Cates, Kimberly (38 page)

"Rhiannon is not part of the game."

"Fine, boy. You wish to reclaim your lady? I'll take you to her."

Without another glance, he strode from the room, leaving Lion no choice but to follow. Up the winding staircase, higher, higher. Finally, at the end of a long corridor, Paxton flung wide a door. Rimming the edge of the building high above the stone courtyard was a curved balcony, bound by a waist-high rail of carved stone. Beyond, the Irish countryside undulated like a glorious painting, too vivid to be real.

"What the devil?" Redmayne growled under his breath, every instinct coiling tighter within him.

"You asked for your lady. I merely intend to present her to you."

Lion followed his grandfather around the bend of the balcony, then froze in horror. There, balanced on top of the narrow stone rail, a white-faced Rhiannon stood, bound hand and foot with nothing between her and the deadly fall to the cobbles below.

What held her there, so still? She was pinned between stone and sky by the barrel of the pistol clutched in Kenneth Barton's shaking hands as he stood an arm's length behind her on the broad sweep of the balcony.

Lion's heart stopped. Christ's blood, if she didn't fall off, the accursed turncoat would shoot her, most likely by accident more than intent. What the hell— had the old man gone mad? These were scarce his subtle methods. Nothing could be cruder than a lone woman balanced between life and death this way.

"Lion." She mouthed his name, desolation in her eyes.

It took every bit of strength Lion could muster not to race to Rhiannon, devil take the pistol fire, and snatch her to safety. But that was what the old man was waiting for, hoping for. If this was the hellish revenge he'd arranged for Lion's sins, then the slightest move would set into motion some fiendish trap that would cost Rhiannon her life.

He had to outwit his grandfather somehow. Had to keep his head. It was his lady's only chance.

"C-Captain," Barton stammered. "I—I'm sorry. I had to—"

"My grandson isn't interested in your paltry excuses, Barton. Your true loyalties are evident enough under the circumstances."

Betrayal ripped deep, and Redmayne hated himself for trusting anyone, especially this boy with his spaniel eyes and his weak, traitorous heart. He'd warned Barton about the death of O'Leary and Sir Thorne. God save him, had Redmayne's own words sealed Rhiannon's fate? Had Barton sold her to Paxton Redmayne in a desperate bid to save his own life?

"What did he use to manipulate you, boy?" Lion demanded. "There is still time to tell him to go to the devil."

Barton shook his head, misery etched in every line in his face. "It's too late. You don't understand."

"I understand this much. Only a coward points a gun at a woman, Barton. You want to fire at someone, boy? Shoot me, if you think you're man enough."

A low sob broke from Barton's chest, but the pistol never wavered.

Careless, Lion berated himself. That last comment had been devastatingly careless. Offering himself in Rhiannon's place—he might as well kill Rhiannon himself and be done with it. The old man would know Lion's own death would be easy, whereas the death of the woman he loved...

"You are wasting your time berating him," Paxton said. "Barton and I understand each other completely, do we not, Sergeant?"

The youth's Adam's apple bobbed crazily in his throat, his eyes glittered wildly, as if he desperately wished to speak. But Barton only nodded, his jaw clenched white-hard.

Lion couldn't afford any more mistakes. And yet hadn't his grandfather stumbled as well? The old man himself had grown desperate enough to resort to crude methods. Whatever had unsettled him so, precipitated this madness, was chipping away at Paxton Redmayne's legendary control.

Lion had to find a way to use that flaw against him.
Think,
he told himself fiercely. He had to remember everything he'd tried to forget—the hours of plotting strategy, trying to pry into his grandfather's inscrutable mind, exploiting any weakness, digging away at the tiniest chip in his armor.

Only twice in all the games they'd played had his grandfather lost his legendary icy calm—tiny revelations of true emotion that Lion had been discerning enough to see. Both times it had happened because the old man had lost control of the game between them—not the game on the chessboard but rather the grander, larger contest of wills.

Exploit it, damn it, Lion told himself fiercely. It may be Rhiannon's only chance.

With that, Lion chuckled, crossing to the rail, leaning against it with mock negligence. "I can hardly look at this whole scenario without blushing," he said. "Don't you feel a trifle absurd, old man? Such theatrics! It must be dashed demeaning to be reduced to melodrama. You who prided yourself on being so clever, so subtle. Reduced to the most pedestrian villainy."

His grandfather's eyes glinted. "You don't fool me with all your bravado. You never did. I can taste your weakness, the way a wolf scents blood on the wind."

"How unappetizing that must be—especially when sipping fine wine. I should imagine it would quite ruin one's enjoyment. Surely you can pause long enough in this Cheltenham tragedy you've concocted to tell me what has reduced you to such a pathetic level."

"If you only knew."

Lion took heart from the new edge in his grandfather's voice.

"This is yet another stroke of brilliance far beyond your comprehension," Paxton said.

"Yes, yes. No one has ever thought of this before— point a gun at a woman to bend someone to your will." Lion rolled his eyes heavenward. "It's hardly worthy of you. But then, at your age, you are perhaps growing a bit senile, losing some of your wits. Nothing to be ashamed of. It's common enough, I am told."

"Losing my wits? I think not. When I'm rotting in my grave, I will still have three times the cunning you ever did."

"An interesting claim. I'd be willing to test it—right now, in fact, if you'd have the good manners to die."

"You first, boy. Though you've been exceedingly stubborn about it."

Redmayne stared into his grandfather's eyes, saw the truth there. "You. It was you who wanted me dead at Ballyaroon."

The old man didn't deny it. He merely smiled, like a diabolical child caught torturing one of the cats in the stables.

"I probably should have guessed, but the method was so crude I didn't believe it possible. Hired assassins, Grandfather?" Lion said. "It lacks style. In fact, it shows a considerable lack of imagination, not to mention rank cowardice."

"You think name-calling can upset me? As if I cared any longer what you thought!"

"The question is why? Why this sudden interest in hastening my death? True, I've been tampering with your business interests for quite some time, so I imagine you've sustained some losses. But despite my best efforts, your financial empire is hardly ready to tumble down. Forgive my curiosity, but I can't help wonder—"

"You want to know why I wanted you dead?" That ageless face darkened with hatred so intense it struck Lion like a fist. "It is simple enough. What is the first thing I taught you at that chessboard?"

Lion remembered countless punishments, each more grueling than the last, filling him with terror every time he made a move upon the marble board. "Win at any cost."

"I won't lose to you."

Lion stared into the old man's face, realization sweeping through him. "That is it!" he said, astonished. "You know you already have lost, and you can't bear it. In spite of everything you've tried to do to me, every way you've fought to trap me, tangle me up in your twisted plots, I've managed to escape. I won, didn't I, Grandfather? The day I turned my back on Rawmarsh and on you and joined the army."

"No. You were a mere posturing fool. I was certain—" Paxton broke off, eyes narrowing—at what? Lion scrabbled desperately to comprehend his silence. A misstep?

"Were you certain I would come crawling back?" Lion asked.

"I'd made you fit for nothing else. Nothing but matching wits with me. You were mine, to use against my enemies."

"No. I was never yours. You knew it. That was what you couldn't forgive. Years of work. Years you'd invested in me. For what? Perhaps it's understandable, why you would want to kill me. Fine. Do it."

"No!" Rhiannon choked out, stopping his heart as she all but lost her balance. "Lion, don't say that!"

He fought valiantly to ignore her, knowing it was her only chance to survive. Praying for the first time in his life that the angels or the fairies she was born of would protect her, he shrugged one uniformed shoulder. "You want me dead? Go ahead, grandfather," he urged softly. "Have Barton, your toadie, point his pistol at me and pull the trigger. No one knows better than you how little value I place on my life. It is immaterial to me whether I live or die."

God, how his grandfather had taunted him when he was a little boy, desperate to end his pain, shattered by loneliness, wanting to join his father in heaven. Lion could still hear that mocking voice, insinuating itself into every moment of his day, jeering as he pressed a penknife into Lionel's small hand. "It's sharp enough, if you dig the blade deep. Go ahead, boy. Kill yourself. Show yourself a worthless coward to your father."

Even now Lion could remember the reaching-out inside him, grasping for the world beyond. Peace. He'd wanted peace. But something had risen up inside him, determination not to grant Paxton Redmayne such a victory over his spirit.

But the boy who hadn't cared if he lived or died had vanished, the man who had charged into battle without fear was gone. It was a lie now, his seeming carelessness. A lie. His whole being screamed for life. He had been awakened from a living death by the kiss of a fairy-born beauty. Was it possible the fates had merely taunted him, dangled paradise before him, meaning all the while to snatch it away?

"You say you wish to win at any cost, grandfather. Kill me. Your victory is complete." He wasn't naive enough to believe the old man would ever let Rhiannon live, to be a witness, after all she had seen. But if he could manage to distract his grandfather and unsettle Barton, goad them into making a mistake, he might be able to get the pistol he'd concealed in his boot and blast Barton into eternity while flinging himself at his grandfather and driving him over the ledge.

Death—never in all his years of soldiering had he wanted to deal it out more than he did at this moment.

But he could see the triumph in his grandfather's face, the cunning. "Perhaps I was a trifle hasty in hiring the assassins. I can only thank you for delivering into my hands the chance at a far more poetic vengeance. You see, it's meaningless to steal a life from someone who doesn't mind dying. But if there is someone innocent who might die as well, perhaps that would be the most fitting revenge of all."

Lion winced at the inevitable, his grandfather homing in on his deepest fear. "Killing Miss Fitzgerald? A rather untidy bit of vengeance—"

"But an effective one. However, I can be merciful. She loves you, fool that she is. What think you, Lion? Shall I kill her first? That way, she won't have to watch you die."

Instinctively, Lion started forward.

"Turn your weapon on my grandson, Barton," his grandfather snapped. "He's showing a distressing tendency to interfere."

Ever so slowly, the boy came about. Lion stared, stunned at the torments of hell shimmering in the boy's eyes. He grasped at that last, desperate hope.

"Barton, think," Lion pleaded. "You don't want Rhiannon's blood on your hands."

God help him, even if he managed to reach his pistol and shoot Barton, it would be too late. His grandfather would have shoved Rhiannon, sent her hurtling down to be crushed on the cobbles below. Hopeless. It was hopeless. Still, he had to try. He glanced at Rhiannon, certain his lady must know it, too.

"I love you." Rhiannon's voice, so certain, so sure, her eyes trying to convey something. A message. A warning he could feel like a physical battering in his chest. Her gaze flicked to the bank of windows to one side. Did she see a way out? Some escape that he didn't see? The sun's glare obscured everything beyond the glass. Christ's blood, what was she trying to tell him? There was no time....

Supremely confident, his grandfather paced toward

Rhiannon, bound and heartbreakingly helpless upon the narrow ledge of the railing.

"It will be over quickly, my dear. You'll not suffer long—not nearly as long as you would have had you actually been so unfortunate as to wed my grandson."

Terror clawed at Lion's vitals. "No! Rhiannon—"

Something flashed in her eyes—grief and love and deadly determination. In a burst of insight, Lion realized that she meant to risk everything by hurling herself at his grandfather, knocking him off balance, risking a hideous death to give Lion the slightest chance to fight back. By God, he wouldn't let her!

With a feral roar, Lion launched himself at Barton, but in that heartbeat the boy twisted to one side and fired. Rhiannon's scream pierced the air.

Seconds sped past but seemed to spiral out forever as his grandfather drew a small pistol and aimed it at Lion. Murder gleamed in the old man's eyes.

Lion scrabbled for his own pistol, but it was too late. His grandfather's gun exploded. At that instant a blur of movement lunged between Lion and certain death. His lady? The sound of lead striking flesh sickened him as a cry of pain reverberated through Lion with more force than any bullet.

Lion swung around as Barton stumbled and crashed into the old man, driving Paxton Redmayne hard against the edge of the waist-high rail. For an instant the old man teetered, grasping for anything to hold on to, the stone, Barton's arm, the folds of Rhiannon's gown. But his hands closed on air. He fell with a hellish shriek as Barton crumpled at Rhiannon's feet.

"Lion, the window!" Rhiannon screamed as a shadow moved beyond the glass. Lion drew his own concealed pistol, aimed, fired. A burly servant toppled through the shattered panes, dead, a pistol clattering from his limp hand.

Lion wheeled, half crazed with relief, as he saw Rhiannon safe on the stone balcony, but he recoiled at the sight of her bound arms cradling Barton.