Briar Rose

  She glanced at Barton, fretting her lower lip. No matter what she discovered, she owed it to Lion to keep the exchange as private as possible. It was the only way she could keep trust with the man who was to be her husband.

  To that end, she turned to Barton. "Please forgive me for my rudeness, Kenneth, but if you could remain... er, distanced from the conversation, I would appreciate it. Perhaps you would take a walk about the grounds?"

  Strange, he'd grown more nervous as well, the closer they drew to Manion House. Now he looked as if he were perched on some precarious cliff edge, fearing he would fall. An inevitability clung about him, mingling with something like despair. He glanced over his shoulder, through the window, longing clear in every feature.

  "Perhaps this wasn't such a wise idea, miss," he said. "The captain... he might not like it. We could be back at the garrison before—"

  A voice as resonant and unforgettable as that of a modern-day Cicero cut in. "It is not often that men appreciate what is best for them. Do you not agree?"

  Rhiannon turned, knew in an instant that she faced the man who had poured steel into Lion's spine, who had honed the ferocious intelligence behind those ice-blue eyes she had come to love.

  Garbed in old-fashioned knee breeches and frock coat of the finest black satin, Paxton Redmayne stood like an aging emperor, so imposing he seemed to suck up every wisp of air in the spacious room. Wings of white hair swept back from his wide blue-veined brow and were tied at the nape of his neck with a stark black ribbon and diamond buckle.

  Well over sixty years of life had done little to wither the powerful width of his shoulders. They were still squared with the same impossible exactness as his grandson's.

  She'd come to understand Lion's rigid carriage as an attempt to control his emotions, to hide any weakness, an important ploy because it guarded a heart that had once been too tender. Were Lion's defenses something this man had taught him? Had the two of them shared that fear of showing vulnerability and that innate tenderness?

  If so, she should empathize with the grandfather as well. Didn't such wariness always come from an excess of inner pain?

  A smile touched pale lips that held a frightening measure of charm, and Rhiannon was disturbed to think of the pictures of exotic snakes Papa had once shown her in his great book of animals—poisonous yet so beautiful it seemed impossible not to want to reach out and touch their Jeweled scales.

  She barely noticed Barton slipping from the room as the old man swept her a perfect bow. "Paxton Redmayne, your most obedient servant. And you must be the astonishing Miss Fitzgerald."

  She dropped into a curtsy. "Please call me Rhiannon."

  "Rhiannon." He turned her name into a purr that slid along her spine like the cold kiss of a blade, the sound reminding her of another familiar, frightening one that still haunted her memory. But how? Who?

  "I have been most eager to meet the woman who captivated my grandson." His eyes swept slowly up and down her figure, the gaze so keen it seemed almost a physical touch. "You are, er, not at all what I expected."

  She stiffened, knowing exactly what he was thinking—that she was scarce beautiful enough or refined enough for Lion. But she could hardly blame the man for speaking the simple truth. She herself had barely believed that a man of Lion's perfection and discriminating tastes could come to care for her. But now she had the glow of passion that had sparked in Lion's eyes to rob such doubts of their power.

  She smiled, recalling the gentle way he'd tucked loose tendrils of her hair behind her ear, kissing the tender lobe. "You are hopeless, angel. Completely hopeless," he'd murmured, but his smile had told her that no angel fallen from heaven could be more perfect in his eyes. "Lion doesn't seem to mind my deficiencies," she said.

  The old man started, then smiled a smile that should have warmed away any lingering disquiet. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to imply any dissatisfaction. You surprised me, that is all." He shrugged one elegantly clad shoulder. "I am not used to being surprised. For years I prided myself on being able to anticipate Lion's... er, particular tastes. But of late he has proven unpredictable. Doubtless a danger of staying too long in this land. It breeds its own kind of madness, I am afraid."

  "Or magic," Rhiannon said, her chin tipping up, more insulted by the slight to Ireland than her own person. "But perhaps you have to be Irish to feel it."

  Something flashed in the old man's eyes. He seemed to gather himself up. "I've offended you in every way possible, haven't I? No wonder my grandson hasn't spoken to me for years. After such a display you could hardly blame him."

  Rhiannon should have leaped in to reassure him. After all, he'd said so little, made such slight blunders, she shouldn't have been so irritated, should she? But there was something vaguely familiar about him. Something disturbing.

  No, Rhiannon dismissed her unease. She felt this niggling doubt only because he was the sort of man Papa had always stood against—a man who thought himself lord of the world, all others his subjects. A hazard of being too well born, too wealthy, she would imagine. But this was hardly the time to drag out old prejudices with a man she'd just met, one who would soon be family.

  She looked back at the chess set, trying to catch hold of all she had been so certain it symbolized.

  "Miss Fitzgerald, this is far too important a meeting to squander by making mistakes. May I confess to you that my estrangement from Lionel has troubled me greatly. My dear child, may we start again?" Paxton inquired with such politeness it made her uneasy.

  What in heaven's name was the matter with her? She'd come here hoping to work out a reconciliation, not to let her imagination run away with her the moment Paxton Redmayne opened his mouth.

  This man was Lion's only relative, would soon be her own by marriage. "Of course," she said, suddenly aware of how vast the chamber was, how oddly disturbing without Barton's familiar presence. Paxton drew out one of the gilt chairs at the elegant table, attending to her seating with the greatest of chivalry. Then he sank into the chair opposite hers, his brow creased, eyes sharply probing.

  "Miss Fitzgerald, I wished only to meet the woman my grandson selected as his wife. Now that I have met you, I wish to be of service to you." An aggrieved aura pulled at the lean planes of his face. "I taught my grandson not to be careless in his dealings with the ladies, but I fear I must guess that in your case he was—inexcusably so. However, such an, er, mistake can be easily remedied without taking such drastic action as marriage."

  Rhiannon stared at him, utterly bewildered. "Mistake. I don't understand, unless"—she faltered—"unless you disapprove of me."

  "I disapprove of two young people being trapped when something so simple can remedy the situation before it becomes irreparable." He was watching her face, so intently it was almost painful. "Do you understand my meaning, Miss Fitzgerald?"

  "No, I'm afraid I don't."

  "You are so different from any woman my grandson would be attracted to, and forgive me, but an officer's wife is vital to her husband's career. She must have a certain air about her and certain abilities."

  His meaning was clear enough—abilities she obviously lacked.

  "Therefore, I can draw only one conclusion: you carry my grandson's child."

  Shock jolted through her, leaving her speechless. If only he knew that she'd be delighted to be with child by Lion. But Paxton Redmayne knew nothing of Lion's self-inflicted torture. He believed pregnancy was the only reason Lion would stoop to wed her. Shame spilled fire into her cheeks.

  "I assure you," she said after a moment, "that is impossible. There is no child."

  Paxton shook his head. "My dear girl, you needn't dissemble with me. I wish only to help you in your trouble. Allow me to offer you an opportunity to return to your former life." He drew a small vial from the pocket of his waistcoat. "This potion will rid you of the inconvenience and the shame."

  As horrified as if there were a child whose life was threatened, Rhiannon shrank back in her chair. "There is no c
hild. And if there were—if there were, Lion would be overjoyed! He would never, never want to—to—" She pressed her fingers over her lips, sickened. She stood, her whole body shaking. "I love Lion, and he loves me so much that he would never..." Her voice broke. "This visit was a mistake. I never should have come."

  The old man swept from his seat with dreadful elegance, his features blade-sharp, his eyes burning. "My dear, you must allow me to disagree. This is a triumph beyond my wildest imagination. Never did I imagine that Lionel had actually forgotten himself so far as to fall in love. I am... overjoyed."

  Rhiannon stared at him, wary, still wanting more than anything to leave. Yet was it possible that he truly was happy for Lion? Never had she seen more genuine pleasure in anyone's face. Pleasure edged with something enigmatic. Yet hadn't it taken her time, patience, to unravel Lion's closely guarded secrets? Was it so strange that his grandfather should be the same?

  A laugh rippled from Paxton Redmayne's throat and echoed through the vast halls. "You'll scarce believe the paradox in this, child. I believe I knew your father. Tell me, are you not Kevin Fitzgerald's daughter?"

  Recognition jolted through her, icy cold. No wonder her nerves had been raw from the moment the old man had entered the room! She shivered, suddenly certain she had heard that laugh before. In her despairing father's study at Primrose Cottage the day her whole life had crumbled at her feet, lost forever. Even the name was familiar... the one she had heard Papa say: Paxton.

  "How did you know Papa?" she demanded.

  He sketched her an elegant bow. "I, my dear, am the man who ruined him."

  Rhiannon backed away, sick dread spilling through her. That was why Paxton Redmayne looked familiar. His was that face she'd barely glimpsed as a young girl, the eyes that had so disturbed her she'd done all in her power to avoid him. She had even pretended he didn't exist. "You—you were the one who—"

  "It would have been a simple enough legal case— if he'd only chosen to be reasonable. He merely had to close his eyes and walk away. But Kevin Fitzgerald never had the wit to know when he had plunged in over his head. What happened to him was inevitable."

  "Why? What could Papa possibly have done to deserve what you did to him?"

  Paxton shrugged. "Business interests were involved. A fortune made with another man's money, unbeknownst to his wife, er, his widow by that time. She'd lived in genteel poverty most of her life anyway, robbed by her fool husband's schemes. Her future would merely have been more of what she'd always known. No barrister or solicitor in Ireland was fool enough to take up her cause. But Kevin Fitzgerald came charging into the fray like a thrice-cursed Lancelot, armed with his ledgers and a handful of letters to prove her claim."

  That was what she had loved best about her father—his love of justice, the heart so brave, so generous, ready to fight for what was right, no matter what the cost. And this time it had cost him, cost them both everything except each other. "Then Papa had proof. There was nothing you could do."

  "Innocent child. You think someone as transparent as Fitzgerald could keep such evidence out of my hands for very long? I found where he had hidden the documents, and I burned them."

  Rhiannon reeled. Oh, God, what that must have done to Papa—not only to fail in the case but to see all the evidence destroyed, to know that nothing could ever bring it back from the flames. That he had failed, destroyed the widow's chance of a decent life, and brought a monster like this man down upon his cherished daughter's head. "You are despicable."

  "No, my dear. I am thorough. Just as I taught my grandson to be. After all that inconvenience, I made certain no one would ever dare listen to Kevin Fitzgerald's rantings again. All those people he'd fought so hard to help, practically beggaring himself and you in the process, they were too cowardly to cross swords with me. It amused me no end to imagine the paroxysms of guilt they must have suffered, watching the two of you wander off in that ridiculous gypsy cart. But even after you'd been turned into beggars, that fool of a father of yours wouldn't leave well enough alone." Paxton's eyes narrowed, cold as stone. "He traveled from place to place, sneaking off, attempting to unearth more evidence. When he did, it became obvious to me that I had no choice."

  Icy claws seemed to crush her throat. "What do you mean?"

  "I had to kill him. But I was merciful. They say drowning is pleasant, as deaths go."

  Rhiannon feared she'd be sick. Her whole body shook. The thought of Lion as a child in the grasp of this monster was horrifying beyond bearing, and her father—her brave, generous-hearted father who was always looking for what was best and brightest in everyone—to not have known the kind of soulless creature he'd clashed with until it was too late.

  Rhiannon squared her shoulders, furious for the child Lion had been, and for her father. "I see now why Lion hates you. You are despicable. I'm leaving."

  In a move far too swift for a man of his age, Paxton Redmayne blocked the door. "You can't be fool enough to believe I would let you escape after all the trouble I've gone to to capture you." He smiled, his cold eyes flicking to the chess game gleaming in the sun. "You see, my dear, Lion's queen has finally been delivered into my hands."

  Lion strode toward his headquarters, fighting back waves of grim satisfaction. He'd been forced to visit a neighboring estate—an irritating interruption when he had so much personal business to attend to. Yet his military duties couldn't stop just because they were inconvenient, more was the pity.

  It had been a routine summons—another nervous landlord, Squire Tuttle, shaking in his boots because he'd heard rebel songs drifting from the cottages of his crofters.

  A few less than subtle cautions—that was all that was needed, Tuttle had assured Redmayne. A reminder or two of the fate that awaited those who dared rebel against their social betters. But as Lion had guided his mount among the crumbling cottages, dank with poverty, he fought the unthinkable impulse to hand his own gleaming pistol to one of the hot-eyed men glaring at him from the doorways and instruct the Irishman where to aim at Tuttle for the best effect. Ridiculous notion. The Irishman would only end up dead.

  But this seemed a land born for lost causes. Who the devil could blame these people for attempting to drag themselves out of such hopeless desolation? Even if it was only for the briefest flash of glory, futile and foredoomed, for that moment in time, at least, they could feel like men again.

  Waste had always infuriated Redmayne, as had carelessness, and this English fool in his fine house was guilty of both those vices, and no doubt countless more. He probably cared for his horses better than his tenants and then was surprised when his tenants didn't thank him for his abuses.

  Yet, as ragged and beaten down as the Irish were, they managed to look like captive kings and queens— proud, strong, and far more noble than those who lorded it over them. It was a quality Redmayne appreciated more than they would ever know, one he identified with from the days of his own childhood.

  No one understood better than he did how much courage it took to remain defiant even when all hope was gone.

  He'd come to Ireland, duty-bound to crush rebellion. When had his sympathies shifted from the occupying troops to the people who were supposedly his enemies?

  A gradual thing it had been—the winning of his grudging respect—but he did not have the courage to acknowledge the depth of the change in him until Rhiannon stripped away all his masks and made him stare for the first time into a mirror filled with his own reflection.

  These were the people Rhiannon loved, those who had traded her eggs and butter, who had gifted her with stories and songs by their hearth fires, sharing whatever meager stores they had. They had cared for his lady when she was alone. Perhaps that was why he'd returned to the manor house and flayed Squire Tuttle with his acid wit.

  It had been almost shamefully easy, intimidating the squire. Lion had used every skill he'd gleaned over the years, every brilliant strategy he'd honed, but this time he'd used it on behalf of someone else, to benefit s
omeone weaker, more helpless. It had made all the difference.

  Tuttle had been scrambling to better the lot of his crofters by the time Lion was done with him. Doubtless the dread Captain Redmayne would have to give the squire reminders occasionally, but even that might be amusing. He smiled in anticipation, imagining how pleased Rhiannon would be when he told her about his adventures over the dinner table.

  It took infernally little to fill him with joy, with pride, with hope, anymore, just the slightest smile from his lady. He shoved open the door to his office, stepped inside. Devil take it, he wouldn't even wait for dinner. He'd tell her now. "Rhiannon?" He called out.

  A great brown and black mass of canine bounded out of her room—Milton, making a deafening racket, barking. Redmayne rolled his eyes heavenward. He should have guessed he'd never be able to persuade Rhiannon to keep the beast in the stable indefinitely. No doubt the cat would be moving in next. But by God, he thought with a grin, he'd draw the line at that horse of hers!

  "Down, you cursed pest," Redmayne ordered, surprised at the sudden sting of affection he felt for the motley creature. Milton leaped on him, crumpling the front of his uniform.

  "Blast it, dog. I said down!" he said more firmly. "Outside with you, at once." He grasped Milton's leather collar, full intending to haul the dog out, when suddenly, a fierce growl reverberated from the beast's throat.

  "What the devil?"

  Milton wrenched away, and when Redmayne attempted to grab him again, the dog snapped at him, savage. Milton crouched low, whining, scrabbling with his paws at Redmayne's boots. Something cold unfolded in Redmayne's middle—instinct, nerves tempered in battle, or had he caught Rhiannon's intuition somehow, like a fever? Something was wrong.

  "Rhiannon?" He called her name again, more stridently, as he stalked into her chambers. Portly Mrs. Webb was tending to some of the new gowns he'd had made for his fiancée. "Mrs. Webb, I'm searching for Miss Fitzgerald. Have you seen her?"

  "Humph! Never knew a lass so given to getting her skirts full of paw prints." Mrs. Webb gave a halfhearted swipe at a sky-colored morning dress. "There was a message delivered, and she went runnin' wherever it bade her, I'd be bound. She was scribbling a note when she summoned me to help her change her gown."