Hell, Redmayne thought with a grimace, the pain must be affecting his wits. He no more belonged at Rhiannon's soul-warming table than a feral wolf. But there was something to be glad about.
With the complicated mixture of assassins, his grandfather's treachery, and regaining a tight hold on his unruly soldiers, Redmayne knew he would have plenty to keep himself occupied in the next few weeks. Perhaps if he kept busy, he wouldn't even think of Rhiannon more than thrice a day.
With grim determination, he mounted the steps to his headquarters, thanking God he'd had the presence of mind to dismiss even his aide-de-camp. Maybe it would be pure hell to tend to his own wounds, worn down as he was, but it was preferable to risking Barton "slipping" with the straight razor, and separating his head from his shoulders. A week ago, the image would have amused him. But tonight it only made his feet feel heavier. Why? Little enough about the garrison had changed since he rode out of here a few days ago, reining his horse for Ballyaroon. The flicker of awe and dread in his men's eyes, the sense of isolation, as if some invisible wall separated him from every other living creature. The boredom, the hints of weariness veiled behind dry wit and mocking humor. Yet somehow everything had changed.
Strange, how cold he felt, knowing that in this whole encampment, there was not a single person he dared to trust. In all the world, there was only one... And he'd sent her away.
He fumbled for his keys, relieved that the lieutenant had locked his rooms up the instant Redmayne went missing. It would have been uncomfortable in the extreme to know that anyone had been poking about in his things. Not that there was anything to find there....
Yet as he attempted to push the key into the hole with a hand unsteady from exhaustion, he stiffened, suspicion stirring in his gut. Without turning the key, he pushed down on the latch. The door swung open.
Every nerve in his body tight with battle-readiness, he drew the pistol at his waist, thanking God he'd had the presence of mind to request one from the armory before he left the lieutenant's chambers.
The front room was dark, but he could see a line of candle shine beneath the door to his private chambers. Don't let your imagination run mad, he thought. Perhaps someone had thought to light the fire in his bedchamber. But, no—perhaps they would have done so in another officer's room, yet Redmayne doubted any soldier in Galway would have had the temerity to invade Captain Redmayne's inner sanctum without a direct order from the captain himself.
And yet, wasn't it at least possible that there was a more sinister reason for the flickering light, the unnatural quiet?
He'd never learn the truth standing in the infernal doorway. With stealth born in countless childhood forays about his grandfather's house, he closed the door, locked it behind him. If there was anyone with a malevolent purpose about, damned if he would escape out the door before Redmayne had a chance to question them. And if there was only some sleepy-eyed private waiting in the room, Redmayne would feel like such a fool that he might just shoot himself.
Soundlessly he walked toward the door to his bedchamber. One hand on the butt of the pistol tucked in his waistband, he used his other hand to swing the door open. His instincts fairly screamed with the primal awareness of a wild beast whose lair had been invaded.
Candles burned on scattered tables, awash in puddles of melted wax. A fire fought for its life in the hearth, while something merrily burned in a kettle slung over an iron hook above the flames.
The single wing chair was drawn up before it, its massive upholstered back to the door, the sooty point of the fire iron dangling over the chair's arm as if some archer had mistaken the piece of furniture for a promising-looking stag.
At that instant he heard a sound, ever so faint, come from the chair's confines. His eyes narrowed. He slid his loaded pistol from the waistband of his breeches, his finger curling around the trigger. After all, even assassins could fall asleep on the job.
Stealthily he rounded the chair, ready to blast his unwelcome visitor into eternity. At that instant the fire fell apart, hissing, crackling, spewing forth sparks.
The figure in the chair sprung awake, poker in hand. Redmayne stared down the pistol barrel at wide, frightened eyes, disheveled cinnamon-colored hair tangled about a pale oval face.
"Rhiannon!" He froze, choked out her name.
Her gaze flickered from the pistol barrel to his face, and she swallowed hard. "Is it army regulation to shoot people for disobeying orders, Captain?" she asked in a small voice.
Suddenly, horrifyingly aware of the cold butt of the pistol in his hand, he loosened his finger from the trigger, and set the weapon down on the nearest bare surface.
"Damn it, Rhiannon, I could have shot you!" he snapped, astonished at the way his stomach churned. Hell, he'd never bothered to concern himself about things that hadn't happened, spinning them out the way some men did, in a string of images that chilled the blood. This one time, though, he saw all too clearly what might have been: a bloody hole ripped in the lace at Rhiannon's soft breast, surprise and pain and sorrow clouding her eyes as life ebbed from her.
"You would never pull the trigger unless you were absolutely sure what you were shooting at. You're far too meticulous about little things to make a mistake in something so important." She spoke with absolute confidence in him. No knowledge of the way fear could quicken the reflexes, distrust tighten the nerves, cloud the eyes. How many soldiers had survived any length of time in the king's service without firing a bullet they wished they could take back? Her naivete irritated him. Her faith in him chafed. He sought shelter behind an icy voice and a cool glare.
"What the devil are you doing here? I saw you leave the camp with my own eyes."
Dusky roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her gaze flitted away, touching the armoire, the curtained window, the washstand in the corner, touching anywhere except on his face. "I fully intended to leave. I even managed to get half a mile along the road, but in the end I just couldn't do it."
"Do what?"
"Leave you here all alone."
She looked pensive and a little eager, as if hoping against hope he might understand. He did. Far too well for comfort. He shrugged one shoulder, then crossed to the stand where a decanter of brandy stood. He poured himself a glass. "My dear, perhaps you should consider getting a pair of spectacles," he said with far more amusement than he felt. "This garrison is fairly crawling with soldiers. One can scarce take a step without tripping over half a dozen."
"Yes, but not one of them..." she began, then stopped, turned away.
He should just let it go, not press her. Whatever she had to say, he doubted he wanted to hear it. Still, he heard the rumble of his own voice. "Not one of them... what?"
"Would look after you properly. You'd just glare at them, and they'd flee as if a sea of enemy calvary were swarming down on them. Captain, you are in bad need of someone with the nerve to defy you."
"Such insubordination might be easier to find than you think, since the revered lieutenant has taken command." He could scarce believe he'd spoken the words aloud. It was a confession of vulnerability. And, God forbid, the slightest admission of hurt? "Rhiannon, I thought I made myself clear: I don't want you here."
There was a cruelty in the blunt words. If only she didn't also realize that there was a desperation in them. He wanted her gone more than ever for one simple reason: the unmistakable welling-up of gladness he'd felt in the most secret, hidden part of him the instant he saw her face.
Dangerous... it was far too dangerous to allow himself the luxury of such an emotion, a tie to anyone so frail and mortal, fallible and tender.
The expected hurt to wash over her features, making her wilt like the most delicate of blossoms burned by ruthless rays of a too hot sun. But there was only the soft bruising of resignation about her mouth, offset by a recurrent hint of stubbornness.
"I know you don't want me here, but you can't make me leave you."
It was a challenge, no matter how gently spoken. "Oh, ca
n't I? With the snap of my fingers, I can call down twenty men who would be happy to escort you to the farthest reaches of hell if I ordered it."
"You won't do that."
"Whyever not?"
"Because you're not a man given to ridiculous posturing and exerting power where it's meaningless. And to set a guard over me would be futile. They would have to leave me eventually to do whatever duties soldiers do. And the instant they did, I would come back. You'd find me in this same chair with the same fireplace poker."
"Brewing up a bowl of pap for me?" Redmayne was astonished by the angry edge in his voice. "I'm not some puling child who needs a nursemaid hovering over me every second. My wounds are negligible. They'll soon be gone."
"Perhaps. But if you're not careful, you'll have other wounds that won't be so obliging." Her brow creased, and he knew the thought pained her. Astonishing, this heartache over pain not yet felt except in her imagination. "You need someone you can trust to watch your back, Lion," she insisted. "I intend to do it, with your cooperation or without it."
He stared down at her, bemused. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone refused to do what he willed him to do. Any hint of defiance had been quashed easily enough. The slightest glare, the almost infinitesimal tightening of his mouth, the barest flash of warning in his eyes, and his soldiers fairly stumbled over themselves like raw schoolboys. It seemed Rhiannon was impervious to techniques that had brought battle-hardened brigades back to order.
Most astonishing of all was the discovery that the woman was right. If she persisted in her defiance, there was not a damn thing he could do to stop it, short of throwing her in the brig. And if he did that, doubtless she'd have her guards so charmed that they'd not only let her out of her cell but also build her a cozy fire in his quarters so she wouldn't take a chill. Besides, wasn't it possible she'd be safer here, where he could at least keep watch over her?
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 ach
e. 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?