Briar Rose

  Unable to bear being closed in another moment, Lion got up, strode out into the sunshine. He was merely attempting to get things into perspective. It was only by chance that he came across Barton, more haggard than ever as he tended to his duties.

  The lad glanced up, his eyes filling with something unreadable as he saw Redmayne's face. Pain? Loss? Dread?

  "Captain, sir, is something amiss?" Barton straightened, his gaze sweeping out behind them, as if searching for something, someone. But what? Who?

  "Why?" Redmayne asked softly. "Should there be?"

  Barton's gaze flickered away, fastened on the ground. "I don't know, sir."

  Redmayne should have walked away. He intended to. He took three steps; then something inside him made him stop, turn, fix a penetrating stare on Barton. "I just received word that two people of interest to you have died."

  "Who?"

  "Sir Thorne and that Irishman—what was his name?"

  The boy's face washed ash gray. "Seamus O'Leary."

  "Yes. O'Leary. He was struck by a carriage. While Sir Thorne finally drowned himself in drink, it seems." Redmayne wanted to sound careless, barely interested. Why the devil did his voice betray him, suddenly roughening around the edges. "Be careful, boy."

  He cursed himself the instant the words were out of his mouth. Fool—damn fool! "Never show weakness"—his grandfather's maxim echoed through Redmayne's mind. For God's sake, Barton might yet prove to be his enemy! Shaken, uncertain, Redmayne spun on his heel and stalked away, hoping to hell he hadn't just made the worst mistake of his life.

  "Men are impossible," Rhiannon muttered as she ran the brush down Socrates's flank, wishing she could as easily brush aside the thoughts troubling her. Nearly two weeks had passed since that glorious night when Lion had carried her to his bed, kissed her, touched her with such fevered need, let her peer deep into the most guarded reaches of his heart.

  She should be elated, all but drunk with joy. For even though he'd never said the words, no man could show such tenderness unless he loved.

  She blushed remembering how fiercely he was fighting to defend her honor, refusing to complete their lovemaking. Foolish man, didn't he know she cared little what the world beyond that bedchamber thought? How could anything so wonderful, so loving, ruin anyone? No, instead it would heal soul-deep wounds like the ones she had seen in Lion's eyes from the first day she'd found him among the standing stones above Ballyaroon.

  Yet as the days passed there was no sign of peace in Lion's face. He worked like a man possessed, a new fever in his eyes. To make it more torturous, he'd barely touched her, stealing only kisses chaste enough to be exchanged before a bevy of nuns.

  It was frustrating, infuriating, disappointing, and she sensed it caused him even more misery than it did her.

  "I want you so much," he had murmured in her ear, "but I can't have you until this is settled."

  Until what was settled? This madness about whoever had stalked him at Ballyaroon? The echoes of his past she barely understood? His own raw terror of loving, of trusting? She'd pleaded with him a dozen times, asking him to let her share whatever was troubling him. Offer him comfort, at least, in his bed. But he'd only shaken his head, touched her tenderly, then marched off into his unseen battle alone.

  She sighed, then grew still at the sound of footsteps behind her. Barton. She would have been glad to see the youth—he'd been all but invisible the past week— except that he looked so changed. "Kenneth"—she used his Christian name without thinking, laying one hand on his arm—"are you ill?"

  An odd smile curled one corner of his mouth. "No, miss, just—just a little tired, I'm thinking."

  "Then you should rest. I'll speak to the captain about it."

  "No!" He paled, his voice cracking. "You can't do that."

  "Whyever not? If you're not ill now, you soon will be if you carry on as you have been. Is something troubling you? Please, let me help you."

  "There's nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do, except me."

  "I don't believe that."

  Despair and determination warred in the youth's face. He looked away. "It's true. I just have to see this through—" He stopped, alarmed, as if he'd just realized what he'd said to her. Dark color stained his cheeks. "Forgive me for rambling. I need to see to the business that brought me here." He straightened his shoulders with heartbreaking courage. "There is a message just arrived for you at the captain's headquarters."

  "But why? No one beyond the garrison knows I'm here. I can't think who would be sending me anything."

  "It's an invitation to dine, I think."

  "Whoever from?"

  "A Mr. Paxton Redmayne, Esquire."

  "Lion's grandfather? It must be," Rhiannon said, astounded. She hesitated, remembering Lion's mysterious nightmare, his bitterness toward the man who had raised him.

  Barton flushed. "I meant to tell the captain first, but he's off with that Knatchbull fellow. The time is very specific, so I thought you might wish to send an answer as soon as possible. He is staying at Manion House, an estate about six miles from here. If you wish to go, I could see you there."

  She fretted her bottom lip. Lion would object to her going to meet his grandfather. There could be no question about that. And yet the old man was his only living relative. If Lion were truly to heal, might not mending his relationship with this man hold the key?

  "Thank you, I think I will." She placed the brush back in the bucket, and ran a hand across the top of Milton's sleek canine head. "Will you promise me one thing before we go? You will take better care of yourself, won't you, Kenneth? Once all this nonsense is settled, I'm certain things between you and the captain will be mended, and you'll be back to your regular duties as his aide."

  Grief and resignation weighed down the youth's shoulders. "There are things the captain will never be able to forgive or forget. It's not his fault. He's just never learned how. I don't think he can start to learn it now."

  A soft glow of happiness warmed Rhiannon, and she laid one hand on the boy's cheek in comfort. "I promise, he'll surprise you, surprise everyone one day. He wants to learn..." She stopped, blushed.

  What had she almost done? Told Barton Lion's secret? That he'd asked her to teach him how to love? Perhaps Lion didn't know it yet, but learning to love also meant beginning to forgive—not only those who hurt you but also yourself.

  "I don't think he'll ever forgive me, once he finds out—" Barton's voice broke, and he raised his chin. "But I guess it doesn't matter. I do what I have to do." So much pain in that voice, so much changed from the first time she'd met him. The aura that had been worried, yes, but wide open as a summer field was murky, more closed, as if he were drawing into himself, summoning up every fiber of... of what? Strength? Courage? Or was it possible that something darker was at work? What if she was wrong about Kenneth—not about his basic goodness—no, she could never have mistaken an intuition so strong—but the best of men could be trapped into doing things they were ashamed of, could be manipulated by those more ruthless, more cruel.

  Even her father, with his gentleness, had warned that any man could break, if the right pressure was applied. That was why he had spent so much time, trying to help those who were being crushed by those stronger, trying to keep good people from betraying themselves.

  Rhiannon caught her lip between her teeth, remembering the first time she'd seen young Barton, flanked by two others Lion knew as his enemies.

  "Kenneth, whatever it is... you might feel better if you told someone. Nothing is beyond help, beyond hope. I'm always willing to listen."

  For a heartbeat the boy's lean features turned desperate. But after a moment he shook his head. "Thank you for your kindness, miss, but I have to do this alone."

  Alone... Why was it that men always believed such a thing? As if sharing their heartaches, their pain, was some sort of cowardice? She sighed, saddened not only for Barton but for Lion as well. Both men were trapped by rules that only they coul
d understand.

  Fortunately, she wasn't bound by their rules, by any rule except the need to heal, the gift of her mother, fairy-born or no. If Moira Fitzgerald had left her daughter nothing else, she'd left her that inescapable drive. And never had she felt it more strongly than she did for the tall, wounded soldier who had brought true love and passion into her quiet life.

  The fates had delivered Lion into her hands, given her the chance to reach the deep, secret places in his soul where wounds still festered, tormenting him with their subtle venom. It was destiny. Certain as the faint whisper of her next breath.

  Wasn't it possible that this meeting with Lion's grandfather was another act of fate? One that would purge Lion of that lingering poison forever? No matter what had happened between the two men before, she had to believe it could be mended. Needed to believe it, more than she could ever express.

  It marked a place to begin. A place to hope.

  No matter how angry Lion might be at what she was about to do, she had to take this chance.

  CHAPTER 18

  Rhiannon's hands twisted nervously in the reins, her freshly donned rose muslin gown rippling against the pant leg of Kenneth Barton's breeches as she stared up at the building growing nearer, ever nearer. The gypsy cart rattled and jolted up the wide sweep of carriage circle, a ramshackle interloper in a world she had all but forgotten.

  Manion House towered in regal splendor, its entry flanked by grand Corinthian columns, the lion and the unicorn, symbols of England's rule, emblazoned time and again upon the dark gray stone. In her travels, Rhiannon had seen other great houses crowning other green hills, monuments to power built by absentee landlords whose greed and carelessness had bled Ireland white and kept a desperate population dancing upon the knife's edge of rebellion.

  In the days before she and her father had left Primrose Cottage, she'd been invited to the occasional ball or musicale in these grand houses. She'd been a handy remedy during those socially distressing times when there weren't enough dancing partners available or when another person was needed to round out an awkward number at the dining table.

  But even then, such places had made her feel like a traitor because she couldn't help loving the beauty, the majesty, of the grand estates even though they were exquisite masks hiding inevitable corruption.

  Far beyond the gleaming glass windows tiny clay cottages huddled, families with ten, twelve children barely scraping out a livelihood, their meager coin filling the landlord's coffers.

  She had paced the marble-lined galleries, disheartened, bemused, and wondered if there were enough magic in the world to bridge the gap between two such disparate worlds, to heal the hatred and pain born of centuries of conquest, oppression, rebellion. Generations of both Irish and English had buried sons and fathers, lovers and children, dreams, and their own fierce pride.

  But even these familiar whispers of war in ages past, even the tragedy of hatred that threatened to afflict Ireland forever, had little power to trouble her now.

  It was her own actions that unsettled her. The risk she had taken and the consequences that might come of her journey here, to meet a man she'd never seen before.

  She swallowed hard. She'd been so certain it was the right thing to do, making the trip to this house. She'd even penned a quick note to Lion, explaining where she'd gone and why, not wanting him to worry. Yet even as she placed the missive on his desk, she'd felt so unnerved she almost threw it into the flames. And with every beat of Socrates's hooves, bringing her nearer her destination, she grew edgier still.

  It was only because Lion's trust was so tentative, she assured herself. She feared making any mistake.

  This meeting was so important, this chance to heal his old wounds so precious.

  Besides, her unease was understandable in these circumstances. Any fiancee would feel nervous, meeting her beloved's family for the first time, especially someone from whom her betrothed had been estranged for many years.

  She resisted the impulse to slow Socrates down, knowing she'd feel three times the fool if Lion's grandfather happened to see her approach, perhaps guess she was afflicted with a sudden bout of cowardice.

  Far too soon she was reining her disreputable horse and cart to a halt before the vast entryway. The caravan looked as incongruous as a ribbon monger's wares cast into the lap of a queen, its bright colors absurdly garish in such stately surroundings as Barton hopped down from his place beside her.

  "You've troubled yourself quite enough on my behalf." Rhiannon gave the haggard young officer a worried smile. "If you like, you may take a bit of a nap inside the caravan until I am finished. It's more comfortable than it looks, I assure you."

  "No. I'll deliver you to the old man myself," Barton said with a sudden air of stubbornness. He offered her his arm and guided her up the few steps, to where the towering main door was swept open by a footman. Rhiannon stared in puzzlement—the man looked more like a pugilist than a servant in such an elegant household.

  "Miss Rhiannon Fitzgerald," Barton announced, "come to dine with Mr. Redmayne at his invitation." It was as if he were daring the servant to take exception.

  The footman's eyes narrowed, a thin gleam of contempt shining beneath his lashes. "We've been expecting you, Miss Fitzgerald. Permit me?" With a bow exaggerated just enough to convey contempt without being a blatant insult, he escorted Rhiannon and Barton deeper into a wonderland of gold leaf and gray-veined marble, gleaming armor and glinting pistols and swords arranged on the walls in graceful fans and circles, lethally artistic designs.

  At the end of the long corridor, he gestured to a doorway guarded by two gilt statues—the first, Hercules wrestling the lion, the second showing the majestic beast in death throes beneath his mighty hands.

  Rhiannon shuddered at the image, hating the triumph in Hercules' face, the lust for the kill. Was it possible that the statues had some hidden meaning? No. They were ancient, had obviously been in their places of honor for decades. Besides which, Lion's grandfather was only visiting Ireland, was he not? Likely borrowing this manor house merely to be close to his estranged grandson.

  She tore her gaze away from the statues and glimpsed the footman watching her, his smirk evident as he sketched yet another bow. "The master will join you at his pleasure. There is a mirror in the corner if you would like to see to your hair." It could have been a kindness, pointing the way to that mirror. A boon gently given. But the man's lip curled with such impudence that there was no way to mistake his contempt.

  Rhiannon smoothed the folds of her gown, fighting the feeling that she looked like a grubby scullery maid who had dared to dress up in her mistress's finery. This bout of nerves would never do! She squared her shoulders, determined to carry herself in a way that would make Lion proud of her, striving for comportment worthy of the betrothed of Captain Redmayne.

  But the instant the servant left them alone in the blood-red chamber with its slashes of ice white, she felt strange, completely out of place.

  It should have been a beautiful room, every detail the finest, every line and curve of the furnishings a study in perfection. Even the carpets were amazing, embellished with flowers so realistic it seemed you should be able to pluck them and draw in their scent. Oddly disappointed, Rhiannon felt as if it were all some kind of fraud.

  A small table, doubtless set up for the occasion, was laden with gleaming silver urns, pots, and platters of every delicacy imaginable. A little distance apart, the most exquisite gaming table she'd ever seen occupied a place of honor on a dais by the window, light streaming across what looked to be a chess set of impossible beauty.

  Rhiannon stole nearer, awed. Pieces carved perhaps in the age of Arthur and Guinevere were kissed with such genius they seemed to breathe. Opposing armies faced each other across a battlefield of varicolored marble squares, pawns like foot soldiers, kneeling with their shields before them, bishops in ecclesiastical splendor, knights on rearing horses, lances drawn. Castles and kings and, on only one side, a qu
een.

  Rhiannon caught her lip between her teeth, staring at the empty space where the other queen should have been. Lion's queen, the one he had given into her keeping the night he had truly asked her to be his wife.

  She touched the king who stood alone, the robes so intricately carved, painted with such skill, a perfect match to those that robed the chess piece she now cherished.

  Was this not a sign of hope, then? This table, with its pretend armies awaiting combat? Lion had said his grandfather hadn't allowed any distractions, any other children, games, or toys. But the grandfather had obviously spent countless hours teaching Lion this game. Perhaps it was a stern, loveless old man's only way of showing his grandson the affection he'd felt for him. Perhaps his feelings were hidden away, as Lion had hidden his own emotions for so long.

  Her throat tightened, and she imagined Lion, a tow-headed little boy already so bright, earnestly bent over the game, his blue eyes sparkling. How many hours had Lion and his grandfather spent bent over this game, plotting strategies, attempting to win? Time spent together that must have been precious to both of them, though likely neither would admit it now.

  Yet some actions spoke far more clearly than words could have. His grandfather had kept the useless chess game, carried it with him even when he traveled. And not to play with other opponents. No, in all these years, Paxton Redmayne hadn't replaced the queen his grandson had taken.

  Rhiannon smiled at the precision with which every piece had been placed exactly in the center of its square, reminding her of Lion's desktop, the top of his washstand—every object lined up as if he'd measured the distance between them. Had Paxton Redmayne taught Lion to be so meticulous? How much of the man she loved would she see reflected in his grandfather?