"Lion?"
He started at the sound of her voice, looked down into glen-green eyes.
"I promise you won't regret this—letting me stay, I mean."
"I don't believe in regretting a decision once it is made." He brushed his unease aside, attempting to take shelter in familiar arrogance. But he couldn't help wondering what this decision might cost them both.
CHAPTER 11
It was a hell of a lot harder to sleep alone than it should have been, Redmayne thought grimly as he woke from fitful slumber in the isolation and silence of his own room.
A few days—he'd spent just a few days crammed into Rhiannon's absurdly small bed with her soft, feminine form cuddled close against him. He'd hated the intrusion. He'd been sure he did. Then why was it that all through this endless night he'd tossed and turned, found himself reaching out in his sleep, nerves ragged when he didn't find her?
His concern was doubtless some latent germ of chivalry he'd been infected with. He'd been tormented by hazy impressions that he was still trapped in Rhiannon's wagon instead of safe within his own pristine quarters and, despite his imprisonment, was reluctant to see the woman dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The fear that he'd somehow knocked her out of the bed was the only reason he kept searching for her in his sleep. After all, it couldn't be gentlemanly form to allow the woman who'd saved one's life to bruise herself in such a fashion.
He should have been damned relieved when he awoke to the gleaming bare white walls of his bedchamber, the spartan-plain armoire standing at attention in the corner. But the night's ordeal had left him exhausted and in a most precarious temper, a decidedly unpleasant circumstance for one who prided himself on both his self-control and his ability to function on impossibly little sleep.
He'd cultivated those two habits since childhood. Paxton Redmayne had stuffed his head from morning till night with unorthodox lessons, pouring insights and information into Lionel's mind in such a relentless deluge that the boy had often felt he was drowning.
Those few precious hours when he was supposed to be sleeping alone in his room had provided the only opportunity for a resentful, hurting boy to concentrate on his own thoughts, formulating complicated plans to defy his grandfather. As for indulging in fits of temper, Lionel had learned early that he couldn't afford that luxury—it made one careless— and carelessness was the sin Paxton Redmayne punished most severely.
Yet even when Lionel's schemes failed, bringing the grimmest retribution, the boy had never regretted the slumber time he lost when other children were dreaming of useless pursuits like catching a fish as big as a round tower, hunting the Minotaur, riding fierce dragons, or playing bold Lancelot to some blushing girl's Guinevere. To a boy who owned nothing except a sharp intellect and the information in his head, the night alone had seemed to belong to him.
Even as a man, Lionel had watched countless moons arc silver across the sky, seen an eternity of stars sparkle, fade, die. Yet after everything that had transpired during the past week, he'd thought for once he would be able to lose himself in oblivion, sleep decently if only from sheer exhaustion and the familiarity of being back in his own bed. Even the threat of assassins shouldn't have had any power over him. He had a warrior's instincts, that lifesaving ability to spring from dead sleep to battle readiness between one heartbeat and the next.
Only one thing had possessed the power to trouble his sleep and turn his feather mattress into a bed that might as well have been stuffed with thorns.
Rhiannon.
Ignoring the throb in his shoulder, Redmayne dragged the back of his hand across his gritty eyelids, and levered himself to a sitting position on the bed.
Blast the woman; her father had nicknamed her rightly. She was the very embodiment of an accursed briar rose, prickling a man until his nerves were raw, yet possessed of the softest, most luminous beauty when it turned its face up, either to the morning sun or to a man's hungry gaze.
And there could be no denying that Redmayne had been hungry to see her when she sprang like a startled doe from the wing chair.
But what the devil had he done once he was confronted by her? Had he been sensible? Bundled her off into her cart and lashed that lazy excuse of a horse of hers into a run? No. He'd let the woman outmaneuver him again. He'd set her up in the room just down the hall from his. He'd let her stay.
Let her? Hellfire, as if anyone could get rid of her! The woman was like a case of hives, once one was infected by her, there was no chance of escape. And yet, damn her hide and his own foolishness, some part of him was glad she was nearby. Close enough so that he could keep her safe until those who plotted against him were caught. And close enough so that he could unravel whatever had happened in her past.
Bracing himself for the unpleasant task of working the morning stiffness out of his wounded leg, he swung his limbs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. The instant he was shaved and changed into fresh clothes he would have her summoned, so that he could lay out some simple rules for her safety. He had no delusions. Rhiannon had the battle instincts of a day-old fawn.
Grimacing, he made his way to his washstand and peered into the mirror. He lowered his eyebrows in puzzlement. Why the devil was he smiling?
Barely half an hour passed before he was ready, garbed in a fresh uniform, one that didn't look as if it belonged in the rag bag. The image that stared back at him from the looking glass was reassuringly familiar. Lean, clean-shaven cheekbones, white-gold hair combed to perfection, ice-blue eyes that betrayed nothing. He could almost believe that his encounter with the assassins' pistol balls and an Irish guardian angel hadn't altered him at all.
Feeling as if he'd regained his grasp on something vital, he strode into his offices. A sleepy-eyed private sprang to attention. "Good—good morning, Captain, s-sir," the youth stammered, knocking a brass candlestick from its stand with his elbow in his haste to salute. Flushing scarlet, he raised his voice above the ringing of the brass. "The lieutenant ordered me to wait for you here. He thought I might be of some service, in case you needed anything."
"The lieutenant is all politeness." Redmayne could almost be amused at the lad's indecision: what best to do—retrieve the candlestick or stand at attention, pretending it had never happened? "Summon Miss Fitzgerald, Private. Tell her I wish to see her here at once."
With another salute and a surreptitious dive for the candlestick, the lad managed to beat a hasty retreat, his relief so evident that Redmayne could hear his gusty sigh on the other side of the door as it closed. It had always amused him—the effect he had on people. Why was it that the sigh made him oddly weary all of a sudden?
Shoving the feeling away, he began sorting through the pile of dispatches that had arrived while he was away. Most business had already been attended to by the capable lieutenant, but a commander needed to be aware of everything that had transpired in his absence—especially when said absence involved a plot to kill him.
He was absorbed in an order for supplies when he heard the hasty steps of someone running down the hall. His muscles tensed. Such unseemly haste never boded well. Squaring his shoulders, he folded his hands atop the stack of papers, smoothing every ripple of unease from his face until it was undisturbed as a mountain lake.
The private burst in, saluting, his eyes round with distress. "Captain, sir. I went to Miss Fitzgerald's rooms as you ordered. But when I knocked, there was no answer. I—I knew you would be most displeased if I failed to return without her, so I dared to open the door, but—"
A chill trickled down Redmayne's spine, his voice ice-hard. "For God's sake, man, I'm aging here. Just say whatever it is you have to say."
"She's gone, sir."
"Gone?"
The private flinched. "I—I'm afraid so." The man shifted on his feet as if the floor had suddenly become as hot as a frying griddle. "Perhaps she wandered off. You know the Irish are an unpredictable lot, never so much as a by-your-leave and—"
"I hardly think my betr
othed needs to ask by-your-leave of any man." Redmayne pierced him with a glare so sharp it should have drawn blood.
"Y—your betrothed?" If the private had taken a dive headlong from the griddle into the fire, he couldn't have looked more aghast.
Redmayne grimaced. It had been close to midnight when he first mentioned his supposed engagement to the few people necessary to prepare Rhiannon's quarters. He'd expected the gossip to rage through the camp like an epidemic. Yet perhaps it hadn't if this fool dared to insult the lady of his captain. "It is true," Redmayne said coldly. "Miss Fitzgerald, be she Irish or no, is to be my wife."
"Meanin' no disrespect, Captain. Even if she is Irish, she must be—I mean, you'd never tolerate irresponsible..."
The man seemed, at last, to have the wit to realize he was only digging himself in deeper. He swallowed hard, flinging himself into the fray in one last, desperate gesture. "She—she must be somewhere in the camp, sir. I'm certain she's safe enough. Nothing ill has happened to her."
The fool was a hell of a lot more optimistic than Redmayne was. Even more disturbing was the fact that the private must have seen Redmayne's nervousness or he would never have attempted to reassure him the way he had.
Flattening his hands on the desk, Redmayne shoved himself to his feet with a deliberation that belied the sharp edge of panic carving his vitals.
Rhiannon, alone, unprotected, among a garrison of men trained from the cradle to have nothing but scorn for the "barbarian Irish." Soldiers who had been mocked and spat upon, defied and ambushed by hard-headed fools without the wit to realize they were bleeding and dying generation after generation in a cause that had been lost centuries ago.
As if that wasn't bad enough, Rhiannon would be marked as his lady in a place that probably housed the very men who had tried to kill him. The men she had thwarted. The varlets who would take pleasure in killing her as well.
For a second, part of him clamored to raise a general alarm, have every man in the garrison search for her. But he dared not have even one soldier attempt to find her. To do so would be to reveal a vulnerability that chilled him. Despite the general hatred of the Irish among the troops, no one would dare show the least disrespect to the captain's own fiancee. And as for his assassins—if she was safe now, his excessive reaction would mark her as a certain target next time. Not to mention the fact that once she was found, probably tending a barn rat for colic, the whole thing would be damned embarrassing.
"Remain here, Private, in case my betrothed comes. I believe I will take a tour of the grounds. It seems there was an accident in the wheelwright's shop while I was gone."
"Yes, sir. Old Eli overset a gun carriage he was workin' to mend, but no one was fierce hurt this time, just a few purple fingers an' lots o' swearin', beggin' yer pardon. Not like what happened t' Jemmy Carver."
"The boy who was injured last month."
"Yes. Helping balance a cart when the opposite wheel crumpled. The weight o' the whole fell smack on his leg. Won't be doin' no dancin' again, will Jemmy."
"Perhaps it will be a gift. I loathe dancing myself," Redmayne attempted to seem careless, undisturbed, as he grabbed up his cloak. "Should my betrothed turn up here, Private, you will make certain she remains?"
"Yes, sir."
With a nod, Redmayne strode out into the morning sun. It dazzled him, blinded him for a moment. He glanced around, wondering where the devil to begin looking for one lost woman.
The stables, perhaps? She'd want to see how those ridiculous animals of hers had passed the night. He started in that direction. In the dim, musty confines of the barn, he glimpsed several men cleaning out stalls, another mending tack. In the corner, a frightened stable lad was attempting to tend Socrates, while Captain Blood gazed down with inscrutable feline amusement. The horse bared its teeth at the lad, doubtless waiting for a chance to take a bite.
"Have you seen my fiancee, Private?"
Redmayne's voice so startled the lad that he dropped his pitchfork. Seeing a chance, Socrates nipped him. With a yelp of pain, the boy came to attention well out of reach of those strong equine teeth. Redmayne could have sworn the piratical cat was laughing.
"Y—your lady? Aye, sir. She was here, oh, an hour ago. Kissin' this hell-born horse like it was a newborn babe. An' the other two, that dog and the cat, nuzzled up all night with the horse in the straw, like they'd be happy if ye came in an' joined 'em! That's why I volunteered t' tend t' this horse." The boy gave an injured sniff. "Seemed tame enough. Who woulda guessed?"
"Who indeed," Redmayne drawled with an alarming sense of relief. Rhiannon was safe, just wandering about. He'd put a stop to such nonsense the instant he found her.
"I'd heard tell the mad Irish were nigh magic when it came t' handlin' horses, but I guess I ne'er quite believed it till now. D'ye think it's a charm she worked on 'im or—"
"Doubtless the poor beast is bewitched," Redmayne said. God knew, the woman had managed to muddle up his own wits something fierce. He grimaced as Captain Blood leaped down from his perch and began doing his best to embed cat hair in every fiber of his captain's uniform. "Did she mention where she was going next?"
"Somewhere on the other side o' the camp. Sergeant Barton was takin' her."
"Barton?" Redmayne's stomach clenched, the vaguest vestiges of amusement dying. Even Rhiannon couldn't be so reckless as to go off with that man, could she? She'd faced him down outside the gypsy cart, seen him with his two comrades. She knew it was likely that Barton, despite his babe-innocent face, was neck-deep in the plot to kill him.
Lionel was appalled to see the stable lad staring at him, an odd expression on his face. "He was showin' her about most gallantlike," the lad piped up, rubbing the sore place on his arm where Socrates had bitten him. "Never need fear for a lady when he's about, sir." Hellfire, the boy was trying to soothe Captain Lionel Redmayne. Had Redmayne really slipped that far? The lad hitched up his sagging britches. "A good sort, Barton is."
Unless he happened to be firing a pistol at someone, Redmayne supposed. Fighting back panic, he shoved the cat aside, then strode out of the stables, his gaze searching the bustle of the army camp. It should be simple enough to pick out a woman in the midst of the soldiers, shouldn't it?
Leg throbbing, pulse far too fast for comfort, Redmayne made his way through the confusion, stopping to inquire here and there. He'd nearly reached the other edge of the camp when someone said he'd seen Barton and a lady going toward the infirmary.
Cursing himself for a fool, Redmayne hastened to the isolated building, constructed far enough away from the rest to guard against contagion. It had been all but empty of late, save for the few injuries that happened about the camp. Quiet, nearly deserted. A place where few would question or be alarmed if they heard a scream...
If Barton had dared to hurt her... The mere possibility made something poisonous—anger, dread, and resolve—knot beneath Redmayne's ribs. He flung open the door to the building and stalked inside, ready to flay Barton alive.
The instant he entered, his ears were assaulted by a tinkling wave of feminine laughter. Rhiannon. For an instant, he feared he would murder the woman himself.
Forcing every wire-taut muscle in his body to relax, Redmayne paced with lazy stride in the direction of that sound. What he saw was more infuriating than anything he could have imagined. Rhiannon and Barton, arms looped about young Jemmy Carver, were helping him walk with an unsteady gait while three other inmates of the infirmary looked on, their innate loathing of the Irish seemingly forgotten as they teased their comrade.
"She'll have ye dancin' in no time, Jem!" a raspy baritone called out.
"Nay, Jemmy'd be fearful the captain might take his other leg for darin't'—oomph!" A guttural grunt ended the jest as the man next to him jammed an elbow into his gut.
"What the devil ye do that fer?" The grumble ended in a gasp. "Captain Redmayne, sir!" The scramble of white-faced men attempting to struggle to attention bordered on the ridiculous. Most times
Redmayne would have enjoyed their discomfiture, passed it off with dry wit. At the moment he wasn't disposed to be so merciful.
"Has Lieutenant Williams instated dancing lessons in my absence, or do you gentlemen need me to add a few more things to your roster of duties to keep you occupied?" he asked coldly.
"No, sir! Beg pardon, sir!" A chorus of stammers rose. Only Rhiannon seemed impervious to his current mood.
"Lion!" she exclaimed with genuine gladness. Redmayne winced at her use of his first name. She paused only long enough to make certain Carver was steady on his feet before she flew to Redmayne's side. "Don't you think Jemmy is improving wonderfully well? Sergeant Barton and I were helping him—"
"Barton, I thought I made myself clear last night when I told you I had no more need of an aide-decamp. Your services are no longer necessary to me or to my betrothed."
Rhiannon's smile died, confusion clouding her face. Barton looked as if he'd taken a pistol blast full in the chest. An apt comparison, Redmayne thought with bitter humor, considering that that was probably where the boy had aimed when he pulled the trigger at Ballyaroon. Damn them both for looking so surprised. After all, there could be no other logical reason why Barton would have been traveling with two of Redmayne's enemies, could there?
"Captain, sir, I thought you just meant that last night you wished to be left alone." Damn Barton for looking so bewildered and hurt. Blast, he couldn't be mourning the loss of his post too grievously. The man had probably been horrified when he first got his assignment to serve the inscrutable Captain Redmayne.