Cates, Kimberly (20 page)

Excuses, Redmayne thought grimly. He was making up excuses for the first time in his memory. Hadn't he the courage to admit the truth, at least to himself? That he'd been alarmingly glad to see her friendly face? That a kind of unexpected peace had washed over him at her presence, which was welcome, so welcome, in spite of every bit of resistance he could muster. The knowledge tightened something cold and hard beneath his ribs—something almost like fear. He shoved it away so ruthlessly it was as if it had never existed at all. He confronted her, unable for once to keep the fury and frustration from showing in his eyes.

"What the devil do you expect me to do with you?" he grumbled. "We might have managed to share a bed in that infernal wagon of yours, but we can hardly indulge in such an arrangement here without causing some comment. The men were already looking at you with far too much curiosity and speculation for my taste."

That much was true enough. It chafed like nettles beneath his skin when he saw how they stared at her, gauging her beauty, guessing at their captain's restraint, wounded or no. He sensed their curiosity as they imagined their ice-blooded captain with a woman. After so many years in the army, he could envision the jests in the barracks, could almost hear them: "Pity the poor wench if 'e did have 'is way wi' her. Touchin' the captain would be like makin' love t' one o' the stone effigies in the churchyard. Poor lass'd likely get frostbite."

Redmayne's jaw tightened. Absurd, this raw frisson of fury at insults that had been spoken only in his own imagination. Yet the strange bubble of panic was all too real, that someone might scent vulnerability like a wolf scenting blood.

Were there some who could sense the unexpected bond that damnable kiss had struck between him and Rhiannon? He remembered all too well his own intuition three years ago, when he'd seen Mary Fallon Delaney with the man who would become her husband. It was as if an enchanted thread had been strung between the two lovers, if only one had the wit to look for it. And Redmayne had used that bond as a weapon against Mary Fallon and her hero, one far more effective than any clumsy sword. The idea of anyone being able to wield such a weapon against him was anathema.

But no, comparisons between Fallon and her lover and Redmayne and Rhiannon were absurd. He was far more guarded than the impetuous Fallon or her blustering husband with emotion forever naked in his eyes. And after all, Redmayne reasoned, he did not love Rhiannon Fitzgerald.

"You needn't concern yourself about me," Rhiannon interrupted his uncomfortable train of thought. "One of the benefits of traveling on the road as I do is that I have no reputation to ruin. I don't care what anyone thinks of me."

"That's all very well for you, madam," Redmayne growled, very much put out to discover that
he did
care. Captain Lionel Redmayne, who hadn't cared about anything in a very long time. He grimaced, glaring down at her, silently cursing innocence and courage, generosity and warmth—qualities thought to be so pure, treasured. Who could have guessed they could be brewed into simple poison to addle a man's wits, steal his ability to reason, goad him into making mistakes.

He downed his brandy in one gulp, welcoming the fire in his throat. Then he turned back to Rhiannon. "I suppose there is no help for it, then, if you're determined to be unreasonable. You will have to accept my hand in marriage."

It was almost worth all the misery he'd been through just to see the expressions on that soft feminine face, which could hide nothing: shock, disbelief, awe, and alarm. "Lion, you can't—can't be serious. I cannot marry you. I am only offering to stay until things are settled, watch over you until... until whoever shot you is caught." Her lashes dipped low, her voice so soft he could scarce hear it. "Besides, you don't love me."

He was overpowered by the very devil of an impulse. He met her gaze with contemptible earnestness. "Love is not necessary in such arrangements as I understand them. Mutual respect, comparable fortunes or family lineage, perhaps."

"We have none of those things in common, either! You can't be serious."

She was right, of course. He'd been a ruthless bastard, teasing her from the first, hadn't he? "No, my dear. I'm not serious." Why was his voice suddenly so rough-edged? "But our supposed betrothal would simplify things for both of us during your stay here at the garrison. Then, in the end, you can jilt me. No one would question your wisdom in doing so."

"But I don't think—"

"We established that the day you first dragged me, bleeding, out of the dust near Ballyaroon." Redmayne was surprised at the near-tenderness in his tone. "You wish to watch over me, Rhiannon, you'll have to allow me to watch over you as well. I know the temper of these men far better than you do. If they thought you a woman of questionable virtue..." The mere idea tightened a muscle in his jaw. "You know my passion for order, my dear. You wouldn't want to be responsible for my actions if one of them dared treat you with anything other than respect."

"Only you can be responsible for your own actions, Lion. I can be grieved by them, but—" She stopped, then looked into his eyes, and Redmayne sensed that she saw far more than he would have wished. "Please try to understand. This ruse, this betrothal... it seems so deceitful, as if..." She looked so miserable he had to knot his fingers into a fist to keep himself from reaching out to touch her cheek.

"As if what?" he asked.

"As if I were profaning something precious."

Blast if he didn't see the flush on her cheek, the reflection of the kiss they'd shared, the touches of fingertips against skin while the stream flowed past them, carrying away wisdom and restraint.

Trust Rhiannon to turn treachery into something bright and fine. Not because she was blind to his original motive—she couldn't be after he'd revealed it to her with all the subtlety of a volley of cannon fire. Rather because she'd seen past his anger and frustration to the more dangerous feelings that had betrayed him: the tenderness he'd fought so hard to hide, even from himself; the pleasure that had rocked him as she'd responded to him with all the generosity of her dreamer's heart. She'd reached into a maelstrom of both ugliness and agonizing beauty, and she'd plucked out only what was good.

It made him ache. Why? he wondered. For her, because of the pain an uncaring world would inevitably force her to face? Or for himself because he would never have the courage to reach out as she did?

"This plan of yours would never work anyway," she insisted. "You see"—she swallowed hard—"I'm not a very good liar." No schoolgirl facing the parish priest for her first confession could have appeared more earnest or chagrined.

This time he couldn't stop himself from touching her cheek, the curve warm, pure, hinting at everything Lionel Redmayne could never be.

"Take heart, Rhiannon," he said, attempting to jest. "I'm a practiced enough liar for both of us." But for once he wasn't amused by the irony.

He wasn't certain what made him avert his gaze, more than a little ashamed. His fingers fell away from her, as if that mere brush of his skin against Rhiannon's could taint her.

"I'll summon one of my men and have him prepare the room down the hall from mine. It is a trifle improper, but considering the attempt on my life, no natural man would question the fact that I'd want to do all in my power to protect my betrothed. Keeping her close by would seem only logical. One of the officers' wives can be pressed into service as your attendant."

"I don't need an attendant. I'm used to being quite independent."

"Rhiannon, we
will
observe the proprieties. If you stubbornly insist on remaining here at the garrison, you will do it on my terms. I won't have half the king's army thinking..."

What? A voice inside him mocked grimly. That he couldn't keep his hands off of his fiancé? That he was slipping into her room like a lovesick youth, taking her in his arms, too eager to wait for the wedding vows, like countless other impatient bridegrooms from the beginning of time.

No. Not even the raw recruit with the wildest imagination would be able to envision Captain Redmayne in such a fevered state. The knowledge should have soothed Redmayne's frayed nerves. Instead, it left him vaguely ill at ease. Why? Because he knew Rhiannon would see it as tragic, not being able to reach out to another human being, regardless of the cost? Yet in Rhiannon's hidden glen hadn't there been a moment, just a fraction of a second, when something uncontrolled had stirred in him, something totally unexpected?

"Lion?"

He started at the sound of her voice, looked down into glen-green eyes.

"I promise you won't regret this—letting me stay, I mean."

"I don't believe in regretting a decision once it is made." He brushed his unease aside, attempting to take shelter in familiar arrogance. But he couldn't help wondering what this decision might cost them both.

CHAPTER 11

It was a hell of a lot harder to sleep alone than it should have been, Redmayne thought grimly as he woke from fitful slumber in the isolation and silence of his own room.

A few days—he'd spent just a few days crammed into Rhiannon's absurdly small bed with her soft, feminine form cuddled close against him. He'd hated the intrusion. He'd been sure he did. Then why was it that all through this endless night he'd tossed and turned, found himself reaching out in his sleep, nerves ragged when he didn't find her?

His concern was doubtless some latent germ of chivalry he'd been infected with. He'd been tormented by hazy impressions that he was still trapped in Rhiannon's wagon instead of safe within his own pristine quarters and, despite his imprisonment, was reluctant to see the woman dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The fear that he'd somehow knocked her out of the bed was the only reason he kept searching for her in his sleep. After all, it couldn't be gentlemanly form to allow the woman who'd saved one's life to bruise herself in such a fashion.

He should have been damned relieved when he awoke to the gleaming bare white walls of his bedchamber, the spartan-plain armoire standing at attention in the corner. But the night's ordeal had left him exhausted and in a most precarious temper, a decidedly unpleasant circumstance for one who prided himself on both his self-control and his ability to function on impossibly little sleep.

He'd cultivated those two habits since childhood. Paxton Redmayne had stuffed his head from morning till night with unorthodox lessons, pouring insights and information into Lionel's mind in such a relentless deluge that the boy had often felt he was drowning.

Those few precious hours when he was supposed to be sleeping alone in his room had provided the only opportunity for a resentful, hurting boy to concentrate on his own thoughts, formulating complicated plans to defy his grandfather. As for indulging in fits of temper, Lionel had learned early that he couldn't afford that luxury—it made one careless— and carelessness was the sin Paxton Redmayne punished most severely.

Yet even when Lionel's schemes failed, bringing the grimmest retribution, the boy had never regretted the slumber time he lost when other children were dreaming of useless pursuits like catching a fish as big as a round tower, hunting the Minotaur, riding fierce dragons, or playing bold Lancelot to some blushing girl's Guinevere. To a boy who owned nothing except a sharp intellect and the information in his head, the night alone had seemed to belong to him.

Even as a man, Lionel had watched countless moons arc silver across the sky, seen an eternity of stars sparkle, fade, die. Yet after everything that had transpired during the past week, he'd thought for once he would be able to lose himself in oblivion, sleep decently if only from sheer exhaustion and the familiarity of being back in his own bed. Even the threat of assassins shouldn't have had any power over him. He had a warrior's instincts, that lifesaving ability to spring from dead sleep to battle readiness between one heartbeat and the next.

Only one thing had possessed the power to trouble his sleep and turn his feather mattress into a bed that might as well have been stuffed with thorns.

Rhiannon.

Ignoring the throb in his shoulder, Redmayne dragged the back of his hand across his gritty eyelids, and levered himself to a sitting position on the bed.

Blast the woman; her father had nicknamed her rightly. She was the very embodiment of an accursed briar rose, prickling a man until his nerves were raw, yet possessed of the softest, most luminous beauty when it turned its face up, either to the morning sun or to a man's hungry gaze.

And there could be no denying that Redmayne
had
been hungry to see her when she sprang like a startled doe from the wing chair.

But what the devil had he done once he was confronted by her? Had he been sensible? Bundled her off into her cart and lashed that lazy excuse of a horse of hers into a run? No. He'd let the woman outmaneuver him again. He'd set her up in the room just down the hall from his. He'd let her stay.

Let
her? Hellfire, as if anyone could get rid of her! The woman was like a case of hives, once one was infected by her, there was no chance of escape. And yet, damn her hide and his own foolishness, some part of him was glad she was nearby. Close enough so that he could keep her safe until those who plotted against him were caught. And close enough so that he could unravel whatever had happened in her past.

Bracing himself for the unpleasant task of working the morning stiffness out of his wounded leg, he swung his limbs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. The instant he was shaved and changed into fresh clothes he would have her summoned, so that he could lay out some simple rules for her safety. He had no delusions. Rhiannon had the battle instincts of a day-old fawn.

Grimacing, he made his way to his washstand and peered into the mirror. He lowered his eyebrows in puzzlement. Why the devil was he smiling?

Barely half an hour passed before he was ready, garbed in a fresh uniform, one that didn't look as if it belonged in the rag bag. The image that stared back at him from the looking glass was reassuringly familiar. Lean, clean-shaven cheekbones, white-gold hair combed to perfection, ice-blue eyes that betrayed nothing. He could almost believe that his encounter with the assassins' pistol balls and an Irish guardian angel hadn't altered him at all.