Briar Rose

  He didn't like the idea of surrendering anything to the woman, but if it would keep her too busy to think up any more herbal concoctions to plague him with, it would be a small enough price to pay.

  She reclaimed the gruel, placing it on a precariously narrow ledge as he tried to wrestle his way out of the garment. But the slashes in the linen and the throbbing wound in his shoulder made the task difficult. Of course, she would bustle over to help him.

  She'd removed every stitch of clothing he wore while he was senseless, but this time he was aware of her deft feminine fingers brushing his skin, not even briskly, but rather with a kind of inborn tenderness he sensed was as much a part of the woman as the spattering of freckles on her nose. It was an alien thing to him, such gentleness in a touch. Dangerous. Like the juices of the opium poppy, it held the power to numb self-control, dulling a man's will, fettering his independence. It had the power to make even a strong man crave more.

  He wanted her to take the garment and go somewhere, anywhere far away from him. But instead of tripping off about her business, she plopped back onto the stool and grabbed up a little basket brimful of sewing gewgaws.

  She was threading a needle by the time he recovered from shock. "I thought I would keep you company," she explained. "There's nothing more dreadful than being sick and alone."

  She was mistaken. There was something far worse, he thought grimly—the mere idea of letting anyone see him made weak and vulnerable by his wounds. Even animals had the sense to drag themselves off to holes or dens to lick their wounds in private. He schooled his face into bored lines, hiding any evidence of his acute unease. "I wouldn't dream of being such an inconvenience to you. Go about your business."

  "How thoughtful of you. But distracting you from your discomfort is my business at present. I confess there's not a great deal to do, traveling about in my little house like this. I tidied up the camp while you were sleeping, and had my breakfast. I even poked about a little to make certain those wicked men who shot you were nowhere nearby." The tiniest of lines at the corner of her mouth betrayed the nervousness she was trying to hide—fear of the men who had hunted him down.

  The thought of her running afoul of the assassins made Redmayne exceedingly irritated. "And what would you have done if you had found them?" He asked in accents frigid enough to create ice crystals in a pot of boiling water.

  "Why, enchanted them with a fairy spell of course," she replied with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. "That is one of the advantages of being fairy-born."

  Now he was to be afflicted with her sense of humor? "Miss Fitzgerald..." He was going to tell her not to be ridiculous. But didn't even acknowledging such a statement make him seem equally absurd?

  "So you see," she went on cheerfully, "I have absolutely nothing to do at the moment but stitch and enjoy your company."

  "I take my meals alone."

  "Poor lad. Far too busy with your duties to seek out even such small comfort as conversation, I would wager. But there's nothing you can do here, either, so you can just rest."

  Perhaps he could drag himself on his belly away from camp, Redmayne considered, even such an indignity looking ever more attractive. Hell might take the form of a talkative angel after all.

  "So would you like to tell me about yourself?" she asked. "You must have had many grand adventures."

  He'd sooner have been roasted over a bed of hot coals than give her any more glimpses of the man he was. Likely even Mistress Sunshine would be sobered by such enlightenment. If he couldn't dislodge her from his side, his only option was to distract her inquisitive mind. But how? He groped for a moment, then seized on a solution with some reluctance.

  "I'd prefer to talk about you, madam." Far preferable to the truth: I wish you would leave me the devil in peace. And most people would rattle on about themselves ad nauseam. "What could possess a lone woman like you to wander about in this fashion?"

  "Oh, I wasn't alone at first. My papa was with me."

  Redmayne spooned up some of the gruel, determined to eat it in record time. There was always the hope that once he was done with the vile stuff, she'd take herself off to scrub the dishes or some such. "Did your father have some sort of itinerant job that made it necessary? A tinker? A peddler?"

  "Papa was a barrister."

  Redmayne stilled, eyes narrowing. The woman had managed to get his attention. What the devil was a barrister doing wandering around in a painted cart? And yet there was so much about this woman and the contents of her wagon that was inconsistent with the life of a traveler. The cultured tones of her voice, the aura of a lady, instead of the half-wild look he'd seen in the eyes of every Gypsy he'd ever run across. Even the china bowl that he held could have presented itself at any fine dining table without shame.

  "When I was a child, we lived in a delightful place, a small estate near Wicklow called Primrose Cottage." Her lips softened into a lost-angel smile. "Rose vines had grown over it for a hundred years, so that the walls were almost covered. And in the summer, when the sun warmed the blossoms, it was like living in a fairyland. There were gardens brimming with every kind of flower, paths weaving through woods so lovely it was easy to believe the lords and ladies of the fairy kingdom held their revels there."

  "Why did you leave this paragon of a home?" Another spoonful of gruel—more vile than the last, yet not nearly as unpalatable as making conversation thus. Of course Rhiannon Fitzgerald would open her very heart for his inspection at the slightest prodding. But he couldn't help being a trifle amused at himself. Captain Lionel Redmayne coaxing childhood confidences out of someone. It was like a wolf tenderly inquiring after the health of a lamb. But it was obvious Miss Fitzgerald knew nothing of wolves—dressed in fur or in bright red uniforms.

  "Papa was the most wonderful man—full of stories and dreams and love. He opened his arms to the world like a child, always expecting something beautiful to rush into his grasp. He worked very hard, but the cases he took on didn't often make a great deal of money. He had a great hunger for justice, and believed if only he could show people the truth, they would embrace it eagerly."

  It was a miracle the man had survived as long as he had, Redmayne thought grimly. There was nothing people loathed more than being shown an uncomfortable truth. They welcomed it about as enthusiastically as they would have welcomed being plunged into a field of nettles. And instead of blaming their own blindness or heedlessness for the discomfort, they were all too eager to kill the messenger, as the Romans had been wont to do.

  "Our finances were in some disarray. In an effort to recoup the funds after some costly cases, Papa made some investments with a man he had much faith in. Unfortunately, I'm afraid the man was not to be trusted."

  "A great surprise, I'm certain," Redmayne muttered, lips twisting with irony.

  "What little savings we had were already strained. We lost Primrose Cottage."

  "And the legions of injured parties involved in these just causes your father worked so hard to defend—none of them came to your aid?" Nothing irritated him more than blind idealism, especially when confronted with the victims it could leave in its wake.

  Bristling at his sarcasm, Rhiannon Fitzgerald straightened her spine and met his censuring gaze squarely. "Captain Redmayne, most of Papa's clients could barely afford to feed themselves, care for their own families. Several offered to give us a place to stay, but that would hardly have been fair, causing them hardship. Papa refused to accept their help. He said he'd been eager to see the wonders of Ireland since he was a little boy listening to tales of castle ruins and the Giant's Causeway, fairy forts and ancient stone beds where legendary lovers had lain. What better way to see them all than to travel about in a gypsy cart? We'd have a grand adventure, the two of us."

  "And your mother? Was she equally eager to set out on this grand adventure?"

  "I don't even remember her. It was always just Papa and me."

  She'd been left at the mercy of that cloud-brained imbecile her whole life?
And at the height of her father's foolery, the man had dragged his daughter out onto the open road? Fed her some ridiculous tale about how wonderful it would be. And then he'd left her alone out here in the midst of nowhere, where any calamity might befall her.

  "Your father might have lowered his principles a trifle, taken on a few cases in which he could actually make money—just for a bit of variety," Redmayne observed.

  He expected to ruffle her feathers again, see that spark of indignation in her eyes because he'd dared to question her saint of a father. But instead she only picked at a loose thread as if it held the secret to unraveling the universe.

  "That was the strangest part." A crease formed between her delicate brows. "As long as I could remember, Papa had been turning away a great many clients. He gave himself to every pursuit wholeheartedly, wouldn't take any case unless he would be willing and able to sacrifice the last drop of his blood for the cause. But in the weeks before we lost Primrose, the people who had been clamoring for his help disappeared as well."

  "Trust rats to know when a ship is sinking," Redmayne muttered, more to himself than to the woman.

  Her eyes widened. "Odd you should say that. That's exactly how I felt. As if Primrose were a mouse's hole and some giant invisible cat lay in wait outside it, frightening away anyone who might come near. It was so sudden, so complete—the silence, the feeling of isolation."

  Redmayne was astonished to feel a stirring of curiosity in spite of himself.

  She looked down at the mending in her lap, her voice dropping low. "I wouldn't have minded leaving the cottage so much if I'd felt that the new owner would love it as I had. Care for my mama's roses, take joy in the gillyflowers carved into the mantelpieces. It was a house that had been cherished from the moment it was built. The walls, the very walls, whispered of love." For the first time a wistfulness touched the rare purity of her features, making them even more vulnerable than before. Redmayne's shoulders tightened, but not entirely with impatience. "I knew the house would be lonely after we were gone."

  The girl had been packed into a gypsy cart, lost practically everything she owned, not to mention any chance at a decent future—for what kind of man would marry a penniless girl in a garish painted cart?—but as the wagon rattled off into an uncertain future, what had she been worried about? That the house her irresponsible ass of a father had lost would be lonely.

  Over the years, Redmayne had worked hard to perfect his gift for seeing into other people's minds—into their motives and fears, weaknesses and vices—for to know one's opponent was vital in the vast game that was life. Yet he always viewed whatever he discovered with detachment. Why was it that the picture of Rhiannon Fitzgerald stung? A wistful woman-child's face peering out of the back of the bright-painted caravan, straining to catch a last glimpse of her world before it disappeared?

  God's blood, if he didn't feel an uncharacteristic urge to utter some word of sympathy or comfort! Useless rot. It would change nothing that had happened. Still, he couldn't help but wonder just a little about the young girl and her father, cast to the winds of fate on the open road.

  "It was difficult, no doubt, wandering about, suddenly paupers."

  The woman actually broke into a smile. "I was homesick for a little while, but there was no use in grieving. Parties and beaux, all the pieces of that other life were gone."

  Of course any suitors would have abandoned her. It was to be expected. She was a woman without a dowry, whose father was little more than a benevolent madman. What benefit could be derived from taking such a wife? And yet not every suitor would have turned his back on Rhiannon Fitzgerald, Redmayne acknowledged with an unaccustomed twinge of bitterness. There were some noble fools sprinkled in among the ranks of men. Fools like the man who had won the heart of Mary Fallon Delaney, a man who would have slain dragons in her name.

  "Once we were on the road, this life grew easier. The countryside was so beautiful, it soothed my spirit. Perhaps I no longer had my mother's roses, but all Ireland was my garden now, Papa told me." Her mouth softened, sweetened, her eyes touched with a faint, pensive shadow. "And I was his briar rose because I bloomed wherever I was planted, and always turned my face up to the sun."

  A briar rose... it fit her, that sobriquet. Untidy, tangling every which way, petals fragile, and yet too busy thriving to realize it should be battered and withering under such harsh conditions.

  Redmayne's own memory stirred, a deep voice, as warm as summer sun, his own father's strong arms outstretched: "Fly to the sky, my little lion...." Even now there were times when he could almost remember what it was like to be tossed high above his father's head, to hear the echoes of his own squeals of delight as he flew, certain Papa would always be there to catch him. Another fairy tale. Another lie. That boy had lost the life he'd known, too. But he hadn't turned his face to the sun.

  He shook off the unwelcome memory, wishing the infernal woman would drown the shades of his past in her chatter. But the stubbornly genial companion who had been so talkative moments before had vanished. She'd lapsed into silence, concentrating on threading her needle, her lashes lowered, her full lips pressed together. Tending a quiet heartache, the loss of her father? Why should it matter to Redmayne? Silence was what he craved, wasn't it? Then why the devil was he suddenly prodding her to go on? What was it about her story that sounded all too familiar?

  "This man who took Primrose Cottage, I don't suppose he had a name?"

  "It was so long ago... and Papa didn't speak of it to me. He believed in filling his daughter's head with fairy stories, her arms with flowers, and her skirts with meadow breezes. I knew so little of his business affairs. But I did meet the man once. Paxton, Papa called him. Mr. Paxton."

  The hand that held Redmayne's spoon halted midway to his mouth. "It's a common enough name, one would think," he reasoned, loathing himself for his unease.

  "Perhaps. But the man wasn't common." He saw a fine tremor work through her. "I glimpsed him once and felt so—so cold. I'd never felt quite so cold. He had the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. Pale and empty, as if—as if there wasn't a soul inside."

  "He was an Irishman?"

  "No. Nor English either, though he spoke it well enough. It was as if the flavor of half a dozen different languages was still on his tongue. But whenever he came to the cottage, I'm ashamed to admit I did my best to avoid him, ran off to work in the gardens or something. It was too cold with him in the house."

  If this Paxton was the same man Redmayne knew, he could understand the urge. How could a starry-eyed briar rose like Rhiannon Fitzgerald know that she could never run fast enough or far enough or hide herself well enough to escape those eyes that had so disturbed her? If Paxton Redmayne wanted to find her, hell itself wouldn't be deep enough to hide in. Or had her father merely been a minor amusement for the old man? Something to allay his boredom until a quarry worthy of his intellect came along? Paxton could never resist toying with people's lives, like a cat with its prey. And yet a country barrister—a bumbling philanthropist, no less—was not his usual quarry. But that was the genius in the old man—that he was as changeable as water, taking on the shape and form of whatever vessel he chose to inhabit at the moment.

  God, how the old bastard would laugh if he could see Redmayne here now in this cart with this innocent-eyed woman who had been so desperately wronged. It was the kind of jest Paxton Redmayne enjoyed the most.

  Redmayne struggled not to betray the vise of grimness tightening inside him. Why the devil had he been cursed enough to run afoul of the woman? Was this some kind of cruel jest of fate? Or was it the pull of destiny she'd spoken of when she refused to desert him?

  He'd been flung in the woman's path. She'd snatched him from the jaws of certain death only to tell him that the dragon who had haunted his boyhood nightmare might have stalked her as well. Might still be stalking her, oblivious as she was to it.

  What had she claimed? That the man who had broken her father's finances and taken her cott
age away had been called Paxton? The whole affair reeked of his grandfather's ruthlessness. And if the man Rhiannon remembered was Paxton Redmayne, she could have no idea how much danger she might still be in. No game of wits was ever over until Paxton declared it so. No one knew that better than Redmayne. A subtle chill tracked down his spine. He crushed it ruthlessly.

  It wasn't that he was afraid for the girl or that he felt responsible for her in any way, he told himself. Whatever disaster her father had gotten her into was purely incidental to him. But there were other matters to consider. He'd never been one to cast away opportunities fate presented him. And the chance to thwart the old man... it was a temptation tantalizing beyond imagining.

  Perhaps fortune had thrown him into Rhiannon Fitzgerald's path for a purpose. Some small half-forgotten force called conscience winced at the thought, but he crushed it, gaze fixed intensely on the woman now bending over her needlework. If she had run afoul of his grandfather, it was possible, just possible, that she might prove a valuable pawn in the endless game of chess between Redmayne and the man who still haunted his nightmares.

  "Captain Redmayne?" Her worried query startled him, drawing him back to the present—the cramped confines of the gypsy cart, the penetrating warmth of her hazel eyes, and the unnerving awareness of his own stupidity. He'd left himself vulnerable during those moments when he allowed his mind to wander.

  "What is it, madam?"

  "Is something amiss? You look so... strange."

  Redmayne drew his accustomed cool mask over his features. "A hazard of getting oneself shot, I fear. All that grimacing and groaning, trying to put on a brave face. It gets wearing after a while."

  The woman looked so chagrined that any man with a drop of compassion in his veins would have wished the words back. "How utterly selfish of me! Prattling on about things you can have no interest in."

  "You mistake me, madam. You've distracted me marvelous well."