Lion winced. What could an honorable man of Tidei's mettle have known of the forces Paxton Redmayne could unleash? Brilliantly forged letters that had made Tidei's hot-tempered best friend believe the sword master was having an affair with his wife—a deception that had destroyed both marriages. The challenge to a duel Tidei refused to fight, and the inevitable label—"coward"—that would shame Antonio Tidei forever.
By the time Lionel had learned of his grandfather's plotting, it had been too late to help the sword master. Only one means of vengeance lay in his grasp— to turn his back on his grandfather, on business interests as vast as any caesar's empire, to leave Paxton Redmayne's theories untested and his dreams unfulfilled, to become the soldier Antonio had been so certain he could be, and to use against Paxton Redmayne the very tools the old man had forced into Lionel's hands.
"Lionel?"
He started, the dark memories swirling away, leaving behind only the faint sickness in his gut, the al- most indiscernible sheen of sweat across his upper lip. No, damn it, he wouldn't remember. Wouldn't think about things he'd taken care to bury long ago. He had determined years ago that he wouldn't give his grandfather that power over him. He'd reduce it to a game, cold, calculated, detached from all that had been.
He looked down into Rhiannon's face, knowing with sudden, stark clarity that he'd brought her out here to kiss her. Knowing that chance had slipped through his fingers, as sullied as the night was now by his grandfather's shadow. The old bastard had managed a brilliant countermove without ever touching so much as a pawn.
"Go inside, Rhiannon," Lionel murmured.
"What? What is it? What's wrong?"
"I've stayed too long." Long enough for the ghosts to catch up to him. But then, hadn't Knatchbull brought those shades with him? Hauntings trailing in his wake, despite his effort to give warning.
"Your grandfather is traveling to Ireland," Knatchbull had said, "another of his business schemes..." Ah, but no one knew better than Lionel that Paxton Redmayne's business was rarely what it seemed.
"Did I offend you?" Rhiannon asked. "I didn't mean to pry. It's just that, after losing my papa, I know how precious family is. Any family, regardless of mistakes they've made or you've made yourself."
He closed his eyes, the image there as vivid as ever—flowing white hair surrounding a face as white as death, a hawklike nose, a predatory, fiendishly patient mouth, only the eyes burning with life, too hot, too intense, as if the mere touch of that gaze should burn. And hidden behind that gaze? A labyrinth of cunning plotting, the mind of a hellish puppet master, making all those around him dance upon invisible strings.
"I seem to have made one mistake. That's certain," he growled under his breath.
Yes. He should have killed the old man when he'd been so tempted years ago. Before he'd ridden off to the army. If he had, Rhiannon would still be dragging lame animals into Primrose Cottage. Her father might be waiting there, alive, to help her bandage them. She'd still be dancing, or perhaps stealing out onto garden paths to kiss men who were at least half worthy of her.
But if he'd struck with his sword that night, he never would have met her. Rhiannon... fairy healer, sunshine pouring through her soul.
His eyelids fluttered open, and he stared down into her face, memorizing every soft curve and sweet tint. For an instant, just an instant, he was villain enough to be glad he'd stayed his hand and let his grandfather live, despite all Rhiannon had lost.
For the one pure moment in Lionel's life had been the moment when he opened his eyes in a gypsy caravan on a deserted Irish hill to find an angel gazing down at him, fairy magic in her eyes.
Feeling the parting like a physical pain, he turned, walked away, off into the solitary darkness where he belonged, leaving her behind, haloed in the glow of the light.
He wondered if she guessed, his fairy-kissed angel, that he'd carried the one thing he feared most with him. Ghosts awakened by the mere mention of his grandfather's name.
CHAPTER 15
Music was still casting its sweet spell, laughter echoing through the makeshift ballroom, but all the luster of this enchanted night seemed to have faded the instant Lion strode down the portico stairs and off into the darkness.
Rhiannon had done her best to keep a smile pasted firmly to her face, passing the endless hours with determined cheerfulness so that no one else at the party might suspect that her heart had been carried away by the tall, lean captain with such enigmatic pain in his eyes. But when she could bear the endless chatter no more, she'd made her excuses and let Kenneth Barton escort her back to the quarters she shared with Lion.
For once, the aide-de-camp was blessedly willing to let silence reign. And as they made their way slowly through the quiet camp, Rhiannon finally allowed herself to take out the memory of this strange, beautiful, infinitely sad night and try to make some sense of it.
What had gone awry? True, Lion had stalked into the chamber with all the good grace of a mutinous schoolboy, forced not only to attend a despised party but also to dance with a loathed neighbor girl. Not that anyone else in the entire garrison would ever have guessed Lion's mood. Only she had known, as she had come to know so often of late, his solitary heartache, his secret fears, his yearnings, all the more heartbreaking because he kept them in silence.
God above, what lay beneath that cool smile? That icy control? A sea of anger and pain and self-doubt so powerful that this man—so courageous, so brave— lived in abject terror as to what would happen if the dams he had built ever shattered, allowing his emotions to tear free.
And if there was some way to help open that gate, to let free whatever poison tortured him, would it be a kindness? Or the most careless cruelty imaginable? Some kinds of pain were too great for anyone to bear. Sometimes that pain was instinctively locked away with savage determination, the only way to keep from drowning in it.
But wasn't Lion drowning now? Sinking beneath the surface with such stoicism she couldn't bear it, as if he believed that he was unworthy of help, that no one would reach out to him.
Whenever Lionel spoke of his grandfather, Rhiannon sensed his inner agony. Guilt because he'd disappointed the old man? Resentment of past wrongs? No, so much more. Things that he would never risk telling her.
"Miss Fitzgerald? We're here. At the captain's quarters." Barton's voice startled her, and she was embarrassed to find that she was still standing before the door.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant Barton. I must have been woolgathering."
"About the captain?"
For an instant, Rhiannon drew into herself, not wanting to betray that very private man who had trusted her at least a little, completely against his will.
"Miss, I know I've got no call to be telling you anything about him. He's to be your husband, after all. It's just... sometimes I know he can seem terrible hard, like ice, as if nothing can ever hurt him. I can't help thinking he's like that because things hurt him far too much."
The young man's insights made Rhiannon's throat tighten. "Oh, Sergeant, I—"
"Whatever is amiss between you, I've seen the way the captain looks at you. As if he's really—really seeing someone for the very first time. You've got a warmth about you, a kind of loving way no one can mistake. Please help him, miss, I beg you. He's a better man than he will ever know."
Impulsively she reached out, caught Barton's hand. "You're very wise. And I know how Lion hurt you, believing that you plotted to kill him."
Barton gave a laugh laced with insight and pain. "It was just an excuse, miss, to push me away. See, I cared for him, and that was the one thing he couldn't understand. He hoped that if he shoved hard enough I would hate him."
"But you don't?"
"How could I, miss? When the one Captain Redmayne hurts far worse is always himself?"
Rhiannon stretched up on tiptoe and kissed the boy's cheek. "Thank you."
"For seeing you home?" he asked, startled, pleased, and embarrassed at the same time. "It was no trouble at
all! Why, a dozen men would've been happy to cross swords with me for the privilege."
"No. For caring about him. I—I love him, you see."
She'd never even admitted it to herself, a truth so vast it should have been terrifying. Instead, it brought her a sense of peace. She loved him, would always love him. Even if he never let her in his heart, he would feel her love. He would know, and that knowledge had to ease at least a measure of his pain, even if he was alone.
"I will do everything in my power to help him," she promised Barton.
Grim determination tightened the young man's jaw. "So will I, even if he hates us both." With a bow, the youth opened the door, and Rhiannon stepped inside the rooms that held nothing of the spirit of the man she'd come to love. Secrets, closely held, as closely as his heart.
He'd left a candle burning for her, and she took it up as she started for her bedchamber. Not that she'd be able to get out of her gown—it had an army of buttons down the back, and she'd told her maid, Mrs. Webb, to enjoy the dance and not bother returning to help her before bed but to take pleasure in the evening with her husband. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. With wry humor, Rhiannon doubted it would seem quite so brilliant after she'd spent the night trussed up in corset and gown.
She crossed to her own door, put her hand on the knob. Then she heard it—the low, rasping, muffled sound of someone in pain.
Lion! Panic jolted through her, vivid images flashing in her memory—red blood, ugly tears in flesh, his life seeping out onto the hard ground. But she hadn't loved him then.
Casting a desperate glance around, she grabbed up the nearest weapon she could find—one of Lion's swords, lying across his desk. Hefting the heavy weapon before her, she shoved open the door to his bedchamber, ready to face a horde of assassins to save him.
"Lion!" she cried out, her gaze scanning the room, lit only by the hearth fire. The window was open wide, making the shadows dance on the walls with almost manic glee. Some force without substance, dark, heavy, terrifying seemed to press down on her chest so hard she couldn't breathe. But she couldn't see any menacing figure in the room. She rushed to the small stand by Lion's chair, scrabbling to light the candle.
Grabbing it up, the sword in her other hand, she swung around to where low, horrible cries sounded, stifled in the bed.
Still clad in breeches and shirt, Lion lay rigid on coverlets scarce disturbed, unimaginable agony etched on his face, the force of his pain all the more horrible because he fought, even in sleep, to hold it inside.
She should have been relieved, no bright red blood seeped from his body, and yet such wounds of the flesh would have been far easier to bear than these wounds of the spirit, untouchable, unreachable, no matter how desperately she wished to help him.
She put down the sword with trembling hands, tears searing her eyes.
"Please, no!" Lion cried out. "Grandfather, don't! Don't take it!"
She couldn't bear it, went to the side of the bed, knowing how much Lion would hate knowing what she'd seen, what she'd heard. And yet no matter what the cost, she couldn't bear to leave him all alone in his pain.
"Hush, no one is going to—to take it," she said fiercely, not knowing what "it" could possibly be. She laid her hand against his rigid, sweat-damp cheek.
Lion's fingers closed on hers, so tight the bones threatened to snap. She held on, not caring. "Papa's.
It was... Papa's," he choked out. "Let me play with it. It's the only thing... only thing left."
"I won't let him take it," she vowed, holding him, wanting so desperately to reach into his pain. But he wasn't soothed, wasn't calmed. She could feel the anguish cresting again, rising until it tore from him in another ragged groan.
"I promise I'll forget Papa. Just don't..." His voice rose, the desperation of the child he had been echoing through it. Then it ended, sharp, terrible silence dragging her deeper into his nightmare.
A soft voice, so rigid. "No. Can't... can't make me! Lock me in here forever... don't care! Won't ever do it."
Tears flowed down Rhiannon's cheeks at his broken sob. He lay there, curled up so tight, shaking, white-faced.
"Lion, wake up," she pleaded. "It's a dream, my love. Just a dream."
"No. Real. Come... come in the dark. Hear them... scratching, hungry like—like me." His fists knotted against his stomach, and he rolled away from her, shame contorting his features. "Sorry... Papa, sorry. So hungry... I had to..." Tears tracked down Lion's arrogant cheekbones, pooling in his white-blond hair. "Take me with you, Papa. Dead... I want be... dead... with you."
She couldn't bear it, leaving him lost, so broken, in his nightmare world. She shook him fiercely, loving him, aching for him. "Lion! Wake up!" she all but shouted, her voice harsh with her own pain. "It's a nightmare! Just a—"
If she lived to be a thousand, she knew she'd never forget his eyes the moment they opened—all defenses torn back, every vulnerability naked, exposed, more agony and desolation than she ever could have imagined.
She expected icy rage, his hands thrusting her away. Fearing that he would hate her forever for what she had seen, she stared into his tortured eyes, all but certain this was the last time she would ever be allowed to look into his beloved face.
But in that frozen instant, she saw something shatter.
"Rhiannon." Her name. Just her name. Her heart broke as Lion raised trembling arms and reached out to her. She bit her lip to suppress a broken cry, knowing it would distress him. She flung herself against him, holding him tight, so tight, knowing he would only let her do so for a tiny, precious fragment of time.
She stroked the damp strands of hair away from his cheeks, felt the warmth, the solidity of his chest. Whatever horrible thing had happened to him, leaving such a terrible scar, he'd found the strength to survive. She had to take comfort in that.
"Did I... Did anyone else hear me?" He sounded so uncertain, this man who had always been so confident in everything he said and did.
"No. I told Mrs. Webb to stay with her husband tonight." It hurt her to know that he had no concern for his pain, only for the fact that it had been revealed to someone else.
She felt his rigid muscles ease just a little, felt him suck in a shuddering breath. She felt the shifting in him, braced herself, knowing what would come. Gathering his strength, Lion drew away from her, straightened.
Rhiannon swallowed hard, attempted to explain. "I was afraid someone was trying to hurt you again." And someone had, Rhiannon realized with crushing grief. Perhaps no one had stolen into his chamber with knives or swords, but someone had hurt him far worse than any assassin could have.
He climbed out of the bed, stood at the open window, so stiff, so much alone. "Please accept my sincere apology for disturbing you."
The sudden formality infuriated her. She resolved that she wouldn't allow him to close her out. If he managed to do so now, it would be forever.
"Stop it, Lion!" she said sharply.
He turned, staring at her. "What?"
"You apologize to me as if I were some stranger you've imposed on. Don't you know I would suffer anything for you? If you would let me, I would hold your hand, walk with you into any nightmare you might name."
His eyes widened, pleading, desperate, almost hopeful for the tiniest second. Then his mouth hardened. "Thank you for the offer, but no. If there is one thing I detest it is an overcrowded nightmare."
Rhiannon couldn't stem the tears that stung her eyes. "Lion, don't. Don't try to make a jest out of it. I know how much you are hurting."
"Ah, yes." He gave a brittle laugh. "Fairy magic, wasn't it? The ability to read people's hearts. I'd just as soon you don't go prying about mine. I promise you, you wouldn't like what you find." Desolation shone in every line of his body.
He was trying so hard to pretend, to draw his defenses back into place. Rhiannon stood up and went to him, laid her hand upon the damp layer of cloth that clung to his back. His muscles jumped beneath her palm, but he didn'
t pull away.
She could feel so much through that little touch. Pain and longing, a desperate effort to hold himself back when he wanted what all creatures wished for when they were wounded, in pain. To have someone hold them, comfort them, heal them. But what had Lion said—that some wounds could never be healed? She couldn't believe that. To believe that might be to lose him forever in the dark wasteland where his nightmares lived.
In that instant Rhiannon took the greatest risk she'd ever dared take in her life. Slowly, she slid her arms about Lion's taut waist, laid her cheek against his back, feeling the dampness of his sweat, hearing the echoes of his terror still reverberating through him, and ever so faintly, perceiving the instinctive reaching-out of his wounded soul to her.
"Lion," she whispered against him, trembling, "whatever happened before, whatever hurt you so terribly, you're not alone anymore. I won't let you be."
"Rhiannon..." It was a groan, a plea. "Don't, angel. Even you can't save me."
"I can't believe that. Lion, I love you."
"No!" he snapped, wheeling around, grabbing her arms. His eyes burned with hopelessness. "How can you love me? You don't even know who I am. If you had any idea... you'd turn away, sickened, horrified."
"I don't believe that."
"You want to fashion me into some sort of wounded hero? Trust me, you'll only end up hurt, disillusioned. I'll destroy you, Rhiannon. Shatter the dreams in your eyes and leave you as barren as I am."
She shuddered, staring into eyes as dark as hell and twice as tormented. She didn't believe him. Couldn't. But that didn't change the fact that he did.
"Have you wondered why it's been so difficult to even begin sorting out who attempted to kill me on that hillside? It's because I've done so many things to deserve people's hatred. I've trampled over their lives, destroying whatever I thought I was duty bound to destroy."