Cates, Kimberly (12 page)

Just as well, he supposed. He'd given her enough time to settle into her ablutions. Half undressed, wet and unwary, she should be vulnerable enough to his attentions. A strange brew of self-disgust and expectation stirred in his belly. Only because he would be meeting her challenge, of course.

In his head he imagined her bare feet padding across the thick carpet of turf, the grass growing damp beside the sparkling water. He imagined how long it would take for her deft fingers to unfasten the army of buttons that marched between the soft hills of her breasts. Doubtless she would pause to study the face of any pretty wildflower that happened to perch on the stream bank. And God help him if some disobliging trout showed her an injured fin. Better to get down there before the woman unwittingly outflanked him again!

Redmayne straightened, limping in the direction she'd gone, wondering if he'd ever looked forward to crossing swords quite this much.

Even wounded, he was able to move with the stealth of a predator, a skill learned in his grandfather's household, then perfected on scouting missions before battle. He intended to steal up as quietly as possible, give himself time to gauge the best angle from which to "attack." But as the underbrush fell away before him, dappled shadows giving way to the sunshine spilling over the stream, he stopped, all thoughts scattering at the scene before him.

Rhiannon had flung herself into her bath with the same joy with which she faced everything else in her day, wholeheartedly, delightedly, abandoning any lingering fears on the mossy bank along with her heavy skirts. Clad in only her shift, she splashed in the water, hurling cascades of sparkling silver drops at the foxhound gamboling about in a futile effort to find her. Her freshly washed hair clung about her shoulders, and down her back, the thin fabric of her undergarments molding her curves like the hands of a lover.

Rosy patches of her skin glowed through, the dusky circles of her nipples pushing at the fabric, accenting lush breasts. A trim waist and full hips were clearly visible, and a man would have had to be a corpse not to feel a stirring in his loins at the dark shadow of curls arrowing down toward slender legs that seemed to go on forever.

Perhaps he'd managed to deaden his emotions, Redmayne thought, but he still had an appreciation for perfection. Beauty. Yet Rhiannon Fitzgerald's own brand of beauty was fashioned out of a dozen imperfections, flaws that should have made her unappealing, yet instead held his gaze prisoner, made him wonder exactly what it was that compelled him to keep looking at her.

Simple lust, Redmayne reasoned with grim humor. The fact that he hadn't troubled himself to take a woman to his bed since he'd arrived in Ireland. Even the icily controlled Lionel Redmayne's body needed release upon occasion, if only to keep himself from being distracted. Perhaps searing the lady with hot stares wouldn't take much effort after all. And yet... the sooner she surrendered, the better. Like all good strategies, there was danger in this one.

He was a man with a man's needs.

And it had been a very long time.

CHAPTER 7

She sensed his presence mere heartbeats before she saw him, a solitary figure, golden hair sunstruck. Blades of shadow and light hewed his face with the patrician arrogance of the first fairy king who had set forth his royal foot upon the ageless hills of Ireland. Bold, almost too beautiful for human eyes to see.

But a kind of defiance shaped the set of his jaw, an unfamiliar buzz of tension emanating from his lean body in waves that flowed around her, tightening about Rhiannon's breast.

She stilled, tried to suck in a deep breath, chill water running in rivulets down her body. She might have been a stray beggar maid confronting the god of water, her wet hair clinging in a silken web to cheeks already burning with embarrassment, surprise, and something foreign, perhaps a little frightening.

Shoving away the ridiculous sensation, she started toward Redmayne, afraid that something was amiss. The men were returning, his wounds were paining him, while she stood there like a witling gawking at him. "What is it?" she asked, sloshing toward Redmayne. "Is something wrong?"

But at that instant, a miracle occurred. Milton realized one of his most cherished aspirations: he actually
located
what he was searching for. The foxhound launched himself from a patch of mud, his massive paws slamming into Rhiannon's stomach. Her breath went out in a whoosh, the impact hurtling her backward. She crashed down, her mouth filling with a wave of choking water. Her backside slammed into the rock-strewn bottom of the stream, bruising her flesh almost as much as it wounded what little dignity she still possessed.

Sputtering, flailing, she fought to regain her feet, but the tangle of sodden shift and elated canine made it impossible. Milton might actually have succeeded in drowning her, and she might not have objected overmuch, except that a hard hand manacled her wrist, dragging her upright, a deep voice biting out a low command. "Down."

With her free hand, Rhiannon scrubbed her seaweedlike hair out of her face just in time to see Milton perch obediently on the stream bank, his cloudy eyes fixed with infuriating devotion in the general direction of the man who had dared to discipline him.

Redmayne stood so close to Rhiannon that the heat radiating from his body penetrated her own chilled skin. His low chuckle astonished her, banished her fear that some calamity had overtaken them, yet tightened the net of embarrassment he'd trapped her in.

"Saved from an untimely death. And a most undignified one at that," Redmayne said. "It seems we are even now, Rhiannon."

Her name. He'd merely called her by her name for the first time. But it had changed everything. A strange shiver coursed down her spine, not from the cool of the breeze against her wet skin but rather from the husky rumble of his voice, the hot brush of his breath against her cheek. She tried to swallow, but her throat was inexplicably dry.

"Captain, wh-what... what are you doing here?"

"A fine way to thank your rescuer, that. Perhaps you need lessons in the etiquette of a damsel in distress. This is your cue to fall upon me in abject gratitude." He smiled. Her heart stopped. God above, she hadn't even realized the man
could
smile. No one should be given such a lethal weapon to wield against a woman.

"I just... I didn't expect—"

"Any company? That is obvious enough, considering your attire."

She skittered back a step, glancing down, agonizingly aware of the thinness of her soaked shift—transparent as morning mist, the curves and shadows of her most secret places visible to Redmayne's all-too-keen gaze.

Any modest, self-respecting woman would have chosen that moment to dive headlong into the water—if it had been deep enough to cover her properly. But Rhiannon was stunned to find herself standing as still as a woodland doe, surprised, curious, trembling just a little at the unexpected sensations rippling through her.

She raised her own gaze to Redmayne's face. Could there be such a thing as hot ice? The piercing blue of his eyes burned. Innocent as she might be, she recognized that heat for what it was, yet she could scarce believe her own deduction. Desire. Was it real? Or as ephemeral as the visions of fairy folk she'd imagined were dancing within the stone circles when she was a child?

She wasn't certain. She only knew that no man had ever looked at her that way before. She scrambled to find her scattered senses.

"Was there something you wanted?"
You.

He communicated it without words, a thick pulse that entered her veins where his fingers were still circled about her wrist. He raised his gaze to hers, and she felt her breath catch as if she'd heard him voice his need aloud.

He cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand. She felt the loss of his touch as if he'd left a wound, and she realized in that instant how much she'd missed being touched.

Oh, Triona and her husband always greeted her with an embrace and a buss on the cheek. Other friends as well were quick to squeeze her hand. But she was on the road so much of the time that she was like someone thirsty, receiving only sips of water when she needed so much to drink deep.

"You asked why I came down here," Redmayne said. "I had hoped that perhaps you would do me one more favor. One of my greatest flaws is that I am somewhat fastidious. I'm afraid my convalescence has left me feeling rather gritty, and a sponge bath is less than satisfactory."

Of course, that was why he had followed her. She should have anticipated that a man like Redmayne wouldn't be satisfied overlong with her halfhearted dabbings with the sponge. "I should have realized that and offered to bring you down here, instead of indulging myself. I just didn't think."

"It's no sin, Rhiannon, failing to anticipate someone else's every need. I'm actually rather glad you can't read my mind." He was mocking her, and himself. Yet she
had
sensed his thoughts a moment ago, and she'd been flustered and delighted and frightened by what she'd found there.

Even more surprising was the captain's other comment: "It's no sin, Rhiannon."

Was he merely teasing? Or had he actually realized the truth? This man of ice, of logic and reason, who claimed to care for no one—was he the first person ever to unearth her most secret vulnerability, the thing that troubled her more than any other failing? That crushing sense of responsibility that had been a part of her for as long as the green of her eyes and the dimple in her cheek.

"Rhiannon?"

The low rumble of her name upon his lips startled her. And she looked up at him, heat stealing into her face.

"If you've got your balance, I'll let you return to your own bath. There is plenty of time later for me to make myself less objectionable."

He intended to leave. It was alarming to realize how fiercely she wanted him to stay.

"Captain, please. I wouldn't want you making such a long walk again on your injured leg. Besides, I'm finished with everything except getting myself dry."

He arched one eyebrow. "You're certain?"

"Of course!"

"Rhiannon, you're not to be trusted. You would say you were finished if you'd barely dipped your toes in the water if you thought someone else needed you."

She should have felt exposed—had it been possible to feel more exposed than she actually was, garbed in her shift. Instead she was glad. "You have your choice, sir." She scooped up the hem of her shift, then crossed to where she'd laid her gown. "Either I can help you with your bath, keeping your wounds at least somewhat dry in the process, or I can leave you to the tender ministrations of Milton."

The dog thumped his tail as if to show that he was more than willing to be of service.

"I much prefer you to your hound," Redmayne said as she grasped her gown. "But—pardon me if I'm being rude—but your dress, there is no reason to put it on and get it all soaked on my account. I'll keep my eyes averted if you wish."

Ah, that was the problem. Wanton as it might be, some part of her wished to remain just as she was. The breeze teasing her bare legs beneath her hem, her hair streaming loose down her back, and this man's hot gaze upon her.

"I think it would be—be best if I..."

"Ah, so you are capable of noble behavior, but I am not."

Her brow furrowed. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

"When I was injured, you stripped off my clothing, bathed me, tended me, and I'm certain you observed all the proprieties you were able to."

"Of course I did!" It wasn't exactly the truth, and she was certain he realized it from the guilty fluttering of her gaze away from him.

"Don't you believe me capable of the same courtesy? I am, after all, an officer and a gentleman."

That irresistible light winked in his eyes again. "You wouldn't want me to feel responsible for soiling your gown, would you? I would have to get down on my knees, beat it again with the rocks to get it clean."

"You've never scrubbed anything in your life, I would wager," she said.

"No. Just think of the damage I might do to your gown, and the guilt I might suffer." Why did it seem so strange? His smile, so beautiful, the effort she could sense in him, as he tried to infuse it with warmth. It made her heart ache for the boy she sensed beyond the brilliant blue of his eyes—a boy who had never really had a chance to be. What had happened to him, she wondered, to banish the child in him so completely?

She held on to the soft folds of cloth for one last moment, then released them. Was that triumph she glimpsed curling one corner of his mouth? She couldn't be certain. He turned away, and all she could see was the back of the shirt she'd mended for him, rows of tiny stitches, catching together the slashes her scissors had made. Why was it she was suddenly so certain that whatever scars lay hidden beneath Captain Redmayne's cool facade would not be so easily healed?

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she crossed to where she'd abandoned the little soap pot and the damp cloth she'd washed with. The man wanted a bath. She should give him one, not waste time trying to pry beneath the mask he kept so carefully in place.
At least, not until he's better able to defend himself,
a voice inside her whispered.

And yet she knew well enough that there were only brief times when the gate to the heart might be open, in wounded beasts and wounded people. And unless one stole inside at the exact right moment, that entrance could slam closed forever. Lost with it, the chance to heal.

Yet wouldn't a man as closed, as fiercely private as this one loathe anyone who saw pain instead of strength? Emotion instead of intellect? Vulnerability instead of invincible control?

Why should it matter so much how he felt about her? She would have him with her for only a little while. He was no Milton or Socrates or Captain Blood, to lounge about, tamed to her hand. He was wilder than her falcon, warier than her wolf, no creature to be kept near her hearth fire, content with her fingers stroking the rare gold silk of his hair.