Cates, Kimberly (28 page)

Instead, he turned his gaze into the distance, where the darkness lay thick and still. "Forgive me, Rhiannon. I am used to being alone," he said, his fingers tightening on the rough stone.

"I know." Sorrow touched her voice. "It must be difficult, being commander over so many men. You must feel so isolated sometimes, making all the decisions."

"I was alone long before I joined the army, my dear. I can never recall any other way for as long as I can remember."

"But your family.... you must have had someone—"

"My parents and sister died in a fire when I was five. My grandfather became my guardian."

"No wonder you were lonely. You were taken from a home that was bustling with your mama and papa and sister. Your grandfather's house would have been far quieter, the household of a lone old man. But I'm certain he tried to make provisions for you, brought neighboring boys to play. Or the servants' children must have been about."

"No. Grandfather abhorred distractions."

"Distractions?"

"Anything that kept me from concentrating on my lessons. Other children, playthings, even books read just for pleasure. He claimed they were a waste of precious time."

"But—but that is absurd! A boy needs someone to laugh with, play at knights and dragons. Surely he couldn't have—"

"I'm afraid he was adamant. You see, my intellect was a thing of endless fascination for him. The chance to shape it offered an irresistible challenge to the old man. I was to be his masterpiece."

"You make it sound so cold. But he wanted to teach you, to share all he had learned. Perhaps he saw that as the greatest gift he could bestow. Maybe it was his way of showing you that he loved you very much in his own way."

No. There had been no love involved, no sharing. Merely the cold calculations as to how much information he could cram into a boy's head before it burst. A chilling experiment to forge a human mind into the most subtle and lethal of weapons to be wielded at Paxton Redmayne's command.

Redmayne started to speak, then stopped himself. Had he lost his wits sometime during that waltz? He'd only wanted to explain to her that he was accustomed to being alone. That it was no flaw in her that drove him away. He hadn't meant to start babbling about things he'd never spoken of before to another soul.

"Do you see your grandfather often?" Rhiannon asked after a long moment.

"No. Grandfather had a great dislike for surprises. When I grew up, I... surprised him." Redmayne's mouth curved in a grim smile.

"How?"

"I did not choose the future he had planned for me."

"Not so unusual a sin! Boys and fathers have battled over such differences of opinion since the beginning of time!" She leaped to champion the mutinous youth that he had been. Redmayne explored the odd sensation—someone ready to fight in his defense. It was strange and yet soul-warming, bittersweet after all these years. What might it have meant to him an eternity ago, before he'd ridden away from Rawmarsh, his grandfather's estate, alone? His smile softened as she continued. "After a good deal of stubbornness and great shows of suffering, the two sides usually take a deep breath and mend the rift."

"Perhaps. Or they attempt to forget the other ever existed."

How cold had the words sounded? She looked as if they'd hurt her. "Oh, Lion! That's tragic. Stubborn, clinging to pride, when a simple word of forgiveness would likely unsnarl everything."

"Isn't that just like you, Rhiannon? Certain that with a wave of your hand the ugliest wound should be healed. Some things aren't destined to heal. Other things shouldn't be."

"I don't believe that," she asserted, her chin tipping up. He wished he could kiss her. Turn her mouth up to his and drown in the taste of her, driving back the unsettling thoughts of the life he thought he'd buried long ago. He wished he could believe in Rhiannon's world, where even broken things were cherished, where everyone was worthy of love and needed only to reach out for it. But he'd learned different lessons at his grandfather's knee, lessons he would never forget.

"Lion, perhaps you should try to heal the breach. Your grandfather must be very old. One day you'll awaken and it will be too late. I couldn't bear the thought of you carrying that burden of regret."

Redmayne peered down at her, aching. When had he fallen prey to this desperate need to protect her, shield her? He who had never turned away from ugliness or attempted to evade the truth? Rhiannon, so utterly honest. What would she think if he told her how he'd spent his last night in Rawmarsh? Gripping his fencing foil through the night, imagining his grandfather's eyes widening in surprise, his blood staining the bright blade?

Shouldn't a blood price have been paid, not for the destruction of Lionel's own childhood but rather for the life of the only man who had dared show Lionel a world beyond that brittle cage his grandfather had built around him? Antonio Tidei, the Italian sword master who had taught Lionel for years every secret of the blade. He'd regaled a lonely boy with countless tales of battles fought and won, of a world of adventure far from the tomblike halls of Rawmarsh. Then Tidei had made a fatal error.

He'd dared to suggest that Lionel would make a fine soldier, thereby opening the door to Lionel's prison—and fastening the lid on his own tomb. His was not the quick, merciful death due a man of such incomparable grace and courage. No. The slow, torturous death, not of his body but of something far more valuable to Antonio Tidei: his honor.

Lion winced. What could an honorable man of Tidei's mettle have known of the forces Paxton Redmayne could unleash? Brilliantly forged letters that had made Tidei's hot-tempered best friend believe the sword master was having an affair with his wife—a deception that had destroyed both marriages. The challenge to a duel Tidei refused to fight, and the inevitable label—"coward"—that would shame Antonio Tidei forever.

By the time Lionel had learned of his grandfather's plotting, it had been too late to help the sword master. Only one means of vengeance lay in his grasp— to turn his back on his grandfather, on business interests as vast as any caesar's empire, to leave Paxton Redmayne's theories untested and his dreams unfulfilled, to become the soldier Antonio had been so certain he could be, and to use against Paxton Redmayne the very tools the old man had forced into Lionel's hands.

"Lionel?"

He started, the dark memories swirling away, leaving behind only the faint sickness in his gut, the al- most indiscernible sheen of sweat across his upper lip. No, damn it, he wouldn't remember. Wouldn't think about things he'd taken care to bury long ago. He had determined years ago that he wouldn't give his grandfather that power over him. He'd reduce it to a game, cold, calculated, detached from all that had been.

He looked down into Rhiannon's face, knowing with sudden, stark clarity that he'd brought her out here to kiss her. Knowing that chance had slipped through his fingers, as sullied as the night was now by his grandfather's shadow. The old bastard had managed a brilliant countermove without ever touching so much as a pawn.

"Go inside, Rhiannon," Lionel murmured.

"What? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I've stayed too long." Long enough for the ghosts to catch up to him. But then, hadn't Knatchbull brought those shades with him? Hauntings trailing in his wake, despite his effort to give warning.

"Your grandfather is traveling to Ireland," Knatchbull had said, "another of his business schemes..." Ah, but no one knew better than Lionel that Paxton Redmayne's business was rarely what it seemed.

"Did I offend you?" Rhiannon asked. "I didn't mean to pry. It's just that, after losing my papa, I know how precious family is. Any family, regardless of mistakes they've made or you've made yourself."

He closed his eyes, the image there as vivid as ever—flowing white hair surrounding a face as white as death, a hawklike nose, a predatory, fiendishly patient mouth, only the eyes burning with life, too hot, too intense, as if the mere touch of that gaze should burn. And hidden behind that gaze? A labyrinth of cunning plotting, the mind of a hellish puppet master, making all those around him dance upon invisible strings.

"I seem to have made one mistake. That's certain," he growled under his breath.

Yes. He should have killed the old man when he'd been so tempted years ago. Before he'd ridden off to the army. If he had, Rhiannon would still be dragging lame animals into Primrose Cottage. Her father might be waiting there, alive, to help her bandage them. She'd still be dancing, or perhaps stealing out onto garden paths to kiss men who were at least half worthy of her.

But if he'd struck with his sword that night, he never would have met her. Rhiannon... fairy healer, sunshine pouring through her soul.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he stared down into her face, memorizing every soft curve and sweet tint. For an instant, just an instant, he was villain enough to be glad he'd stayed his hand and let his grandfather live, despite all Rhiannon had lost.

For the one pure moment in Lionel's life had been the moment when he opened his eyes in a gypsy caravan on a deserted Irish hill to find an angel gazing down at him, fairy magic in her eyes.

Feeling the parting like a physical pain, he turned, walked away, off into the solitary darkness where he belonged, leaving her behind, haloed in the glow of the light.

He wondered if she guessed, his fairy-kissed angel, that he'd carried the one thing he feared most with him. Ghosts awakened by the mere mention of his grandfather's name.

CHAPTER 15

Music was still casting its sweet spell, laughter echoing through the makeshift ballroom, but all the luster of this enchanted night seemed to have faded the instant Lion strode down the portico stairs and off into the darkness.

Rhiannon had done her best to keep a smile pasted firmly to her face, passing the endless hours with determined cheerfulness so that no one else at the party might suspect that her heart had been carried away by the tall, lean captain with such enigmatic pain in his eyes. But when she could bear the endless chatter no more, she'd made her excuses and let Kenneth Barton escort her back to the quarters she shared with Lion.

For once, the aide-de-camp was blessedly willing to let silence reign. And as they made their way slowly through the quiet camp, Rhiannon finally allowed herself to take out the memory of this strange, beautiful, infinitely sad night and try to make some sense of it.

What had gone awry? True, Lion had stalked into the chamber with all the good grace of a mutinous schoolboy, forced not only to attend a despised party but also to dance with a loathed neighbor girl. Not that anyone else in the entire garrison would ever have guessed Lion's mood. Only she had known, as she had come to know so often of late, his solitary heartache, his secret fears, his yearnings, all the more heartbreaking because he kept them in silence.

God above, what lay beneath that cool smile? That icy control? A sea of anger and pain and self-doubt so powerful that this man—so courageous, so brave— lived in abject terror as to what would happen if the dams he had built ever shattered, allowing his emotions to tear free.

And if there was some way to help open that gate, to let free whatever poison tortured him, would it be a kindness? Or the most careless cruelty imaginable? Some kinds of pain were too great for anyone to bear. Sometimes that pain was instinctively locked away with savage determination, the only way to keep from drowning in it.

But wasn't Lion drowning now? Sinking beneath the surface with such stoicism she couldn't bear it, as if he believed that he was unworthy of help, that no one would reach out to him.

Whenever Lionel spoke of his grandfather, Rhiannon sensed his inner agony. Guilt because he'd disappointed the old man? Resentment of past wrongs? No, so much more. Things that he would never risk telling her.

"Miss Fitzgerald? We're here. At the captain's quarters." Barton's voice startled her, and she was embarrassed to find that she was still standing before the door.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Barton. I must have been woolgathering."

"About the captain?"

For an instant, Rhiannon drew into herself, not wanting to betray that very private man who had trusted her at least a little, completely against his will.

"Miss, I know I've got no call to be telling you anything about him. He's to be your husband, after all. It's just... sometimes I know he can seem terrible hard, like ice, as if nothing can ever hurt him. I can't help thinking he's like that because things hurt him far too much."

The young man's insights made Rhiannon's throat tighten. "Oh, Sergeant, I—"

"Whatever is amiss between you, I've seen the way the captain looks at you. As if he's
really
—really
seeing
someone for the very first time. You've got a warmth about you, a kind of loving way no one can mistake. Please help him, miss, I beg you. He's a better man than he will ever know."

Impulsively she reached out, caught Barton's hand. "You're very wise. And I know how Lion hurt you, believing that you plotted to kill him."

Barton gave a laugh laced with insight and pain. "It was just an excuse, miss, to push me away. See, I cared for him, and that was the one thing he couldn't understand. He hoped that if he shoved hard enough I would hate him."

"But you don't?"

"How could I, miss? When the one Captain Redmayne hurts far worse is always himself?"

Rhiannon stretched up on tiptoe and kissed the boy's cheek. "Thank you."

"For seeing you home?" he asked, startled, pleased, and embarrassed at the same time. "It was no trouble at all! Why, a dozen men would've been happy to cross swords with me for the privilege."

"No. For caring about him. I—I love him, you see."

She'd never even admitted it to herself, a truth so vast it should have been terrifying. Instead, it brought her a sense of peace. She loved him, would always love him. Even if he never let her in his heart, he would feel her love. He would know, and that knowledge had to ease at least a measure of his pain, even if he was alone.