Fallon Delaney, and the man who had risked all to love her. An odd sensation. But not as odd as the one that stole through him now.
He started in astonishment, wrenched from his musings as Miss Fitzgerald wrapped her fingers gently about his. "Sometimes pain can be like a—a gateway, and once you pass through it, you discover something wonderful waiting on the other side."
He should have bristled the way he always did over platitudes, but there was the slightest curve to her mouth, the shadow of her own sadness and loss. Was she saying it to comfort him? Or was it like a mantra she repeated to herself over and over, hoping someday she'd believe it?
Redmayne stared into those blowsy-rose features, the soft oval face, the smudges of dark brow, the halo of flyaway cinnamon curls, and those eyes, those remarkable eyes. It was as if a current passed through her fingers into his, a soft pulsing that warmed places he wanted to stay cold, greening places he wanted to keep deadened and numb.
"I would prefer that you refrain from touching me, Miss Fitzgerald." The words were out before he could stop them, cool and careless, yet revealing far too much for comfort.
She withdrew her fingers, burying them in her skirts almost guiltily.
"We are, after all, barely acquainted," Redmayne said, attempting to deflect that disturbing gaze. "And an officer of my stature must do all he can to protect his reputation—particularly here in Ireland. Stories— especially of English atrocities—grow more swiftly and wildly than a storm at sea. I wouldn't want anyone who heard of our... ahem, contact, to misconstrue my intentions."
She blushed. "Captain Redmayne, I've found that people will believe what they choose to, whether good or ill. There is nothing I can do to prevent that."
An astonishing bit of practical wisdom from Mistress Stars-in-Her-Eyes, Redmayne thought as she continued.
"I'm certain that plenty would think the worst not only of you, but of me for helping you."
Something else he hadn't stopped to consider, though no man could serve three days on this island without being aware of the hatred the inhabitants harbored toward anything English. And if one of their own consorted with the enemy... Rhiannon Fitzgerald was in danger not only from those who had hoped to assassinate him but from those who had been her friends before she took a wounded soldier into her care.
How could he have missed something so vital? His particular brand of genius had been the ability to see every facet of a situation at once, consequences or possibilities beyond the grasp of most men's intellect. But this consequence would have stared the rankest fool smack in the face. Still, he'd overlooked it.
When had his wits gotten so untrustworthy? Perhaps the bullets had put a hole in something far more dangerous than his shoulder. Or was it this shatterbrained fairy maiden who had affected him so strangely? Some charm in one of the bitter potions she'd forced down his throat? He knew he should never have eaten that vile-tasting gruel.
She stood up, tucking a straggly lock of hair behind one dainty ear. She looked lopsided, mussed, creases from the sheet still pressed into her cheek. Why did he feel a ridiculous urge to reach up and try to smooth those faint lines away? Hellfire, forget Miss Fitzgerald's worthless nag, he'd find something to use as a crutch and walk the thirty miles to the garrison. Perhaps he'd get lucky and die of exposure on the way. Far less perilous to be at the mercy of the elements than of one small, untidy Good Samaritan.
"Miss Fitzgerald, it is imperative that I get back to my garrison at once."
"So that whoever set up the ambush that all but killed you can finish the job before you're strong enough to defend yourself? I think not." Her chin jutted up a notch. "I've never yet allowed any of the creatures entrusted to my care to go free before I was certain they were strong enough to survive. I'm not about to begin now."
Redmayne's eyes narrowed. She saw him as one more of her infernal wounded beasts. The knowledge ate like acid into his pride. Something clenched in his gut. Emotion. Anger. Shame.
Fear.
He yanked himself away from it, knowing in that panicked instant that he'd do whatever he had to in order to escape it.
God alone knew what might have happened next, had it not been for a sudden cacophony of baying outside of the caravan. The hound. Milton.
Redmayne froze, instincts honed on countless battlefields sizzling to awareness. Even Rhiannon stilled, her eyes wide, more than a little frightened.
"It's probably nothing," she said, looking completely unconvinced. Who the devil was she trying to comfort? Him or herself?
There was a low murmur of masculine voices, muffled by the walls of the caravan.
Redmayne levered himself up. Excruciating pain shot through his shoulder, a swarm of bright dots swimming before his eyes. Hell, he was as useless as that infernal dog of hers, weak, stranded here without so much as a weapon. Perhaps he could use the remainder of Miss Fitzgerald's gruel to poison the intruder to death Glancing around, he searched for something, anything he could wield against an enemy.
"Be careful!" she warned. "You'll tear open your wounds!"
"That might be redundant, since there is a more than middling chance that our visitors intend to create a few new ones. Do you have a knife? A fire poker? Anything I can take out there with me?"
"Out there? You're not going out there!"
"Miss Fitzgerald—"
"If those men are the ones who were hunting you, the last thing we need is for you to go charging out, making an even better target of yourself. I'll go alone, try to distract them."
Distract them? The woman was so honest she might as well have the truth emblazoned across her forehead:
"He's hiding under the bed."
It was his pride that made him resolute, not any particular concern for her safety. He'd leave that to heroic fools.
He grabbed her arm so tight it might leave bruises on that lily-fair skin. "Forgive my obstinacy, but I have an aversion to hiding behind a woman's skirts. Superior officers tend to frown on it when it comes time to make promotions."
She glared at him, and he was suddenly struck with the core of intelligence he'd not noticed before beneath the dreamy sheen of her eyes. "I'm certain they'd be as happy to shoot you through my skirts as not, Captain. You hardly think they'd allow any witnesses to live, do you? If I can manage to deflect them, it might save both our lives."
Reasonable. It was so damned reasonable. Then why did it irritate him so thoroughly?
"You can wait in here with the poker and smash it down on their heads if they come searching." She whispered fiercely. "You'll have a much better chance with the element of surprise."
"Where the devil is the poker?"
"I brought it back inside, put it in the corner the morning after we cauterized your wounds."
Redmayne glimpsed the shaft of iron, remembering. It took all of his will to uncurl his fingers, let her go. For a man who, a day before, had suffered little but boredom at the prospect of his death, he was suddenly damned edgy. Doubtless because it was bad form to get even a little shatterbrain killed after she'd saved one's life.