She felt a ripple of heat radiate through him. His uninjured arm curved around her waist, pulled her down until she lay half across him, a tangle of damp linen, bare feet, and cascading hair.
The intimacy was searing, intoxicating, but he hurled her higher still, his tongue slipping between her parted lips, seeking the warm, eager cavern beyond them.
This was no gentleman's chaste kiss for his sweetheart. This was the kiss of a man, experienced in the ways of the flesh, an expert lover who knew how to stoke the fires he'd started within her.
Hungry. Hot. Insistent. He was all of those things. She should have pulled away. Instead, she opened herself to it with a soft moan.
"Rhiannon... you taste so... so good. Can't stop myself." He murmured against her mouth. Even through the haze of passion, his words struck her as odd. This man, so fiercely controlled, surrendering to impulses he didn't wish to. A surrender that thrilled her, and yet had come perhaps too easily to be trusted.
His hand stole up between them, and Rhiannon caught her breath as he teased the tender side of her breast. His fingers shifted until the hot point of her nipple was centered in his wide palm. A low groan reverberated through him, and in a heartbeat he'd opened the tie of her shift, let the fabric drop lower still, gaping open to reveal creamy-soft globes.
He pressed a hot kiss to the curve of her jaw, the pulsebeat at the base of her throat, traced kisses across her collarbone, then down the uncharted expanse of skin to where the hills of her breast began to rise.
It was shocking, indecent, unthinkable, what he was doing, nibbling away her sanity by inches. But more startling of all was Rhiannon's realization that she never wanted him to stop. She wanted more, so much more.
The points of her breasts burned, ached, as he circled hungry kisses nearer, ever nearer her nipple. The secret places between her thighs melted. She drowned in sensation, lost, like a leaf in a storm-swollen river, tossed upon wild currents, a little frightened, yet intoxicated by a power she hadn't ever known existed.
Warm lips drew closer to the tender pink of her areolae, and in that instant, she couldn't stand it any longer, the waiting, the need. Driven by instinct she didn't understand, Rhiannon shifted until her nipple brushed the damp satin of Lion Redmayne's lips.
What did she want? What was she reaching for? More kisses? More husky murmurs? For an instant she could feel it—a glimpse of feminine power, mysterious as the ages, a surging of heat through the man who held her. His lips stirred, parting just a whisper, as if to drink her in. A tiny sound escaped her, half whimper, half cry, and in that instant Redmayne's muscles went rigid wherever he touched her. With a muttered oath he pulled away from her, struggling to his feet as if the rock they'd lain on had suddenly grown white-hot.
Cool air streamed between bodies that had been so close moments before, drenching Rhiannon in reality, the sound of the stream bubbling past roared in her ears. She stared at him, wide-eyed, words and emotions, discoveries and possibilities, a mad tangle in her chest.
White-faced, he glared at her, his features tight with... what? Passion? Pain? Disgust?
"Cover yourself." He bit out the words, his voice so harsh it was as if he'd slapped her. A sick knot clenched in her stomach, and she glanced down at the front of her shift as if it belonged to someone else. Thin, damp, the fabric drooped low, revealing kiss-reddened breasts, trembling to the ragged pace of her breathing.
Shame—so fierce, so unexpected—flooded through her, icing the heat of desire, banishing the magic, stripping away half-forgotten dreams, and leaving behind stark reality.
"Rhiannon, do you have any idea what could have happened here?" he demanded, still glaring at her. "Five moments more, and I might have ruined you forever."
Ruined... He was right. Why had something so terrible felt so glorious, even for such a little while?
Her fingers numb, she fumbled with the tie of her shift, then hastened over to where her gown lay. She felt so foolish, so reckless, so small. "You're quite safe. I haven't any enraged father or brothers to come demanding a duel to defend my honor."
"I almost wish you had! A nice, swift bullet..."
Rhiannon lowered her gown over her head, wishing she could stay drowning in bluebell muslin forever. But that was impossible. Cowardly. She'd made this abominable mess. She'd best face up to it at once.
She glanced at Lion, saw the harsh lines about his mouth, the glint in his eyes—something almost like self-loathing.
"Rhiannon, I'm sorry," he ground out, and she knew instinctively that apologies from Captain Lionel Redmayne were rarer than dragons' teeth and far more costly to the man who gave them.
It would have been so easy to leave it at that, go back to the caravan and pretend the kiss had never happened. Some craven part of Rhiannon wanted to flee even now. But that wouldn't change what had passed between them. It would only make the kiss haunt them both more deeply still. And Lion Redmayne had enough dark secrets hidden away. She couldn't allow him to add this new fragment of self-blame.
"Lion..." She took a step toward him, touched his arm lightly, as if it were somehow as fragile as a butterfly's wing. Absurd thought, yet she couldn't help herself.
His fist knotted, but he didn't draw away.
"If anyone is at fault for what happened, I am."
"What the devil?" Redmayne stared at her, aghast—an emotion he could never remember having felt before.
"When you came down here, to the stream, I was scampering around in nothing but my shift—and a wet shift at that." Her cheeks blossomed red, her voice trembling just a little. "I know enough about men to realize that... well, that you have certain urges that are difficult to contain."
"Of all the ridiculous rot!" He scowled. "I'd prefer to pass on such a paltry excuse for acting like a lecherous cad."
"You mustn't be so hard on yourself. You're injured and unsettled by everything that has happened to you— someone close to you betraying you, the fact that you almost died. You can't help but be vulnerable."
God above, the woman was apologizing for compromising his virtue?
"It's just that... once we left Primrose Cottage, I thought I would never know what it was like to kiss a man, to feel all the things I felt when you touched me. You see, I'm not totally blinded by dreams, Lion. There was no sense grieving over something I couldn't change. But when you kissed me and I saw a chance, I just took it without thinking how you might feel afterward."
Something damned uncomfortable unfurled in Redmayne's chest as he looked at her, standing there with her gown still askew, her hair still caught beneath the collar, her face, earnest and ashamed and searingly honest. If she only knew the truth—that he'd planned this little tryst of theirs as if it had been another move in a chess game, cold-blooded, calculated. He'd capitalized on the very innocence that had driven her to pick up a wounded stranger by the side of the road.
He'd done plenty of reprehensible things before, things that were as necessary as they were unpalatable. But he'd never been ashamed—until now. He'd kissed the hell out of her, taken shameless advantage of the situation. And damn it, truth be told, his treachery had allowed him to taste the greatest pleasure he'd ever sampled from a woman's lips. Her mouth had stunned him with its sweetness, its eager clinging.
She'd kissed him, believing that he was worthy of such a gift. But he couldn't escape the knowledge that he'd desecrated something precious, a gift that should have been bestowed on a clean-hearted hero of a man with courage enough to give her an equal measure of his heart in return.
Because, dismiss it as she might, Rhiannon Fitzgerald was not a woman to kiss a man for the sake of experience. Ever since he'd met her, he'd seen her giving away pieces of her heart until it was a miracle there was anything left.
But he couldn't let that make him lose sight of his goal in starting this whole mock seduction: he needed to get back to the garrison. He needed Rhiannon to leave him behind. It would be safer for her, safer... for him.
Jaw aching from keeping the truth inside, Redmayne turned and limped toward the little campsite. But he made a vow with each step he took. When tonight came, he'd make certain she had no doubts about who was to blame for what happened between them.
Damn the woman, he'd make her loathe him as much as he deserved, even if it killed them both.
He was soldier enough to know this would have to be his final assault. The risk was becoming too great, the stakes far too high.
But for whom? A voice in his head mocked him. For Rhiannon? Or for the invincible Captain Redmayne himself?
CHAPTER 8
Redmayne prowled around the encampment with the restless tread of a lion expecting a cliff to crumble beneath his feet, the hours creeping past so slowly he wondered if darkness would ever come. How his grandfather would sneer—Lionel, who had been so certain he'd mastered the virtue of patience, pacing like any emotion-drunk fool.
But, damnation, he wanted this whole miserable affair over and done with. He wanted to put Rhiannon Fitzgerald behind him, relegate her seasick-hued gypsy caravan, her absurd menagerie of pets, and the incessant chafing of her kindness to that obscure netherworld of his mind, beyond memory, beyond regret, a place where he wouldn't have to remember how wide her eyes had grown, how trusting.
Blast, he should have known that, with Rhiannon, nothing would turn out as he'd expected. From the beginning the woman had possessed an irritating talent for outflanking him. He'd expected shock, outrage, and the usual posturings of innocence when he kissed her. Who could have guessed that she'd turn to quicksilver in his arms?
If it had been mere desire he'd elicited from her, he would have been surprised yet able to use it to his advantage. A woman's curiosity, too, could be fashioned into a most intriguing weapon, one he'd had in his hands many times before.
But no. Rhiannon had opened her heart to him with a courage and generosity so rare that he'd stumbled from his course.
Hellfire, he'd ridden headlong into the mouths of blazing cannon and never wavered. Why had he faltered before this one untidy Irishwoman? It was enough to unnerve the most seasoned commander, tripping over such an unexpected weakness.
And ever since the debacle at the stream bank, what had his quarry been up to? She'd fluttered about like a drunken butterfly, preparing food, cleaning everything from the horse's hooves to the darkest corners of the caravan.
She had even maneuvered the tiny table out into the sunshine and blanketed it with a lace-edged cloth as out of place here as a silk slipper on a scullery maid's foot. Mismatched yet elegant china was set out in a clutter that should have irritated him, and delicious smells emanated from the cook fire. Bread, hot scones, berries and sugar cooked down into jewel-colored jam, lined a shelf along one side of the caravan.
A less intuitive man might have looked on such preparations as a triumph—the lady's efforts to entice him. But Redmayne knew the woman's doings for what they were—a desperate attempt to keep busy, to bury herself in work so she could forget the damp sweetness of stream-splashed meadow flowers, drown out the pounding of hearts, cool the heat of lips still burning from that first incomparable kiss.
Unfortunately, there was nothing Redmayne himself could do except flash her hot looks from hooded eyes, occasionally pretend to sleep, and when his restlessness grew too unwieldy, pace.
Because he'd made several unwelcome discoveries himself since he'd made his way with such arrogance down the stream bank. He wanted her. Wanted her naked beneath him, those soft hands on his body. He wanted to catch her gasps of pleasure in his own mouth as he kissed her.
Redmayne grimaced. No, it wasn't Rhiannon herself who had unleashed such desires in him. It was merely physical needs held too long in check. His grandfather had been right, that sex was rather like brushing one's teeth—necessary on occasion, with a tendency to become most unpleasant if ignored for too long.
And yet... with Rhiannon, there would be none of the detachment that had marked every one of his other liaisons. She would hurl herself into lovemaking with her whole heart...
Which was exactly why there would be no real love-making. Only the pretense of it—and then the betrayal. The bruising of her tender heart. He regretted it, surprising as that might be. Yet better a bruise of this sort than an assassin's bullet, aimed to silence her.
He was almost ready to pace back to the tree he'd drowsed under several times that day when he glimpsed her coming around the wagon, a wicker basket in her arms. Something was moving inside, a glimpse of bead-like eyes shining out, wary, curious.
"I'll return in a little while. I have some business to attend to," she said, her voice calm, even, yet nothing could stop the flush from blooming in her cheeks.
"What business?" Redmayne inquired. "Extending an invitation to dine to the garrisons of soldiers supposedly searching for me? God knows, you've made enough food to feed half the barracks."
The flush darkened. "It's the week's worth of baking. I didn't..." She stopped, as if knowing she was revealing far more to him than she wished. "If you must know, it's time to finish what I came here to do in the first place."
"Now that I think on it, I should have wondered about that. I suppose I thought you'd come to commune with the fairy folk or the ghosts at Ballyaroon."
"I came to release this vixen. She's well enough now to go back to the wild."
"There are plenty of woods closer to civilization, my dear."
"And plenty of huntsmen ready to run her to ground." She clutched the basket tighter against her breast, as if she'd shield the little fox from danger herself, as if it were a babe in her arms instead of a wild thing that might snap off her fingers at any moment.
"Perhaps I should carry it?" Redmayne was surprised to hear himself offer. After all, he reasoned, seduction could be much hampered by a bunch of bandaged feminine fingers.
"No!" she said a little too hastily. "I can do it alone. I wouldn't want you to strain your wounds. I'll return soon enough. Just rest and..."
She didn't finish. She didn't have to. He could hear her plea as clearly as if she'd voiced it: Stay away from me!
She turned and hurried toward the stream as if she feared he'd catch hold of her skirt and haul her back.
He intended to do as she wished—enjoy the peace and quiet of the camp for a few precious moments, smooth out the ripples the woman was forever stirring up in his mind. But he surprised himself by starting after her, just to make certain she didn't get herself in any more trouble. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could steal another kiss, or manage a brush of fingertips, something to begin the night's onslaught where there weren't dishes to putter about, animals to tend to, or pots to stir.
It took him far longer to trace her path, hampered as he was by his limp. But he took his mind off of the aching by imagining the best tactics to use with the lady—a swift strike, putting both of them out of their misery quickly, or something more subtle?
He'd nearly decided when he glimpsed something—a splash of blue muslin—beyond a tangle of underbrush, heard the quiet sound of a woman's tears.
His pulse tripped, a strange sinking in his chest. He stood still, feeling as if he were prying yet again, peeling back another layer of this woman's soul.
He'd seen her all but naked in her shift beside the stream. But this nakedness of the spirit unnerved him far more. She cradled the little creature in her arms, stroking its russet head, crooning to it, just loud enough for him to hear.
"No more tangling with foxhounds, Duchess," she warned. "Don't let poor Milton deceive you. They're not to be trusted. And don't be casting your heart away on the first handsome male who crosses your path."
The curve of her lips turned wistful, her eyes a little touched with pain, and Redmayne couldn't help wondering about the softness he'd seen in her face, the tenderness just before he'd kissed her.
"Find a mate who will build you a cozy den and fill it with darling little kits. And someday, when my cart comes rattling past, promise you'll bring th
em out and display the lot of them. You see, I'll never have any babies of my own, so it will be like—like I'm their auntie. Perhaps they can belong to me a little." There was the slightest break in her voice. Redmayne felt it in his gut.
The fox squirmed, gazing up at her with large questioning eyes. It was as if the creature who had been content under her care during her convalescence scented freedom, that most intoxicating of elixirs. Damned ungrateful, Redmayne thought as he watched Rhiannon stroke the pointed ears one last time.
"I'm glad, really I am, that you're all well, and so bright and ready to scamper off. It's pure selfishness, this crying nonsense, because I'll miss you. Good-bye, little one. I'll never forget you."
No, Redmayne was certain she wouldn't—wouldn't brush aside this pain, bury it where it could never hurt her.
She dropped a kiss on the fox's silky brow. Then her grasp on the creature loosened so slowly that Redmayne could feel her reluctance and her exhilaration. No matter how painful the letting go had been for her, there was also triumph in it. Joy.
The fox wandered a little distance away, her delicate body quivering. Then she lifted her nose to sniff the wind. Was she hesitating because of the woman she'd left behind? Jewel-bright eyes glanced back at Rhiannon for a long moment. Then the creature scampered out of sight.
Rhiannon sat there alone, her skirts a pool of blue against the grass, tears streaming down her face as she grieved. For what? For the fox she had tended and come to love? For the barrenness of her own life? The things she couldn't have? Her own cozy den and nest full of kits?
Bloody hell, after having taken in so many creatures, she must know the price that would be exacted of her. If she suffered this much every time she let something go, why the devil take in any injured creatures in the first place? Why leave herself open to this kind of pain?
Some men might have been tempted to go and comfort her. But all Redmayne could think of was how he would feel, were he in her place. God's blood, if anyone witnessed him in such a state—stripped bare emotionally, hideously vulnerable—the humiliation would likely prove fatal. Even now, standing here, watching Rhiannon's tears, he felt as if he were violating her. His stomach churned.