Cates, Kimberly (10 page)

She swallowed hard. "Then those m-men... they intended to... to murder you?"

"Not necessarily. They might be merely pawns sent here by whoever was responsible for the attack. I suppose it's possible. But whether they intended to kill me themselves, or unwittingly lead me into the clutches of this elusive enemy of mine matters little. The result would have been the same. Another unsightly hole in my uniform. Most distressing after you worked so hard to mend it."

"When I think of h-how close I came t-to telling them you were here..." Rhiannon pressed one hand against his chest, as if that soft shield could somehow prevent an assassin's bullet from finding its mark.

But there was no scorn in the captain's eyes, only surprise at her touch, and the tiniest quirk of a smile of understanding. "You couldn't have known. Even so, you didn't tell them. You even managed to turn them away. You continually surprise me with new talents, Miss Fitzgerald."

"Perhaps they left this time, but they're still out there. They'll still be searching. It's thirty miles to your garrison, along lonely deserted roads. Plenty of time to find you. And even if I do manage to get you back to your command in one piece, you'll still be in danger. Who's to say someone won't creep into your quarters in the middle of the night and—"

"Don't let your imagination run wild, my dear. I rarely sleep. All those years of campaigning on battlefields."

"But you have to close your eyes sometime! It would take but a heartbeat."

Redmayne stared at her, those uncanny eyes probing with the greatest delicacy, one brow arched in surprise. "So much passion, Rhiannon Fitzgerald," he said softly. "Such righteous indignation. A veritable Galahad in petticoats, you seem."

It should have been mockery. It wasn't.

"May I tell you something?" For an instant he seemed as if he would touch her cheek, but at the last moment, he drew away. "It is dangerous to let yourself care so much. There are far more brutal ends than the swift piercing of a bullet. The piercing of the heart, for example, by hard reality. The death of innocence and tenderness is painful indeed. I would not have you take such a risk on my account."

She swallowed hard, turned her face away. "I would care about any creature who was being hunted. And I would rather feel that pain than be dead inside."

"Comfort yourself with that thought if you wish," Redmayne said. "But remember that I warned you." He limped down the steps, staring in the direction the soldiers had fled. "Now tell me about our visitors. It is important to know as much as possible about one's enemies."

Rhiannon sucked in a steadying breath. "There were three of them. Seamus O'Leary, an Irishman who was serving as their guide, and two British soldiers— Sergeant Barton—"

"I have only a passing acquaintance with O'Leary, but Sergeant Barton is most familiar to me. A most earnest man. Either he is a pawn or he is far better at concealing his true nature than I would have believed."

"I thought so, too! That he was earnest, I mean. Something in his face made me want to tell him... to trust him. He was the reason I almost told them you were here."

"I assume the third man was the reason you did not."

Rhiannon wrapped her arms tight about her own rib cage. "He was... disturbing. It was so confusing. Usually I can sense people's essence—goodness, evil, fear, danger—but this time..." She shook her head.

"What name did he give you? And, more important, what did he look like?"

"Like a... you'll think me silly, but like a knight who had just charged out of the pages of a book. The kind who adored slashing at anybody unfortunate enough to get in his way. He had dark hair, and there was this... this tension all around him, as if he were ready to explode at any moment. And a scar. It curved along his cheek."

"Like so?" Redmayne marked the path of the scar along his own aristocratic cheekbone. "Ah, that explains his tender concern on my behalf."

Rhiannon wasn't certain whether she should be relieved or even more frightened. "You know him?"

"Does any man truly know another? Let us just say I am
acquainted
with Lieutenant Sir Thorne Carville. A man of unlimited military brilliance, born to grace the annals of history like a modern-day god of war—at least in his own estimation."

"Were those men your friends? If I run, I might be able to catch them."

"Pray don't exert yourself. And give me credit for better taste, madam. If I ever did stoop to make a friend, I would have much too discerning taste to saddle myself with someone like Sir Thorne and his cohorts. I blush to confess that I am prey to a rather uncharacteristic bout of curiosity regarding the man, however. Tell me, was he limping?"

"Yes."

"Ah, most satisfactory. I thought I'd placed my shot well, but one can never be certain."

Rhiannon was stunned at the coolness in Redmayne's voice. "You were the one who lamed him?"

"On a dueling field at dawn. In all fairness, he shot at me as well, and believe me, madam, he wasn't aiming for my leg."

She'd heard enough absurdly romantic tales. She had to ask. "Why? Did you fight over a woman?"

Redmayne actually laughed. "Do I seem like the type of man to lose his head over some female?"

"Then why?"

"I have an aversion to waste, be it bullets, horseflesh, or soldiers' lives. Lieutenant Sir Thorne did not. Fortunately, when I approached the high command, they shared my view, despite the illustrious military history and not insignificant wealth of Thorne's family. They relegated the gentleman to a relatively harmless position on some general's staff. Thorne objected. You see, it's rather difficult to manage a blaze of military glory when one is thus employed. Thorne sought to repay me for my interference with a bullet. Alas, he didn't succeed in killing me. He did manage a more subtle revenge."

"What did he do?"

"Brought the pressure of his family to bear. The high command appeased the mighty Carvilles by quietly dispatching me to the ends of the earth, breaking my rank, and exiling me to Ireland. My military career was virtually extinguished in the same breath."

She gazed up at him, gladness flooding through her, as if she'd discovered something precious, unexpected. "It was for the soldiers, the innocent soldiers you cared about. What a noble, brave sacrifice."

Redmayne winced as if she'd insulted him. He held up one hand. "No romantic notions, Miss Fitzgerald. My only concern was the depletion of seasoned troops for no good reason. Why run a fine coaching pair of horses to death of exhaustion for no good purpose? If one is going to press them past their limit, one should at least have the brains to do so during a race upon which one has placed a large wager."

If he'd slapped her, he couldn't have had such a terrible effect. She recoiled, repulsed by the philosophy he claimed to have. "You can't possibly mean that."

"Oh, but I do. The lower ranks of soldiers are tools, Miss Fitzgerald, weapons to be wielded by those in command. To become a soldier, one has to face that reality, even if it is only within the most secret recesses of one's mind. I admit that there are officers who have a great love for their men, who suffer great pain at their death. I've seen that hell in their eyes long after battles are finished. But don't make the mistake of assuming I am one of that kind. I have no attachment to anything save logic and intellect."

"If I believed that was true, I would feel very sorry for you. But it makes no sense that you would take such a risk, cripple your own career to save lives unless you cared."

"Ah, stubbornly optimistic to the end. I wish you would quit attempting to look for some good in me. The only result will be eyestrain."

Why was it that his words hurt so deeply? Rhiannon wondered. "I wonder why it bothers you so much," she said, her chin bumping up a notch. "Perhaps you are afraid I might find something you've overlooked."

"You might as well attempt to breathe life into stone, my dear. As for your sympathy, you're wasting it. I prefer my life as it is." He limped down the stairs, paced a little way out into the grass, still bearing the prints of the other men's boots.

Rhiannon was silent for a moment, a little lost, a little desolate. "At least now you know who your enemy is," she said, attempting once more to find something bright in the dark web of danger surrounding them.

"It would seem so at first glance," Redmayne said, his voice totally noncommittal. "I've little doubt the good lieutenant wishes me dead. Were it merely a bullet in the back, I'd have no trouble believing he'd pulled the trigger. However, that he'd have the intellect, the guile, the patience to carry out a scheme cunning enough to fool me—that is hard to believe indeed." He turned back to her, something strange in his eyes. "I need to get back to my garrison at once.

Free myself of any distractions—fairy-born maidens, to be exact, wielding lethal bowls of gruel."

He wanted her safe, Rhiannon guessed. "You needn't be afraid for me."

He sighed. "You
will
persist in draping me with virtues I don't possess. It's a most tiresome habit. You are purely incidental, my dear. My interest is in this coil I've become caught up in. You see, I never could resist a puzzle. And this one grows more intriguing by the moment."

He was talking about his own life, about being hunted, stalked by assassins, men who were willing to betray him, to murder him. Yet his voice was as calm as if he were discussing the guest list for a Saturday evening musicale.

She might even have believed his heart had turned to stone, as he so obviously wished she would, were it not for one tiny flaw in his facade. The echoes of his desperate cries for his father, and the tiniest hint of fear that had played about his mouth when she walked out of the caravan alone to confront the men who might have come to kill him.

He turned away, but she didn't have to look into the handsome planes of Captain Redmayne's face to see.

CHAPTER 6

Redmayne paced off a few steps, grateful for the burning pain in his wounded leg. It almost distracted him, seared away the unfamiliar feelings this woman unloosed inside him. She was the black plague of emotions, virulent enough to be contagious even to him. And he damn well needed to be rid of her. "Hitch up that horse of yours at once," he bit out, trying to ignore her incessant chipping away at the temper he'd almost forgotten he possessed. "We're leaving. Now." He lanced her with a frigid look that should have left her quaking.

Her lips thinned, but that couldn't disguise their softness, the ripe smudge of strawberry pink against the fresh cream of her skin. "We've discussed this before," she said. "These roads are abominable. You are far too ill to be jounced over ruts for thirty miles."

"You mistake me, madam. I am not asking your permission. I am giving you a direct order."

Green eyes peered back at him, so unimpressed by his most chilling glare it was downright embarrassing. "Those men who visited the camp could be anywhere. Don't you think they would become a tad suspicious if I were suddenly to drag my smallpox-stricken brother on a little jaunt across the countryside? Be reasonable, Captain Redmayne." No other admonishment could have insulted him more completely. His temper stopped nudging him. It shoved. Hard.

"You dare to preach reason to
me?
A lone woman who picked up a half-dead stranger after he'd been shot down on the road? And then, as if that wasn't crazed enough, strode out to meet that man's would-be assassins when she was armed with nothing but a pathetic excuse for a lie?"

He was appalled by the tension underlying his voice, the obvious knotting of his muscles. Signs that all but screamed the woman was fraying his nerves. Stunned at such an unheard-of display, he forced ice crystals into his voice. "I am not accustomed to being defied. You
will
do as I command."

"Or else you will do what? Flog me? Break my rank? Have me drummed out of the army?" She reached out and patted his arm. "Don't worry, Captain, there will be plenty of time for that once you are well again."

It took every bit of his will not to grind his teeth— a most annoying habit that he wished he could indulge in. "Madam, do you have any idea who you are dealing with?"

"Quite a clear one, actually." She tossed back a wisp of cinnamon hair, thrusting it into the mass of curls tumbling about her face in disarray. "You remind me of someone I spent a great deal of time with last spring. That was a battle of wills to rival anything you can muster, I assure you."

"You underestimate me."

"You underestimate
him!
His name was Icarus—you know, from the Greek myth about the boy who made wings from feathers and wax, then flew too close to the sun. The wax melted, and he plunged to his death.

But I always thought it must have been wonderful soaring while it lasted."

Redmayne clenched his jaw. "Do I look as if I have the slightest interest in mythology at the moment?" he asked very carefully. "It's a pity this Icarus didn't throttle you and save me the aggravation."

"It would have been rather difficult for his talons to reach about my neck. Icarus was a falcon I tended. A boy had broken his wing with a rock, and the bird was a most reluctant patient. He decided it was time for him to go free long before he was properly mended. When I objected, he spent the rest of his convalescence sulking in his cage."

"You dare to compare that bird to..." Redmayne began, incredulous, then stopped, glaring.
"I
do not sulk."
Devil if his cheeks weren't burning with an angry flush for the first time in twenty-odd years! Perhaps murder was his only option! Damn the woman! Her eyes were actually laughing.

"Captain Redmayne, the similarities between you and Icarus are quite unmistakable. I regret to inform you that you are ridiculously used to getting your own way—by fair means or foul, I would wager. But this time you have met your match. You'll find me unmoved by threats or tantrums
or
fits of the sulks. I know this is difficult for you, but my decision is for the best, I assure you. You might as well resign yourself to it." The empathy in her face was ruined by the slightest hint of amusement and, worse still, understanding. How dare she presume to understand him! He'd spent a lifetime twisting himself into an enigma.