Cates, Kimberly (23 page)

Doubtless Rhiannon would be delighted with the news, if ever he went mad enough to tell her what he was experiencing. But tonight he would have preferred to deal with matters in his accustomed way, to be without any feelings at all. At least during the interview that lay before him.

He had to question Kenneth Barton.

Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Rhiannon's caravan had lumbered into the garrison. Redmayne had taken care of whatever pressing military business had to be transacted. God help any man who claimed Lion had done so in an attempt to avoid the upcoming confrontation.

No, Redmayne assured himself. He'd merely been gathering his wits, planning the tactics he would use to get the boy to spill any information he might have. An unnecessary effort, Rhiannon would insist. No doubt she believed Barton would work himself to death attempting to aid Redmayne, were he but asked.

"That boy could no more assassinate you than I could," she had said, fierce protectiveness shining in every line of her earnest face. For whom? Redmayne or the earnest youth she had befriended? He felt an odd jab that couldn't possibly be jealousy. Not even an hour had she spent in Kenneth Barton's company, but Rhiannon was damned certain she knew the young man's heart. The way she believed she knew Redmayne's own?

Self-disgust poured through him. God forbid she should ever truly get a glimpse of the cold, dead place in his chest where a heart was supposed to be. Even a fairy-born healer would have to turn away from him, revolted, despairing.

Damnation, what the devil ailed him? Redmayne jammed his fingers through his hair in disgust. He had a job to do—question the young soldier who was his only link to the men who had ambushed him at Ballyaroon.

The task should be simple enough. In his years in the military, he'd become nigh legendary for his ability to pry secrets from the most determined rebels' souls. He'd always discovered just the right leverage, but here, when his own life might well hang in the balance, what was he doing? Nursing something appallingly akin to feelings of betrayal, and imagining the reactions of a woman to whom the concept of logic was as foreign as fairy tales were to him.

Redmayne had to admit his grandfather had been right about one thing. Emotions
were
a curse. In thirty-six years, Redmayne had been burdened with precious few emotions. Once events were over, he turned his back on them, buried them, walked away.

But part of him very much feared he would carry shadows of two recent memories long into the future. The self-loathing he'd felt watching Rhiannon's dreams shatter when he told her his seduction had been nothing but a ruse to bend her to his will. That and the terrible sinking in his stomach when he realized Kenneth Barton stood outside Rhiannon's caravan with the two men who had probably ambushed him at Ballyaroon.

He paced to the window, arms crossed over his chest as if... what? he thought in self-mockery. As if he could block any more surprise attacks on his peace of mind?

No possibility of that. At least not in the near future. He glimpsed a familiar figure striding toward his headquarters, defiance and wounded pride in every step. Barton, either already feeling ill-used or preparing to give the performance of his life. Was it possible that a person Redmayne thought of as a guileless boy had the skill of a desperate actor, realizing that he must get into character before striding upon the stage?

Redmayne scanned the room, choosing a chair beside the fire rather than entrenching himself behind the intimidating breadth of his own desk. Harsh tactics would achieve nothing with a man like Barton, except to make his wounded pride harden into something about as permeable as a wall of solid marble.

Carefully, Redmayne curled his fingers about the padded arms of the chair, as if he were no more concerned with this meeting than with those he and his former aide-de-camp had participated in a hundred times before.

But this time
was
different, damn it all.

Within moments Barton was knocking at the door, entering at Redmayne's command. With a salute, the aide stood at grim attention, his jaw raised in the stubborn angle of a schoolboy, wrongly accused, who would sooner take a caning than admit how hurt he was by the injustice.

For an instant, Redmayne recalled Rhiannon's plea on Barton's behalf. Then he shoved it away. "I assume you've been expecting my summons, Barton."

Eyes far too tempestuous for comfort locked on Redmayne's, something distressingly like a tremor managing to work its way through Barton's voice. "I expected you to send for me long ago. Would have welcomed it."

The youth's words nudged a raw place in Redmayne, that secret place where he wondered if he truly
had
been avoiding Barton because he dreaded the boy's answers. Damned if he'd let anyone, especially the aide-de-camp, suspect his own self-doubt.

"Ah." Redmayne pretended to stifle a yawn. "Other affairs had to be put in order before I could tend to this matter between us. A garrison must operate smoothly, even if its commanding officer has been shot by cowards who dared not face him like men." He turned the full force of his piercing gaze on Barton.

A choked sound came from the young soldier's chest. "You cannot possibly— I don't believe you truly think that I—"

"Attempted to kill me? Even you must admit that the evidence is rather damning. Perhaps you would explain how you came to be in that particular stretch of Irish wilderness with those particular men."

"When you disappeared, I was mad enough to think I might be able to find you. After all the time I've served you, I might know your ways while others..."

Barton's gaze faltered—the first sign he was hiding something.

"While others what?" Redmayne probed, never taking his eyes off the young man's face. He could feel the dread invading his own body, one breath at a time. He couldn't keep his shoulders from tensing beneath the immaculate fabric of his uniform jacket. "Just say it, Barton, whatever it is," he urged, wanting this over with. "I've been shot, endured the indignity of jouncing across the countryside in a gypsy caravan. Not to mention the fact that your own future hangs rather precariously in the balance. I beg you, have no concern about offending my sensibilities."

"Others might not—not trouble themselves to look terribly hard," the youth burst out, his face washing red.

Redmayne chuckled. "You think this lack of devotion should wound me to the quick? I assure you, it concerns me not so much as
this."
He snapped his fingers, the crack seeming like a pistol shot in the room. "Your... er, devotion, however, does nothing to explain either how you happened to be searching in the area where I was ambushed, nor what you were doing with two men not of this garrison. Men who would claim they have good reason to wish me in my grave."

Redmayne was appalled to find some part of him was actually waiting—no,
hoping
—for an explanation. Something to wipe away the ugliness, the suspicion that now tainted three years' worth of Barton's awkward smiles, his clumsy antics, his occasional embarrassing displays of something almost like affection. Only a fool would search for innocence where the stench of guilt was so thick.

He stiffened, resolving to waste no more time and instead to push harder. "I haven't been an easy master. I'm certain there are plenty of men here in Galway who wouldn't blame you for acting against me. Did you plot with those men, Barton? Perhaps take a bribe?"

"No!" Aghast, Barton stared at him with such a betrayed expression that a person would think the aide had been shot in Redmayne's place.

"Then explain how you became entangled in this muddle. It should be simple enough."

Barton's hands clenched into fists, the hard knots of fingers shaking against his pant legs. His eyes glistened, overbright. "Before you turned up missing I was taking your uniform jacket to mend. The letter fell out of your pocket. I caught a glimpse of it. Didn't read it all, just... saw something about Ballyaroon."

Redmayne fought to keep the blood from draining out of his cheeks, horrified at his own carelessness. He'd thought the missive had never been off his person. But there had been a short time, when he'd draped his jacket over the back of a chair in order to shave.

Was it possible that he had been so lost in thought, trying to guess who the missive was from, that he'd been distracted? Hadn't noticed Barton's fumblings? No, there was still too much that didn't make sense.

"Do you make a habit of prying into my correspondence?" he demanded, low, dangerous.

"No, but you seemed so strange after you'd read it. I was worried." He flushed. "I felt so guilty about reading the missive, I turned right around and put the jacket back where it had been."

So that was why he'd never missed it, Redmayne thought. "My correspondence rifled and my jacket left unmended. Really, Barton, such a shoddy job in attending to your duties is quite unforgivable."

The young man's chin bumped up a notch. "Perhaps so, sir, but I'm glad I read the letter, no matter what the consequences! At least when you turned up missing I was searching in the right place! If Miss Fitzgerald hadn't found you, I would have."

"And if you suspected I was near Ballyaroon, why didn't you call out half a brigade to comb the hills thereabouts, searching for me?"

"Because you're such a private man. I had already trespassed on your privacy. If there
was
something amiss of a personal nature, I didn't want to betray you. So I went out and searched myself."

Redmayne's jaw clenched. Did Barton understand him so well? The thought was terrifying. "You searched with such energy you were magically transformed into three men? Quite a trick, Sergeant."

"Lieutenant Williams had parties of men searching everywhere. He'd even called in some soldiers from another garrison. When I ran across Sir Thorne and the Irishman, I made an inquiry about you. They told me they, too, were searching. It only made sense to pool our resources. The object was to find you."

"And Sir Thorne and company were as eager to do so as you were, eh, Barton?"

"No. No one was as anxious to find you as I was, sir."

Redmayne knew that another man would be touched by the catch in Barton's voice.

"When you failed to find me, you and Sir Thorne simply parted ways?"

"No. I—I misliked Sir Thorne after a while. There was something... when he encountered your lady... I realized I'd been foolish to charge off on my own. I left the two men and came here to the garrison, intending to confess to Lieutenant Williams about the letter, your privacy be damned. I had seen bloodstains by the standing stones in Ballyaroon, and a button I was certain was from your uniform. But before I could raise another search party, you came rattling up in that gypsy cart."

"And robbed you of your role as my savior. How thoughtless of me." The words sounded cruel even to Redmayne's own ears. He was many things, ruthless among them, but never could he remember making a gratuitously cruel comment, especially to someone with such pitiful defenses as Kenneth Barton. What the devil had gotten into him?

Cowardice. Despite Barton's words, his earnest explanation, Redmayne didn't dare believe it was the truth. To believe would mean that the boy had been fool enough to care for a cold-hearted bastard not worth half of the anguish spent on him. To believe would mean Redmayne had wronged the youth in a way no apology could ever mend. It was far more comfortable to maintain this familiar suspicion of everyone's motives. It saved Redmayne from questioning his own too closely.

"When you left Thorne Carville and Seamus O'Leary, where were they headed?"

"To continue to search for you. But they went in the wrong direction. I made certain of it."

"You didn't know where I was, Barton. Considering that, the notion that you could've sent anyone in the wrong direction is questionable at best."

"I sent them in the only direction I was certain you
hadn't
gone. Planted some signs that you'd traveled that way."

"Because you didn't want them to find me? Steal your glory?"

"No. Because I couldn't shake this—this strange feeling—"

God save him, Redmayne thought, repressing a shudder. Not another person gifted with Rhiannon's intuition.

"It was the way Sir Thorne looked at the Gypsy camp. Something about his face. I think they meant to kill you."

Redmayne stared at Barton's face, probing, wishing for once that he did have the power so many claimed, that he could peer into the lad's head, sift through his darkest thoughts, his guiltiest secrets. See if the tale he'd just told was the truth.

But no man really had that power. Time alone would tell. Meanwhile, both he and Barton would be left with uncertainty gnawing inside them.

"Barton, listen to me. Tell the truth now, whatever it might be. I won't insult your intelligence by telling you all will be well. If you're involved in the attack upon me, you will be punished. But I'll do what I can to ease the penalty if you just tell me who is behind these attacks."

"Sir!"

"Think, Barton. It may mean the difference between being deported to the colonies and dying before a firing squad."

Could the boy's face get any whiter? He looked so infernally young all of a sudden.

"No one in his right mind would believe this story you've spun, Barton. Save yourself. Thorne hasn't the wit to concoct such a subtle plan. O'Leary hasn't the resources, nor have you. Give me the name of the person behind this treachery. Loyalty is for fools. I assure you he'll be happy enough to let you die if by doing so he can save his own skin."

"I told you the truth! I didn't betray you. I stumbled upon those other two men while I was searching. If I knew who lured you out to that place to be killed, I vow, I'd hunt him down. He'd answer to me!"

Why the devil did the lad's impassioned vow disturb Redmayne so? It was almost painful.... He held up one hand to stop the flow of Barton's words. "Enough. Such an exuberant defense on my behalf is in bad taste, considering the circumstances. I suppose there is only one thing to do." He laid one finger along his jaw, considering.