"Lion, I want you. I would have welcomed—"
"I know," he said. "But I fear I've stumbled across a most inconvenient case of scruples where you are concerned, my dear. I trust that you won't reveal my guilty secret to anyone."
She buried her face in his shoulder. "Tell that we almost made love?"
"No, sweetheart. That I had you here, naked in my bed and did not." He chuckled, gathering her against him. "It would be most damaging to my reputation, you understand."
"I think I liked you better as a villain," she admitted with a sigh.
He startled her by loosening his arms, sliding from the bed. "I know it is customary to give the bride a betrothal ring. And you'll have one—the finest coin can buy, I promise. But I want you to have something now that you can hold"—he hesitated, crossing to his desk—"to remind you of tonight." He took something out of the drawer. "The night I vowed to wed you, and you... you gave me... hope." His voice dropped, low, reverent, as he came to place the object in her hand.
She stared down at the most exquisite carving she'd ever seen. A medieval queen garbed in robes so real it seemed they should flutter in the breeze from the open window.
"Lion... she's so beautiful."
"It's a chess piece, the only thing I took with me when I left my grandfather's house. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But the old man and I had spent so many hours warring over that chessboard. I'd fought so hard to keep the queen. I just couldn't surrender her, even then."
Rhiannon pressed the wooden lady against her heart, her eyes burning with the knowledge of what Lion had given her—the only possession he'd ever cared about. And a fragment of his carefully guarded past. "I'll treasure her forever. Keep her safe for you."
Fierce intensity darkened his face. Rhiannon stared into his features, realizing she was seeing the real Lionel Redmayne for the first time. The intelligence was there, but without the razor edge that could so easily cut at someone else's confidence, his innate courage and strength honed to a purer, more vivid sheen.
"I... care about you, Rhiannon. More than I've ever let myself care about anyone, save that wooden lady. This much I promise you. I will have you one day. And when I do, nothing will stand between us. Not the danger of assassins or shadows from my past or the tiniest hint of dishonor."
She shivered as a cool night breeze blew through the open window, chilling her despite Lion's arms about her. His world waited beyond. A world filled with intrigue and enemies, self-doubt and the nightmare she'd seen reflected in his eyes. Always he'd walked in it alone. From this moment on, she'd make certain they faced it together.
Lionel gathered Rhiannon up in his arms an hour before the camp began to stir. Taking care not to wake her, he settled her into her own bed, draping her nightgown about her body with more tenderness than he'd ever guessed he could possess. Gently he tucked her beneath layers of downy coverlets, then took care to obliterate any evidence of their tryst. The ball gown hung over the chair beside Rhiannon's fireplace, dancing slippers at attention beneath a flounce of hem. Undergarments, still scented with the subtle perfume of her skin, were stacked in a foamy pile to one side. No one would question where she had spent the night.
The wood-carved queen stood in regal splendor on her bedside table, out in the open for the first time in countless years, where Rhiannon would be certain to see it the moment she woke up.
He intended to leave the moment he got her settled so he could put his own room to rights and gather his thoughts. But he lingered, looking down at the wealth of tousled curls against the pillows, the slight smile that curved her lips even in sleep, as if she held a delicious secret close to her heart. Love, he knew. Love for him.
He touched her cheek, as if trying to reassure himself that she was not merely the fevered dream of a man too long alone. Her skin was warm satin beneath his fingertips, her breath, so soft, warm, drifted in precious waves against him. No one knew better than a soldier how fragile life could be, or how fleeting happiness.
He fought back the memory of the lone caravan isolated in that Irish glen, three men striding up to the camp—some, at least, bent on murder. Assassins he should have hunted with his accustomed ruthlessness during the past week. Instead, he'd been far more alarmed by the enemy Rhiannon had loosed upon him—emotions he could scarce remember stirred up in him by her merest smile, touch. Feelings far more terrifying to Redmayne than the paltry threat of his own death. They had confused him, distracted him. He was even shamed to admit that some deep-buried part of him had known why he was suddenly so accursedly inept. He was stalling, as an excuse to keep her near him.
He'd been a fool not to move with lightning swiftness to put everything in order. His first duty should be to make certain she was safe. Now if anything happened to him, she would be just as helpless, as vulnerable, as poor as when he first awakened in her bright-painted cart. A woman alone, cast upon the capricious winds of fate. The thought sent a chill down Redmayne's spine.
No, he vowed. Whatever happened when he confronted his enemies, he would make certain Rhiannon was taken care of. Taken care of... Redmayne fingered the strange notion as if it were a pearl he'd found in the sand, something beautiful, flawless, unexpected.
Never in his life had he felt this urge to protect and defend, this almost holy trust inside him, awe-inspiring, terrifying, inescapable. So this was the emotion that he saw burning in the eyes of his men, that indescribable quality he'd examined with such curiosity, used as a weapon when necessary. He'd under- stood the vulnerability it bred, but never guessed that the wonder in love far outweighed the risks.
Perhaps he would be walking into the flames for Rhiannon by allowing himself to fall prey to these emotions, and yet he was fiercely glad to do it. For when she'd vowed she loved him, her eyes shining with tears, he'd glimpsed for a heartbeat what might wait for him on the other side of the flames.
He straightened with new resolve and stalked from the room. He was garbed in a fresh uniform, ink drying on several letters, by the time there was a knock on the door of his headquarters. He raised his gaze from the missives and glared at the door.
It was time to put an end to whatever game his enemies were playing. The next move was his. It was a crossroads he'd come to countless times during his life. One familiar, almost eagerly anticipated in the past. Why was he suddenly so accursedly unnerved?
He'd never failed before; he had countered every strategy with icy calm brilliance. But one vital thing had changed since Rhiannon Fitzgerald careened into his world. For the first time in his life, Redmayne had something precious to lose.
He closed his eyes, picturing the delicate form of the single chess piece he'd guarded throughout his misspent life. A symbol of what he had never hoped to have until he gave her to his own brave-hearted lady.
A queen for his undeserving heart.
CHAPTER 17
Lion paced the confines of his office, succumbing to a ridiculous show of restlessness for the first time in his life. He couldn't help it, damn it. In the eight days since he'd carried the sleeping Rhiannon from his bed, he'd used every trick in his repertoire to set things in order, flush out the assassins, unearth his enemies once and for all.
He'd even gone so far as to summon Sir Thorne Carville to Galway, intending to confront the man directly. Well-placed questions regarding the man's courage, should he choose not to come, should have sent Thorne bolting to confront his accuser. Lion had been certain he understood this adversary to his very bones. But even the lances aimed at Thorne's prodigious pride had failed to make the man appear.
Even the Irishman who had been Thorne's comrade seemed to have disappeared into the mist, vanishing altogether. Only Barton remained of the three men who had sauntered up to Rhiannon's caravan what seemed an eternity ago.
Frustration gnawed at Redmayne's nerves, loosing an edge of temper he hadn't even realized he possessed. He fought to conceal it, and yet he was appalled to know it was there.
Hellfire, it was one
thing to play upon the vast chessboard of life when you didn't care how many pieces you might lose in any gamble. You could play coolly, use your strategies with the greatest of cunning. But the instant one piece became precious, the whole game shifted, became terrifying instead of stimulating.
He paused at the window, where a row of potted flowers now stood, butter yellow in the sun. Another of Rhiannon's gifts, subtly beckoning him to look outside now and then, to tempt him into a world beyond the four walls of this room. Could she possibly guess how much danger might lie in that sun-drenched landscape she so loved? Rhiannon, with her fairy magic, her belief in the goodness of everyone and everything she encountered, couldn't she feel the danger, sense it tightening like jaws about them, its cold teeth gleaming.
Someone was out there.
He could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones where every soldier's instinct for survival lay buried. Was it Thorne? No. He was more powder keg than man, no more able to be silent and subtle under the provocation Redmayne had offered than that keg would be if someone showered it with sparks. The Irishman? Far more likely, and yet, with the extra guards Lion had posted, wouldn't the man have been caught by now? No matter what trap he laid, this person managed to slip through the net as if he had no more substance than moonlight.
He'd spent most of his nights in that odd twilight, not sleeping, yet only partially awake, but these past eight nights had been absolute torture. He couldn't even count the number of times he'd slipped into Rhiannon's bedchamber, damn the presence of her maid a doorway beyond, and had kept watch over her until dawn broke.
Most terrifying of all was the knowledge that no matter what he did, he might not be able to keep his lady safe from whatever peril he sensed circling them like a pack of wolves.
A rap on his door made Lion start. Forcing his face into his accustomed expression of icy calm, he paced to his desk and sat down before bidding his visitor to enter.
Knatchbull, awkward as ever, limped in, his arms full of leather portfolios, obviously stuffed with papers. "Captain." He gave a quick bow, then shut the door. "I came as quickly as I could. Everything is in order—Miss Fitzgerald is made your sole heir."
Redmayne's shoulders sagged a little. That much at least was done. Even if his enemies managed to kill him, Rhiannon's future, at least, was secure. "Thank you, Knatchbull. You are, as ever, efficient. One of your most valuable qualities."
"Sir, there is more." The man hesitated. "I've made inquiries, as you requested, regarding Sir Thorne and the Irishman you suspected of plotting against you."
"And what did you discover?"
Knatchbull's misshapen face fell into miserable lines. "They are both dead."
Lion's blood froze. He stilled a long moment, until he could steady his voice. "How?"
"Thorne drank himself to death one night, raving about you the whole time. The Irishman was trampled by a carriage—one whose driver didn't bother to stop."
"Unremarkable deaths, totally believable accidents, considering their personalities, I suppose. Though strange, so close together."
Knatchbull shifted, obviously damned uncomfortable. "My thought exactly. Something doesn't feel right about it. What about that other boy—Barton, was it? No accident has befallen him, has it?"
Redmayne turned away, rising to pour two snifters of brandy. Why the devil should Knatchbull's query about the boy give him such an infernal twinge? Barton had always bounced about like Rhiannon's accursed pup, eager and bright-eyed. Yet sometime during the past weeks the youth had changed. The incessant chatter had stilled, and Barton had grown edgy, intent, as if waiting for something to happen. Dark shadows smudged cheeks that were once as rosy as any girl's, and his eyes were lost in violet hollows that haunted Redmayne late at night.
A guilty secret? Dark dread? What was the boy afraid for? His life? Had he heard about the fate of his fellow conspirators, and did he now fear that a similar accident waited somewhere for him?
But Rhiannon was so certain of Barton's goodness. She'd defended the boy with such fierce passion that Redmayne, cynical as he was, almost believed, or wanted to believe, what? That Barton was everything he had always seemed? Yet how could Redmayne deny the evidence he saw now with his own eyes, especially when such absurd denial might put Rhiannon in danger?
"Captain, I—I'm sorry to bring such bad news." Knatchbull's voice intruded on Redmayne's grim thoughts.
He turned, snifters in hand, and gave a stiff laugh. "My dear Knatchbull, you know me well enough to be certain I don't believe in killing the messenger. Such a waste, that. And an appalling habit of cutting off one's sources of the most useful information."
Knatchbull's wise eyes clouded with something distressingly like sympathy. "You jest, but I know how disturbing this news must be to you. Have you uncovered any other clues that might lead you to whoever is responsible for all this?"
"No. One of the risks of making so many enemies over the years, I'm afraid. One hardly knows where to begin." The humor faded from his voice. He offered one glass to Knatchbull, then set the other wearily on the edge of his desk. "I wouldn't even mind so much, if I could just be certain my enemy wouldn't grow untidy in his quest for revenge. It's likely that I deserve whatever contempt he holds me in. However, it would be unfortunate if my nemesis should, say, wound some completely innocent person who just happens to be in his way."
"You're speaking about Miss Fitzgerald."
Cold stones seemed to sink in Redmayne's belly, raw horror at what he'd so carelessly betrayed. His worst vulnerability. His most closely guarded secret: love for a woman.
"I've merely been afflicted with a sudden aversion to other people paying for my sins. Perhaps there is hope for my redemption after all."
"Say what you will, my friend, but I know the truth. You are afraid for her. You should be. Someone stirred up the hatred in Sir Thorne and in that Irishman, enough to make them reckless. Not to mention the fact that whoever it was paid them both well. The family of the Irishman was paid enough to book passage on a ship bound for America. Sir Thome's creditors were no longer banging upon his door. Whoever attempted to kill you has limitless resources and is fatally thorough with anyone who's fool enough to fail him."
Redmayne closed his eyes a moment and saw his grandfather's face hazy in the darkness of his nightmares, white hair sweeping back from a brow broad with intelligence, eyes burning with intensity, ruth-lessness. And yet, his grandfather abhorred crude methods as much as Redmayne himself did. Assassins, especially of the caliber of Sir Thorne, were beneath Paxton Redmayne's dignity, were they not? No, he'd choose far more subtle ways—infiltrate those close to his enemy, use them against him with the calm efficiency Paxton Redmayne was legendary for.
"Forgive me, but you do intend to warn Sergeant Barton, don't you?" Knatchbull asked. Redmayne opened his eyes, staring into the tortured shape of the man's face, unease pulsing through his veins. Memories, far too clear, of his grandfather unnerved him. These two men were the kinds of "weapons" the old man would choose—Barton, with his gallumphing appearance of innocence, Knatchbull, who had built trust in business affairs, if little else.
"You've been hired to give me information, Knatchbull, not to question what I intend to do with it." The words sounded cold even to his own ears.
A wounded light sparked in Knatchbull's ages-old eyes. "Perhaps I don't have any right to comment, but this much I can tell you, it would hurt you more than you know if something happened to that boy."
"Not if he's involved in a plot to kill me. I'm afraid I lose all amiability when I'm nearly murdered."
"Do you really believe that Barton was involved?"
"He was there. Perhaps that is all I need to know. Now, unless you have more information, I would like to be alone."
"I hate leaving you like this. I don't—"
"Go. You needn't pretend that you are my confidant. We are business partners. That is all."
"Of course." Knatchbull's gaze sharpened. "The years we
've worked together mean nothing. In fact, it's just as likely that I am in league with your enemies, isn't it? After all, no one is free from suspicion. Isn't that what Paxton Redmayne taught you?"
"Something to that affect. It's stood me in good stead all these years."
"Has it? It's kept you from living. You were dead inside, until that lovely girl refused to be frozen by your glares, refused to turn away from you."
"Thank you so much for your estimation of my character."
"I could tell you a hell of a lot more about yourself than you could ever know, if it would do a damn bit of good." Heaving a sigh, Knatchbull set the glass on the table. "If you've ever listened to me, do it this one time. Don't fool yourself into making a horrible mistake with Barton. Your grandfather has kept you from trusting anyone all these years. He still controls you, just as certainly as if you were still a boy locked up in his attic."
How the devil had Knatchbull known? Had the man been prying into Redmayne's past? Rage poured through him, hot and fierce, but before he could speak, Knatchbull turned and stalked out of the chamber, leaving Redmayne alone with the ghosts that had haunted him forever.
He paced to the window, glaring out at the slumped, loose-jointed figure making his way across the yard. Damn the man, weren't things bad enough without Knatchbull raking up all this nonsense? Was Barton the wronged one, the beleaguered—
Blast it! What kind of fool would trust someone who had been seen with two of his enemies, miles from anything except the site where he'd almost been murdered? Put not only himself at risk, but his lady...
His mind filled with images of Barton's worn features, hollow-eyed, every emotion raw. What could possibly have caused so tormented a look, save the ravages of guilt? Doubtless Rhiannon could come up with a dozen reasons—a broken heart, for example. But the boy hadn't strayed an inch off the garrison since Redmayne returned, so he could hardly be off plaguing some unfortunate girl with a bout of calf's love.
What the devil was the matter with him? Redmayne wondered. He'd made hard choices in the years of his command. Why was it that this one haunted him despite all logic? Because he'd come to care for the boy just a little, despite his efforts to remain aloof. And yet this time Barton would have to fend for himself. It was the only choice he could make. Wasn't it?