Briar Rose

  He swung open the door, and limped down the steps.

  "Gor save us!"

  "'Tis him!"

  A chorus of astonished exclamations rose around him. But as he stepped into the circle of light, every man in the crowd fell silent, half of them looking as if they'd swallowed a prickly pear. Not one face showed pleasure at seeing him alive. Not one man seemed glad he'd returned. He could see them battling heavy disappointment, trying to hide it—as if they could hide their true feelings from him! Once Redmayne would have felt only grim amusement at their reaction, but suddenly he'd never felt less entertained.

  "Sir, a thousand pardons, sir," the burly guard stammered as if he expected to face a firing squad because of his mistake. "But who woulda thought that ye would be lookin' like a ragpicker—"

  The man nearest the guard jammed his elbow into Twynham's midsection. Redmayne recognized the second man as a rather dull sort called by the name Digger Britch, a man who avoided Redmayne at every opportunity. Perhaps because he'd felt the sharp edge of his captain's tongue with great regularity.

  "What Twynham here means, sir, is that you surprised us, that's all." Digger stood by Twynham with the steely resolution of some hero-blind fool guarding a wounded compatriot against a full cavalry charge. Only the tremor in his hands betrayed his nervousness as he faced his commander. "I mean, you, in a gypsy cart, with your clothes all cut up..."

  So that was what this hubbub was about, Redmayne mused. He'd forgotten Rhiannon's haphazard mending job. He glanced down at his cut-up boot, tied together with a hank of cloth; his shirt was a mass of stitches and slashes the most destitute beggar would have been shamed to wear. Redmayne wanted nothing more than to unnerve the men clustered about him, make them as oddly unsettled as he was.

  "Miss Fitzgerald, how did this happen?" he demanded, sounding astonished. "I'm certain I was in full uniform when I left the garrison. Ah, yes. That was before someone shot me and left me for dead." Redmayne searched the faces, probing for even the slightest hint, the tiniest sign that his betrayer was among them.

  Outraged murmurs rose. "Irish bastards!"

  "We'll hunt down whoever dared to do this!" Yet the comments were not bred of any loyalty to Redmayne, rather out of hatred ages old. Redmayne had little doubt they'd be as happy to hunt down the "Irish bastards" with equal vigor simply because the sky was blue or because a footsore peasant had failed to yield the road quickly enough to suit them as they passed by.

  He remembered all too clearly Rhiannon's confession, her hatred of war, yet her certainty that the men who fought together, depended on each other for their very life, must share a powerful bond. Truth was, he shared nothing with these men except the walls of his headquarters and the color of his uniform.

  Redmayne shoved the unwelcome insight aside. He had more important matters to attend to. After all, he still hoped he might glean some clue from the men as to what treachery was afoot. But suddenly a whirlwind came bolting through the crowd with the most distressing lack of military decorum. Redmayne was surprised to feel something of a jolt as Kenneth Barton broke into the circle where he stood.

  "Captain, sir!" the young man gasped, his face waxen, his hands shaking. "They said it was you, but I didn't believe it!"

  Why? Redmayne wondered. Perhaps because Barton was one of the men who put the bullets in his flesh? "Barton." He gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment.

  "But—but this gypsy cart! I remember..." Barton looked up at Rhiannon, still perched on her seat high above him. "Miss Fitzgerald, isn't it? I know you! Your brother... There was smallpox in your camp!" The rest of the soldiers drew back, uncertainty and alarm in their faces. It seemed it was rather felicitous to rid the camp of an unwanted officer, but it was another matter entirely for disease to make a random sweep through the ranks.

  "Attempted assassination can make one most suspicious, I fear, Barton. Suspicious enough to alter the truth when necessary."

  "You were there all along!" Barton dared to look wounded. "At that camp! Why didn't you tell us?"

  Redmayne arched one eyebrow at his aide-de-camp's impudence. "I can't imagine why I should be held accountable to you, Sergeant Barton."

  The youth paled. "Of course not. But we'd been searching for you. Surely once you realized I was there you knew you had nothing to fear." He looked desperately earnest, searching Redmayne's face.

  "Suffice it to say I was in no mood for company." Or for another taste of death spooned up by Sir Thorne Carville, Redmayne thought, but his hidden meaning wasn't lost on Barton. The youthful face fell, like that of a boy who'd suddenly learned he was not trusted by an idolized older brother. But blast it all, hadn't Brutus plunged his knife into Julius Caesar in the end? A knife that doubtless stabbed far deeper than that of any other traitor.

  "I suppose my surliness was understandable enough under the circumstances. I had just been shot," Redmayne drawled. "By the way, Barton, do remind me to review with you how to make a thorough search. You seem to have lost that valuable skill—unless, of course, you were looking for something you had no real desire to find."

  Barton made a muffled sound of hurt and outrage, but Redmayne ignored it. Instead, he glanced around at the men under his command. The gruff warriors suddenly appeared sheepish as they faced the uncomfortable truth. It took more effort than he ever would have expected to force his mouth into its usual sardonic smile. "I am quite certain you have not misplaced my successor."

  "Lieutenant Williams has been half mad searchin' for ye, sir!" Twynham erupted with fierce loyalty.

  Williams—the man had been an irritant from the moment he rode into the garrison three months before, the officer of every raw recruit's dream, more devoted to the men under his command than he was to his duty. The man must've been rejoicing at Redmayne's absence. But Williams would be far too honorable to admit what Redmayne had known all along—that he'd been hoping to replace the captain permanently.

  "Captain," Twynham insisted, "you can't fault the lieutenant! 'Tis nigh impossible to find anything on this infernal island. Can't expect any of the Irish t' help us find a handful o' dirt in the middle of a potato field, let alone an English officer who's gone missin'." Twynham dared to look a trifle disgruntled. "An' besides, how were we t' even guess where t' begin lookin'? Ye never told a soul what direction ye were ridin' off in, nor when ye 'spected to be back."

  There was a time when Redmayne might have found such a passionate appeal on the lieutenant's behalf diverting. But tonight, bone-weary, with Rhiannon Fitzgerald's soft green eyes looking on, it made him feel embarrassed and ashamed. The sainted lieutenant, who had arrived three months ago, was so devoted to his men that the soldiers affectionately dubbed him Papa behind his back. Yes, that was the kind of man Rhiannon would understand and admire every bit as much as Redmayne's men did. The notion irritated Redmayne to a surprising depth.

  "Private Twynham"—Redmayne made his voice low, silky, dangerous—"do you dare to question my actions?"

  The florid face tightened, a trapped light in the private's eyes. "'Tis just that ye—ye'd be makin' a mistake t' think the lieutenant were doin' anythin' but his duty by ye, sir."

  His duty, yes, they'd all do their duty by him, Redmayne thought. But would he ever be able to wring that last drop of courage from their hearts? The drop that made mortal men reach higher, strain farther, fight more fiercely than humanly possible. Out of loyalty. Out of love.

  What the devil was wrong with him, dwelling on such sentimental rot? He'd never craved such devotion or the crushing responsibility that came with it. Boundaries, separation, walls—he'd wanted those in abundance. Made certain he had them. Never had he considered crossing those barriers until a cinnamon-haired gypsy had stumbled across his path.

  The best way to regain his equilibrium was to send her on her way as soon as possible. To that end, he turned to Britch brusquely.

  "See to the provisioning of Miss Fitzgerald's wagon at once. All the foodstuffs she can hold."


  "No!" Rhiannon protested. "Lion—I mean, Captain, it's not necessary. I beg of you—"

  "Any of my men can tell you how futile that would be," Redmayne said. "Can you not, soldiers?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "As for the rest of you, go back to your posts,"

  Redmayne commanded. "I assume the lieutenant assigned you some useful tasks."

  "He did, sir!" a private so young his face was broken out in spots piped up eagerly. "Aye, he did!"

  "I am much relieved. Barton, tell the lieutenant I will see him in the map room at once."

  Did the soldiers actually look a trifle mutinous? As if they feared Redmayne might... what? Punish their precious lieutenant by forcing him to don the slashed and mended uniform and trek about the countryside as Miss Fitzgerald's prisoner?

  Redmayne wondered how many of them were wishing they could pack him into the gypsy cart, shove it back outside the gates, and pretend he'd never come wandering back. Hellfire, why should it even matter?

  From the instant he'd climbed down from the gypsy cart, the encounter between Redmayne and his soldiers had been absurd. Laughable, really. Then why were his shoulders stiff and his jaw rigid as he watched them wandering away, muttering among themselves? Cursing their ill luck that their captain hadn't had the courtesy to stay missing, no doubt.

  Redmayne forced a mockery of his usual smile onto his lips as he turned to face Rhiannon. But the smile turned brittle when he glimpsed her there, gazing down at him with great sad eyes, just a hint of worry playing about the soft corners of her mouth. In that instant he was the one who wanted to shove the gypsy cart outside the heavy iron gates, quickly, so she couldn't see how disturbed he was, how unexpectedly raw and tired.

  Panic that she might know his weakness poured steel into his spine.

  "Miss Fitzgerald, if you would care to climb down, I'm certain a tolerable supper can be thrown together for you before you leave."

  "I'm not hungry." She looked bone-weary, more than a little lost, and unhappy. Worse, even, than when she'd bade her injured fox good-bye.

  Damnation, had she been fool enough to become attached to him, in spite of his villainy toward her?

  "Well, then, as soon as Britch brings those provisions I owe you, you can be on your way, I suppose." What the devil was taking the man so long, anyway?

  "You don't owe me anything, Lion."

  His name. Drat her for using his name—so soft, it might almost have been an endearment. "I owe you my life," Redmayne snapped, his voice rougher than he intended, "though as to its value, there might be a difference in opinion." It was supposed to be a jest, one of the dry witticisms for which he was famous. Why the devil wasn't she smiling?

  She climbed down from her high seat, hours of lurching across ruts making her legs so unsteady she stumbled. Redmayne reached out, grasping her waist to steady her, felt the warmth, the softness of her beneath his palm. He should have pulled his hand away the very moment she regained her balance. But what harm could it do to let his touch linger this once? Within minutes she'd be out of his reach forever.

  She swallowed hard, gazing up at him. "You will... take care of yourself for me? Promise?"

  It was a singular request. Redmayne couldn't help but marvel at it. No one in his memory had ever asked such a thing of him. "There is no reason you should trouble yourself about me, Rhiannon."

  "I didn't ask you to understand, Lion. Only to promise."

  Were those tears glistening in her lashes? Damn, he was the vilest cad ever to draw breath. He could see the reflection of their kiss in her eyes, knew that because of it, she would never forget him. And yet, most villainous of all, he suddenly realized that there was some secret part of him, long buried, that was glad—glad that one soul, at least, would think of him from time to time, one in all the vast impersonal world he'd traveled for so many years alone, untouched.

  Tugged by a force he couldn't understand, he raised his fingers to her cheek, meaning to skim across that rosy curve, but at the last moment he rebelled against something too close to tenderness. Instead, he made a great show of straightening the tumbled lace collar at her throat.

  "Tell you what, Miss Fitzgerald. We can strike a bargain. I will do as you ask if you promise me something in return."

  The glitter had been tears. One trickled down her cheek as she nodded.

  "No more tangling with assassins or picking up wounded soldiers by the side of the road. I should be proof enough to you that we're a most unworthy lot." He grimaced. "I suppose it's useless even to attempt to get you to see reason."

  "Quite useless." Her voice quavered. "I believe in fairies, you see, so logic is quite beyond my grasp." With that, she strained up on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. A quick brush of lips, tear-wet and trembling. It burned into Redmayne more brutally than the iron with which he'd cauterized his wounds.

  Never had he tasted someone else's tears. He could barely remember the taste of his own. His throat closed, and he said nothing as he helped her back up onto her seat high above that abominable horse. For an instant he was tempted to offer her one from the garrison stables—the strongest of the cart horses, the most obedient—but he knew she wouldn't take it.

  Damn, but the woman picked the most troublesome creatures to love.

  Why was it that the insight pierced him, made his hands knot into fists, his breath catch? Redmayne clenched his jaw and he turned away from the soft plea in those green-gold eyes. He strode away across the torchlit road, back to his empty life and the soldiers who feared him, back to the existence that had been his forever.

  If only he hadn't been so damnably aware that he was alone again.

  CHAPTER 10

  Dawn streaked the horizon as Redmayne finally made his way across the compound toward his suite. His wounds ached like fire after endless hours of meetings as he resumed command of the garrison. Exhaustion ground down on him but he kept his shoulders squared with military precision. He could feel eyes boring into him from somewhere in the camp, resentful, mutinous. Some babe-soft private, fresh from Yorkshire and missing his mama, perhaps. Or a more seasoned soldier, one who had learned how to hate, maybe enough to risk luring his commander to a ruined village and a hail of pistol balls.

  Redmayne gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take his accustomed long strides, praying with a grim humor that he wouldn't fall face down in the dirt. Damned if he'd let anyone see even a hint of weakness in him.

  He couldn't afford it. Especially now, when his troops fairly hummed with discontent, their loyalties obviously fixed on the saintly lieutenant.

  Redmayne grimaced. Reluctant though he might be, even he had to give the lieutenant credit. The man had welcomed him with barely a trace of stiffness, only a hint of regret evident in his warm brown eyes. He'd managed things all too well in Redmayne's absence, making small changes that had bettered the lot of the enlisted men. Yet the lieutenant hadn't overstepped any boundaries that would have made him seem to clutch greedily at another man's command. Even so, Redmayne had sensed regret in the man, but not because he'd been robbed of power or control. His regret was more like the reluctance of a superior horseman returning a borrowed mount to its rightful owner, who hadn't the wit or skill to appreciate such an exceptional horse.

  The comparison should have rankled. But all Redmayne could think about was that some owners appreciated their beasts far too much—Rhiannon, for example, fawning over that pathetic excuse of an animal that no one in his right mind would call a horse. He'd seen her petting it and crooning to it as though it were something rare and precious, some silver-horned unicorn spun out of legend.

  From the window of the map room, Redmayne had glimpsed the gypsy cart lumbering through the gates a mere hour after they'd arrived at the camp, Rhiannon obviously eager to be gone. Even now she might be trying to coax Socrates along, dangling some of the carrots from the garrison commissary in front of the ragamuffin beast's huge Roman nose. Doubtless she'd be singing or chattering or indulging
in any number of noisy, irritating habits.

  The image should have had the power to amuse him or at least fill him with heartfelt gratitude that she was miles away from him. Instead, it only left him feeling hollow, more tired than before. Because he knew that even if his untidy guardian angel was singing at the moment, she would be sorrowing as well.

  Somewhere in that heart, which was far too tender for this world, she would be grieving for him as she'd grieved for the little fox she'd set free what seemed an eternity ago.

  He tried to block her features from his memory— the tear-bright eyes, the trembling lips, the quaver in her voice as she'd pleaded with him to take care of himself.

  As if he mattered a damn. Yet he couldn't help wondering who would take care of her.

  "Don't be a fool," he muttered. "She's better off where she is." Alone, unprotected, on the open road? a voice inside his head mocked him. Likely one more casualty of his grandfather's cunning and greed. Her home stolen, her most precious treasure a chipped cup? That circumstance was sobering enough, but what about the men who had hunted Redmayne and who might now know she'd rescued him? Lied for him? Sheltered him? What if they decided to make her pay for that folly?

  No. He reined his thoughts in sharply. Striking at a lone woman wasn't logical. Why hunt her down when she obviously knew nothing? Assassins would concentrate on sending their main target to the grave. Even the most vengeful of bastards wouldn't waste time on her unless Redmayne himself was dead. The best way to protect Rhiannon was to make certain he was a generous target for them, one that would draw them out from hiding and keep them occupied until he could bring them to justice.

  As for his grandfather, there would be time enough to tangle with him as well. He would see to it that whatever treachery Paxton had worked upon Rhiannon's father was undone and as much of her past life restored to her as possible. The thought of her tucked into the rose-draped cottage she'd described tightened a fist in his chest, awakening something almost forgotten... yearning. A wistful wondering of what it might be like to stride through Rhiannon's door in a rainfall of drifting rose petals, sink into one of the chairs at a table she'd weighted down with bunches of flowers gathered from her meadows, while she poured steaming tea into chipped cups, her eyes shining with gladness at seeing him.