Cates, Kimberly (17 page)

"You can't possibly have been so—"

"Cruel? Calculating?" Did the woman even have such words in her vocabulary, he wondered. "I assure you, Rhiannon, I can. It was a clumsy plan, perhaps, but the only one I could come up with under the circumstances. You're impossible to intimidate, to bribe, to bully. And as for reasoning with you"—he snorted in disgust—"I realized that was impossible within moments of regaining consciousness. What was left except to find a way to frighten you into hauling me back to the garrison?"

She was trembling as if he'd struck her. He knew he'd done far worse than that. "You kissed me, touched me, because you wanted to frighten me?" she asked, still unbelieving.

"Yes, damn it. But it didn't work, did it? Who could have guessed an innocent like you would want—" He broke off with a curse.
Want a man who isn't worthy to kiss the sole of your slipper, offer yourself up to him with such courage and generosity it would shatter his resolve and fill him with self-loathing. Who could have guessed that you would taste so right, feel so perfect, unnerve me so completely?

Redmayne winced. Wasn't it enough, facing Rhiannon, tormenting her, without being tortured by his own infernal thoughts? "What the devil is the point? The whole plan was a disaster anyway." He stalked away, unable to bear the wounded light in her eyes. "I'll be trapped in this Gypsy hell until the end of time."

Disgusted, frustrated, he sank back into his chair, wishing for a moment that he could have temper fits like other men. Break crockery, kick tables, slam his fist against a tree. But instead, he could only sit there, rigid, controlled, balling up all the emotions inside him, smaller and smaller, until they were nothing but a hard lump in his gut.

She should have raged at him, stormed at him, cried and shouted. But she was still standing there, where he'd kissed her, those fingers that had unfastened his buttons limp at her sides. She came to the table, took up the chipped fairy cup in her hands, as if—what?—the infernal thing could make her feel better? Perhaps it might if she used the jagged edge to slash at his heart the way he had slashed hers.

"I suppose it was foolish of me, believing that someone like you could... could want someone like me," she said, "but I've always been good at imagining."

She sucked in a deep breath. "What you did was despicable. We'll start for the garrison at daybreak." In a whisper of muslin and sorrow, she turned and walked away.

For a moment he almost called her back. Wanted to tell her that what had begun as a military campaign had ended in surprising pleasure. That he
had
wanted her, more than she could ever imagine. But what would such a confession accomplish except to muddy up the waters even further? No, better to have her hate him as he deserved.

What did any of this matter, anyway? He'd accomplished his goal. She would not be silenced by a bullet. She'd be safe, and he could go back to his well-ordered life. She might not know it, but he'd won a victory for them both.

Victory. Yes. It should have been that simple and logical. It might have been. But suddenly he was certain that some wounds cut far deeper than any bullet could reach and remained long after physical scars had whitened and smoothed away.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of her face, the bruised look in her eyes, the shock and shame that she would carry with her forever.

"Damn it, she should have just let me bleed to death," he muttered. It would have been more merciful than what he was feeling now.

CHAPTER 9

Practical Triona had always claimed it was impossible to die of a broken heart. Now Rhiannon knew it must be impossible to die of shame as well. If she'd managed to survive the past two days, she could survive anything.

She guided the wagon through the wisps of pink-edged mist, wishing she did possess some of her mother's fairy magic—just enough to halt the sun as it sank inexorably toward the horizon.

Darkness would fall soon, forcing her to draw rein, to bring the caravan to a halt and make camp as she had so many times before. It was a ritual she'd always loved—finding a new spot, someplace pretty and inviting to turn into home. Lacy canopies of leaves overhead formed the ceiling; surfaces of silvery lakes became long galleries of mirrors; hollows of green glen or swells of hills formed soft, sheltering walls.

It had never taken much to make a new place feel like home—a bunch of hastily gathered flowers in a jar on the table, a crackling fire, the scent of tea brewing, and the ecstatic sighs from Milton as he slumbered at her feet, his paws twitching, chasing rabbits in his dreams.

Yet nothing she could do tonight would give her even a scrap of that homey peace she craved so deeply. The past forty-eight hours had been a nightmare of tension and strain such as she'd never endured, subtle torture as she and Captain Redmayne had wrestled with the impossible task of existing in such tight quarters without tripping over everything that had happened between them the day before.

He'd been agonizingly polite to her—an officer and a gentleman of the finest mettle. And she'd fought the instinct to avoid him at all costs. She was human enough to want to leave him to his own devices, let him fumble about, tending his own wounds, scavenging his own supper. After all, anyone who could formulate and carry out such a vile, deceitful plan as he had couldn't be so terribly ill anymore. But despite spinning out scenarios of revenge, in the end, she couldn't act on them. She'd suffer for it far more than he ever would if she let his ruthlessness keep her from doing what she knew was right.

Yet she was surprised to discover that, in some ways, treating him kindly was a measure of revenge all its own. At least her behavior kept the inscrutable captain off-balance.

He'd been stunned when she changed his dressings with the greatest of care, even more astonished when, late last night, she'd curled up on the edge of the bed beside him. She hadn't slept, but she'd been near enough to hear his slightest groan.

Unfortunately, that also meant she was near enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to perceive the drift of his breath across her cheek. When he attempted to tell her this martyrdom of hers wasn't necessary, that he could sleep beneath the wagon, she'd told him not to be ridiculous. The last thing either of them desired was for him to contract lung fever, a circumstance that would force the two of them to remain encamped together until he recovered.

The night had become a standoff of the grimmest kind, both of them pretending the other didn't exist, both feigning sleep. She only wondered if he had seen what she did, every time she closed her eyes—her own face, that of a dream-blinded fool offering herself up to a man who didn't want her.

The wagon jolted, and she gritted her teeth as pain hammered through her aching muscles. She detested herself for wondering how Redmayne was faring inside the wagon. He'd looked a trifle pale when she stopped at noon long enough to shove some bread thick with butter into his hands. But she'd sensed the eagerness in him to keep traveling—the scarce-leashed energy of a horse fighting the urge to bolt.

She'd taken her own bit of bread back to the seat that swung just above her dray horse's broad haunches, and she'd kept driving, as anxious now to get rid of her passenger as he was to be quit of her.

Yet now it looked as if they'd have to spend another night together before they reached the garrison. It was a prospect most unpleasant.

At that instant the tiny door at the back of the caravan creaked open. She started, feeling as if she possessed the power to summon up the devil.

"Are we there yet?" Redmayne asked, and she couldn't help but be reminded of a recalcitrant school boy traveling home on holiday.

"If we were, the wagon would have stopped," she said with acid sweetness. "It hasn't. We aren't. And we may not be until tomorrow morning."

"There is no logical reason we can't make it to the garrison tonight. I made the calculations, and—"

"Perhaps you should have shared them with Socrates. Obviously his calculations are a bit different. But then, it's harder to count on one's hooves than on one's fingers, I suppose."

"Damnation, I don't want to spend another night here," Redmayne groused.

Rhiannon wished his words didn't hurt so badly. "You needn't fear I'll attempt to ravish you. I'm completely cured of any desire to accost you, I assure you."

"Fine for you, but what about—" Redmayne stopped, glowering, and she wondered what he'd been about to say. She only knew that what came from his mouth next was far different. "What about the men who have been hunting me? The closer we get to the garrison, the more dangerous it becomes."

"And once you're inside the garrison, won't you be in the most danger of all?"

"You underestimate me, Rhiannon. The men who serve under me have a healthy fear of their commander. It is one thing to lure an unsuspecting man out to a solitary death, another to murder him with countless witnesses wandering about. Besides, now I am on my guard."

"I doubt that you have ever been
off
guard in your entire life, but those villains nearly managed to kill you anyway."

She could sense his discomfort in the way he cleared his throat. "Yes, well. Perhaps I was a trifle distracted, but I will not make that mistake again. And once you get me back to my headquarters, it will be immaterial to you. You'll be absolved of all responsibility. Perhaps I can find a kitten with a broken paw or a horse that has foundered to provide you with a distraction."

There was a brittle mockery in his voice, but whether he was mocking her or himself, she couldn't be certain. She wanted to hate him, wanted to rekindle the anger she'd felt at his betrayal. She didn't want to remember the horrible loneliness she'd sensed in him, the heedlessness about his own life, the world-weariness that clung about his mouth when he thought no one could see. She didn't want to hear the echo of his pain-maddened cry, begging for his father.

"Come, Rhiannon, even a saint could not be expected to tolerate a villain like me any longer than necessary. You cannot tell me you won't be relieved to be rid of me after the way I've behaved."

"I'd be mad if I wasn't glad to be rid of you," she said. But why did the thought of leaving him behind make her feel as if she were somehow betraying him? Abandoning him when she should protect him? Protect Captain Lionel Redmayne? By the saints, how he would laugh if he ever discovered she harbored such absurd notions.

She angled a glance over her shoulder. Shadows and light played over his austere features. Was it only her imagination, or did she see just the vaguest hint of regret?

It was over. Redmayne could see the glow of lantern light illuminating the cluster of buildings that had been his headquarters these past three years. He stared down at the garrison he'd become accustomed to, if not enamored of, relieved enough to have this journey nearly at an end.

Yet he couldn't help feeling that in the brief time he'd been absent, everything had changed. The complacency he'd felt for years had vanished, along with the certainty that everything was within his power to control.

Somewhere within the buildings he was so familiar with, among the faces he'd come to know, lurked a coward eager to kill him. A coward who would be far more desperate to finish the deed now that Redmayne had been alerted to his intentions. Nothing drove an assassin to greater lengths than the fear of detection.

But more unnerving still was the effect that one disheveled woman had had upon Redmayne. How much she had altered things with the merest brush of her hand.

Rhiannon, named for the goddess sent to lead a man to another life, to heal him. Was it possible that in some way she already had? No. He was far too dedicated a sinner to be changed in a matter of days. Yet he doubted he would ever forget her. She was rare, his untidy guardian angel. Never had he met anyone with a heart so good, so pure. What poet had written it? "A heart whose love is innocent."

Bloody hell, one could almost accuse him of waxing sentimental. That was cause enough for alarm, but once she was gone, he'd doubtless be cured of it— not unlike the time he'd fought off a bout of the measles on the Spanish peninsula.

He blinked, surprised to note how close they'd drawn to the military installation in the time he'd been lost in his musings. They'd come near enough to see the guards posted, glimpse men going about their business beyond the torchlit gates.

"Halt, ye scurvy gypsy!" the gruff voice rang out— a burly Hampshireman stepping forward, rifle at the ready—Twynham, the man's name was. "If ye've come t'raise yer petticoats, ladybird, ye'd best go 'round t'the back."

"Sir, y-you're mistaken," Rhiannon stammered.

Blast if Redmayne couldn't almost see her blush despite the darkness. "My name is Rhiann—"

"It matters not who the lady is, private. I am Captain Lionel Redmayne." He bit out the words in his most commanding tones. The soldier froze, whether in horror or shock he couldn't tell.

"The captain is missin', most likely dead! Disappeared days ago." The soldier scrambled to grab a torch from one of the iron torchères bracketing the gate. He thrust it so close to the tiny window in the front of the caravan, it was a miracle he didn't set the whole rig afire. Even the unflappable Socrates managed to muster the energy to shy a bit. The wagon lurched. Redmayne, no longer braced against the swaying, stumbled, his wounded shoulder banging into one of the braces that held up the crescent of roof. He swore under his breath as the Hampshireman bellowed out an alarm.

What the devil? Did he think the Irish rebels had loaded up the gypsy cart like the Trojan Horse? But then, their commander had disappeared, and they'd fallen prey to attack more than once by the disgruntled populace. Within seconds the vehicle was surrounded by grim-faced men, weapons drawn, eyes hard.

"Come out o' there, whoever ye are, hands t' the sky," the private demanded.

Redmayne rolled his eyes heavenward as he made his way to exit the back of the caravan. "If I've come this far only to be shot by my own men, I'll be most put out," he grumbled.