Briar Rose

Besides, whatever had happened at Ballyaroon, it was Barton who'd shown up at Rhiannon's caravan door, accompanied by two men Redmayne knew as adversaries. Any sane man would have been suspicious. And suspicion had a strange way of keeping a man alive.

  "Lion, please."

  His name again. Curse the woman! Her use of it made him feel stripped naked somehow. Rhiannon pressed his arm with one hand, the slender fingers delicate and fragile against the crisp uniform sleeve. "Sergeant Barton has been most kind, showing me all about the camp, telling me how the garrison works, the improvements you've made."

  The fact that he might have escorted her ever so chivalrously off the nearest cliff obviously hadn't occurred to the woman. The fact that she was safe should have eased the tightness in Redmayne's shoulders, softened the knot in his gut. Instead, he felt inexplicably angrier than ever.

  "I fear I am less than convinced that the sergeant is reliable, considering the fact that he deserted his post for at least a few days."

  "I was searching for you, Captain!" Barton cried, hot spots of color on his cheeks. High passion, earnestness, wounded pride? Or was it guilt, a desperate attempt to hide his culpability?

  "Indeed. You have found me. Now, if you will excuse us?" He grasped Rhiannon's arm and marched her back to his headquarters without a word, despite her efforts to get him to speak. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to guess his present temper.

  The instant the door closed, he rounded on her: "How dare you go traipsing around the garrison without my permission!"

  "Your permission?" Her spine stiffened so swiftly it was a miracle it didn't crack.

  "What were you thinking? For God's sake, Kenneth Barton might well be one of the men who shot me!"

  He expected anger from her, outrage at his scorn. He would have welcomed it, an outlet for the coils of anger and—yes, damn it—fear that still bound him up inside. The last thing he wanted was for her mouth to soften, her eyes to fill with gentle knowing. "I understand now. That is what is amiss," she said almost to herself. She crossed to him, grasped one of his hands in her own.

  "Lion, you needn't worry anymore."

  "Needn't worry? What the—"

  "Sergeant Barton had nothing to do with what happened at Ballyaroon. He would never hurt you." The woman actually dared to smile. "He idolizes you."

  He was unnerved by the knowledge that she'd guessed Barton's involvement bothered him. That she seemed to have guessed how deeply his former aide-de-camp's betrayal had cut—that was unbearable. He stiffened, drawing his hand away from her touch. "Did the sergeant tell you this while he was escorting you about the camp? Pardon me for doubting, but I hardly think he'd discuss modern methods of assassination to entertain a lady."

  He'd managed to prick her that time! A fierce, defensive light sparked in her eyes. "That boy could no more assassinate you than I could. You ask how I can be so certain? I know it. Here." She struck her fist against her heart. "Just as I knew you were hurt among the standing stones."

  For an instant, just an instant, something in him reached out for the certainty that shone in her face, wanted to capture it, hold it. Believe. But thirty-odd years of mistrust were too deeply ingrained. He shoved away that ridiculous impulse.

  "I regret to remind you that I do not believe in fairy tales or bewitchings or reading people's hearts by one touch of the hand. And you can hardly expect me to trust your intuition about people, my dear, after you were rash enough to take me into your caravan."

  "Lion, you are hurting yourself, and you are hurting that boy by your stubbornness." Glen-green eyes burned with emotion. "Perhaps you can pretend that you have a heart of ice, and the rest of the world will believe you. But I won't!" Her fierce words were lost in a sharp rap on the door. Rhiannon cast a futile glance at it, as if by force of will she could drive away whoever was on the other side. Apparently her mystic powers did not reach quite that far.

  Redmayne, on the other hand, was damnably relieved at the interruption.

  "Enter," he called. The door swung wide, revealing Lieutenant Josiah Williams. Weariness and resignation tugged at the corners of the officer's mouth, his brown eyes betraying his unease. What the devil was the matter now? Redmayne wondered.

  The lieutenant gave a stiff bow to acknowledge Rhiannon. "Beg pardon for the interruption, sir. There is one more matter we need to discuss, something that came up while you were gone." As soon as the words were out, his gaze flickered again to Rhiannon, all that gentlemanly intuition doubtless clamoring an alarm. "It's nothing of importance," the lieutenant said, a flush coloring his cheeks. "We can discuss it at a more convenient time."

  "I prefer to discuss it now. Rhiannon, if you will excuse us?" Redmayne had rarely been so glad to dismiss anyone in his life. She cast him a reproachful look, all the more intolerable because it was laced with understanding.

  "You will remember what I said?" she pleaded.

  "If I forget, I'm certain you will remind me." Redmayne sighed with resignation.

  "Captain, sir," the lieutenant said hastily, "in truth, it might be better if your lady remains. This is a situation in which her opinion could be of value."

  Rhiannon hesitated, and Redmayne wished both she and the sainted Lieutenant miles away from him.

  "I doubt Rhiannon would have any interest in the workings of the garrison," Lionel said.

  "No! I find it most fascinating! You see, Lieutenant, Sergeant Barton gave me a tour of the camp this morning, explaining so many things. I got a chance to see facets of Lion that I never could have understood before."

  Redmayne was horrified to feel his cheeks burn. Had he ever blushed before? There was no sense arguing with Rhiannon, trying to shove her out the door verbally or otherwise. Once the woman thought she could help someone, she'd be harder to budge than that accursed horse of hers.

  Redmayne bit back a sigh. "What is this difficulty you needed to speak of, Lieutenant?"

  The man straightened like a freshly cast ramrod. "Captain, sir, first, let me say that I take full responsibility for this situation."

  Redmayne rolled his eyes heavenward. "Why is it I doubt such a preface would come before anything I would take pleasure in hearing?"

  The lieutenant's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "No. But you might not object, considering your own circumstances."

  Redmayne groped for patience. "Just say it, man. I doubt your news will improve no matter how long you stall in telling me."

  That goaded the other officer into knotting his fists, resentment glinting in his eyes. "While you were absent, I gave permission for a celebratory dinner of sorts, with dancing, for the soldiers and their wives."

  Who would have imagined such a predictably honorable man could actually manage to blindside Redmayne? He paused for a moment, mastering his surprise. "I have heard people display grief in different ways," Redmayne observed dryly. "But to mourn the loss of a commander by hosting a fete seems to me in exceedingly poor taste."

  "Surely that couldn't be the reason!" Rhiannon objected, looking most protective of him. Another moment, and she'd be sweeping him behind the shelter of her skirts.

  "It wasn't because of you." Williams fairly bristled at Redmayne's insult to his honor. "It was to be for Archibald Whitting and his wife. The ladies discovered that the Whittings have been married thirty years this Saturday."

  "Thirty years!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "How lovely!"

  "With all the travelling Archie has done with the army, never once have they spent their anniversary together." Fierce defensiveness glinted beneath the lieutenant's eyelids. "The ladies thought we could give them a night they might remember, to make up for it. I thought it was a fine idea and gave my permission. Archie has done good service to the army, often at great cost to his wife."

  Redmayne arched one eyebrow, genuinely confused. "The army owes no debt to a man for merely doing his duty."

  "Blast it—" The lieutenant started to swear, stopped himself. "The army gives balls whenever it chooses. Why
not plan this one to give a man and his wife a little joy?"

  "A trifle irregular, what you're suggesting. Officers and enlisted men celebrating together."

  "It's been done before. Why not stretch the bounds of protocol for one night? Why not let Archie and fine men like Barton and Jemmy Carver and the like have a bit of pleasure? I even hoped, considering your betrothal, you might be sympath— that you and your lady might like to host it," he amended hastily.

  "Perhaps we should inquire after the enlisted men's birthdays," Redmayne observed, so mildly the lieutenant blanched. "Provide a cake, perhaps, or a few presents." He lowered his voice. "We're an army on hostile ground, in case you've forgotten, Lieutenant. We've no time for such nonsense."

  His refusal should have been so damned simple, logical. But at that moment he glimpsed Rhiannon's face. Yearning glistened in her eyes, fleeting reflections of grief put aside long ago. Fragile memories of dancing slippers laid to rest, a life of wealth and privilege taken for granted, then lost.

  But despite it all, she hadn't lost her joy in life, her hope, her courage. The dreamer's light that no calamity could extinguish shone in her face now, as if she had already come to love Archie and his wife and the magic of a love story thirty years old.

  This was madness, Redmayne thought grimly. He couldn't possibly be considering changing his mind! Could he? He stalked over to the window, staring out across the garrison, a beehive of activity in the late morning sun.

  A military installation needed discipline, order, not balls and anniversary toasts! A fete would distract the men from their purpose, make them think of their own wives and families far away, sweethearts they hadn't seen for months. Or was Redmayne merely fooling himself? Had he been reckless enough to love a woman who was far away, would anything—from dull peacetime duty to the hideous tempest of full-fledged war—keep him from picturing the perfect oval of her face? Remembering their last moments together? The taste of her lips?

  His gaze flashed back to Rhiannon, and he felt an odd wrenching in his chest. She stood, hands folded, in a ray of sunshine, tendrils of cinnamon-brown curls falling in an unruly mass about the pure rose of her cheeks. She'd managed to hide some of her eagerness, but such determined cheerfulness on her part only made things worse.

  If she'd ever been foolish enough to love a soldier, doubtless she would have appeared thus as he rode away, wanting her smile to be the last thing he saw, a talisman to carry with him, though her own too tender heart would be breaking.

  Damnation!

  "All right. We'll have the accursed ball." No one was more astonished at the growled words than the captain himself.

  "Oh, Lion!" Rhiannon beamed, her smile so bright it pained him.

  "Wh-what?" the other officer choked out. "But I thought you said—"

  "You would be ill advised to remind me what I said, unless you have no real desire to honor the gunnery sergeant and his wife."

  "No! I mean, yes, of course I won't." The man looked as if the devil himself had given permission for a garden party in the balmiest reaches of hell.

  "Perhaps you should go tend to... whatever is involved in planning such a fete," Redmayne suggested. "I will offer my felicitations to the happy couple, but I draw the line at ordering up ratafia and lobster salad."

  "I will be happy to help!" Rhiannon offered, then looked a trifle uncertain. Her gaze flicked to Redmayne as if asking permission. "Unless... well, I've just arrived here, and there is so much for me to learn. Perhaps there's something else Lion would like me to do."

  It irritated him and touched him, that she stopped to consider his opinion. There was no logical reason Rhiannon couldn't help the lieutenant if she wanted to. At least if she was busy it would keep her out of trouble, not to mention out from under Redmayne's feet. But he found the idea of Rhiannon under the melting reach of the lieutenant's warm brown eyes an astonishingly distasteful prospect.

  He was still formulating an answer when the lieutenant spoke in strained tones. "You needn't trouble yourself, miss. I'll take care of everything." There was a sudden harshness in the other officer, as if he didn't quite trust Redmayne's sudden benevolence and did not particularly like it, despite the fact that it meant the party would go on as planned. No, Redmayne had definitely ruined his perfect record of villainy in the lieutenant's eyes, and the man wasn't enjoying it one bit. If he'd guessed merely consenting to host an anniversary party would disconcert the good lieutenant this much, he might have done it months ago, just for entertainment.

  Redmayne was surprised to find his mouth curving in a smile. "Lieutenant, if there is nothing else, you are dismissed."

  Obviously vexed, the man offered a rigid salute, then turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  The door had barely clicked shut when Rhiannon closed the space between them and hurled herself into Redmayne's arms. "Lion, I knew you would do it! Have the party for the sergeant, I mean!"

  Redmayne's arms closed around her—a reflex, merely, to steady her so she wouldn't tumble to the floor. She raised a face shining with pleasure up to his, and he remembered another time when she'd gazed at him in the glen, offering herself up to a man who didn't begin to deserve her as if he were the boldest hero born of legend. I want to make love to you....

  The memory was agonizingly sweet, unbearably painful, filling him with self-loathing and regret Suddenly the idea of Rhiannon turning him into some sort of champion over this nonsense was more than he could bear.

  "I don't give a damn about the sergeant, his wife, or how long they've been wed," he said evenly. "I merely consented for the pleasure of bewildering the lieutenant."

  One soft palm cradled his cheek, the warmth of it seeping into cold places in his soul, her eyes soft and knowing as a sinless Eve's. "You did it for me, Lion. So I could dance again."

  Hellfire, hadn't he seen that secret longing in her eyes before he'd made his decision? The yearning for the life she'd known before? Dancing and sipping ratafia, smiling into the eyes of some undeserving escort? Redmayne swallowed hard. She'd read his mind yet again! Redmayne pulled away, tugging at his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. "Don't be absurd," he snapped. "This whole affair will be a good deal of trouble. You'll need a dress. Even if you have one crammed somewhere in that wagon of yours I'm certain it's hopelessly out of fashion."

  "I can alter something. I'm a passable seamstress."

  "Passable is not acceptable for my fiancée. I shall order something up myself. And just so there is no misunderstanding, I do not dance. I have no desire to be bombarded by pleading glances throughout the infernal ball."

  He sounded as petulant as a schoolboy. Rhiannon should have been hurt, angry, or at the very least as disgusted as he was at such behavior. Instead, she cast him a glowing smile.

  "It's all right, Lion," she said. "I've probably forgotten how to dance anyway."

  It would've been a hell of a lot easier if she had! But as the days passed, every time he saw her there was a new lightness to her feet. As she flitted to the stable, charming every man who crossed her path, banishing generations of hatred with the light of her smile, there was a fresh skip to her step. During her trips to the infirmary to help young Jemmy Carver, there was an airiness about her, as if she were already floating in clouds of dreams.

  Even when the dressmakers came, beginning the endless fittings in the next room, Redmayne could hear her feet tapping, as she hummed waltz tunes distressingly off key. He tried his damnedest to ignore her, but in the end there was no escaping the truth.

  Rhiannon might well have forgotten how to dance, but blast the woman, she was practicing in her head!

  CHAPTER 12

  Twilight edged the trees in wisps of ash-gray lace, almost as if night itself were weaving a shroud. Redmayne stared out across the vista of barracks beyond his headquarters window, bemused by the tightness in his stomach. Odd, to feel evidence of emotion after all these years. A little like recalling bits of a language long forgotten, enough to trou
ble one's peace but not enough to be of any practical use.

  Doubtless Rhiannon would be delighted with the news, if ever he went mad enough to tell her what he was experiencing. But tonight he would have preferred to deal with matters in his accustomed way, to be without any feelings at all. At least during the interview that lay before him.

  He had to question Kenneth Barton.

  Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Rhiannon's caravan had lumbered into the garrison. Redmayne had taken care of whatever pressing military business had to be transacted. God help any man who claimed Lion had done so in an attempt to avoid the upcoming confrontation.

  No, Redmayne assured himself. He'd merely been gathering his wits, planning the tactics he would use to get the boy to spill any information he might have. An unnecessary effort, Rhiannon would insist. No doubt she believed Barton would work himself to death attempting to aid Redmayne, were he but asked.

  "That boy could no more assassinate you than I could," she had said, fierce protectiveness shining in every line of her earnest face. For whom? Redmayne or the earnest youth she had befriended? He felt an odd jab that couldn't possibly be jealousy. Not even an hour had she spent in Kenneth Barton's company, but Rhiannon was damned certain she knew the young man's heart. The way she believed she knew Redmayne's own?

  Self-disgust poured through him. God forbid she should ever truly get a glimpse of the cold, dead place in his chest where a heart was supposed to be. Even a fairy-born healer would have to turn away from him, revolted, despairing.

  Damnation, what the devil ailed him? Redmayne jammed his fingers through his hair in disgust. He had a job to do—question the young soldier who was his only link to the men who had ambushed him at Ballyaroon.

  The task should be simple enough. In his years in the military, he'd become nigh legendary for his ability to pry secrets from the most determined rebels' souls. He'd always discovered just the right leverage, but here, when his own life might well hang in the balance, what was he doing? Nursing something appallingly akin to feelings of betrayal, and imagining the reactions of a woman to whom the concept of logic was as foreign as fairy tales were to him.