Cates, Kimberly (33 page)

Knatchbull, awkward as ever, limped in, his arms full of leather portfolios, obviously stuffed with papers. "Captain." He gave a quick bow, then shut the door. "I came as quickly as I could. Everything is in order—Miss Fitzgerald is made your sole heir."

Redmayne's shoulders sagged a little. That much at least was done. Even if his enemies managed to kill him, Rhiannon's future, at least, was secure. "Thank you, Knatchbull. You are, as ever, efficient. One of your most valuable qualities."

"Sir, there is more." The man hesitated. "I've made inquiries, as you requested, regarding Sir Thorne and the Irishman you suspected of plotting against you."

"And what did you discover?"

Knatchbull's misshapen face fell into miserable lines. "They are both dead."

Lion's blood froze. He stilled a long moment, until he could steady his voice. "How?"

"Thorne drank himself to death one night, raving about you the whole time. The Irishman was trampled by a carriage—one whose driver didn't bother to stop."

"Unremarkable deaths, totally believable accidents, considering their personalities, I suppose. Though strange, so close together."

Knatchbull shifted, obviously damned uncomfortable. "My thought exactly. Something doesn't feel right about it. What about that other boy—Barton, was it? No accident has befallen him, has it?"

Redmayne turned away, rising to pour two snifters of brandy. Why the devil should Knatchbull's query about the boy give him such an infernal twinge? Barton had always bounced about like Rhiannon's accursed pup, eager and bright-eyed. Yet sometime during the past weeks the youth had changed. The incessant chatter had stilled, and Barton had grown edgy, intent, as if waiting for something to happen. Dark shadows smudged cheeks that were once as rosy as any girl's, and his eyes were lost in violet hollows that haunted Redmayne late at night.

A guilty secret? Dark dread? What was the boy afraid for? His life? Had he heard about the fate of his fellow conspirators, and did he now fear that a similar accident waited somewhere for him?

But Rhiannon was so certain of Barton's goodness. She'd defended the boy with such fierce passion that Redmayne, cynical as he was, almost believed, or wanted to believe, what? That Barton was everything he had always seemed? Yet how could Redmayne deny the evidence he saw now with his own eyes, especially when such absurd denial might put Rhiannon in danger?

"Captain, I—I'm sorry to bring such bad news." Knatchbull's voice intruded on Redmayne's grim thoughts.

He turned, snifters in hand, and gave a stiff laugh. "My dear Knatchbull, you know me well enough to be certain I don't believe in killing the messenger. Such a waste, that. And an appalling habit of cutting off one's sources of the most useful information."

Knatchbull's wise eyes clouded with something distressingly like sympathy. "You jest, but I know how disturbing this news must be to you. Have you uncovered any other clues that might lead you to whoever is responsible for all this?"

"No. One of the risks of making so many enemies over the years, I'm afraid. One hardly knows where to begin." The humor faded from his voice. He offered one glass to Knatchbull, then set the other wearily on the edge of his desk. "I wouldn't even mind so much, if I could just be certain my enemy wouldn't grow untidy in his quest for revenge. It's likely that I deserve whatever contempt he holds me in. However, it would be unfortunate if my nemesis should, say, wound some completely innocent person who just happens to be in his way."

"You're speaking about Miss Fitzgerald."

Cold stones seemed to sink in Redmayne's belly, raw horror at what he'd so carelessly betrayed. His worst vulnerability. His most closely guarded secret: love for a woman.

"I've merely been afflicted with a sudden aversion to other people paying for my sins. Perhaps there is hope for my redemption after all."

"Say what you will, my friend, but I know the truth. You are afraid for her. You should be. Someone stirred up the hatred in Sir Thorne and in that Irishman, enough to make them reckless. Not to mention the fact that whoever it was paid them both well. The family of the Irishman was paid enough to book passage on a ship bound for America. Sir Thome's creditors were no longer banging upon his door. Whoever attempted to kill you has limitless resources and is fatally thorough with anyone who's fool enough to fail him."

Redmayne closed his eyes a moment and saw his grandfather's face hazy in the darkness of his nightmares, white hair sweeping back from a brow broad with intelligence, eyes burning with intensity, ruth-lessness. And yet, his grandfather abhorred crude methods as much as Redmayne himself did. Assassins, especially of the caliber of Sir Thorne, were beneath Paxton Redmayne's dignity, were they not? No, he'd choose far more subtle ways—infiltrate those close to his enemy, use them against him with the calm efficiency Paxton Redmayne was legendary for.

"Forgive me, but you do intend to warn Sergeant Barton, don't you?" Knatchbull asked. Redmayne opened his eyes, staring into the tortured shape of the man's face, unease pulsing through his veins. Memories, far too clear, of his grandfather unnerved him. These two men were the kinds of "weapons" the old man would choose—Barton, with his gallumphing appearance of innocence, Knatchbull, who had built trust in business affairs, if little else.

"You've been hired to give me information, Knatchbull, not to question what I intend to do with it." The words sounded cold even to his own ears.

A wounded light sparked in Knatchbull's ages-old eyes. "Perhaps I don't have any right to comment, but this much I can tell you, it would hurt you more than you know if something happened to that boy."

"Not if he's involved in a plot to kill me. I'm afraid I lose all amiability when I'm nearly murdered."

"Do you really believe that Barton was involved?"

"He was there. Perhaps that is all I need to know. Now, unless you have more information, I would like to be alone."

"I hate leaving you like this. I don't—"

"Go. You needn't pretend that you are my confidant. We are business partners. That is all."

"Of course." Knatchbull's gaze sharpened. "The years we've worked together mean nothing. In fact, it's just as likely that I am in league with your enemies, isn't it? After all, no one is free from suspicion. Isn't that what Paxton Redmayne taught you?"

"Something to that affect. It's stood me in good stead all these years."

"Has it? It's kept you from living. You were dead inside, until that lovely girl refused to be frozen by your glares, refused to turn away from you."

"Thank you so much for your estimation of my character."

"I could tell you a hell of a lot more about yourself than you could ever know, if it would do a damn bit of good." Heaving a sigh, Knatchbull set the glass on the table. "If you've ever listened to me, do it this one time. Don't fool yourself into making a horrible mistake with Barton. Your grandfather has kept you from trusting anyone all these years. He still controls you, just as certainly as if you were still a boy locked up in his attic."

How the devil had Knatchbull known? Had the man been prying into Redmayne's past? Rage poured through him, hot and fierce, but before he could speak, Knatchbull turned and stalked out of the chamber, leaving Redmayne alone with the ghosts that had haunted him forever.

He paced to the window, glaring out at the slumped, loose-jointed figure making his way across the yard. Damn the man, weren't things bad enough without Knatchbull raking up all this nonsense? Was Barton the wronged one, the beleaguered—

Blast it! What kind of fool would trust someone who had been seen with two of his enemies, miles from anything except the site where he'd almost been murdered? Put not only himself at risk, but his lady...

His mind filled with images of Barton's worn features, hollow-eyed, every emotion raw. What could possibly have caused so tormented a look, save the ravages of guilt? Doubtless Rhiannon could come up with a dozen reasons—a broken heart, for example. But the boy hadn't strayed an inch off the garrison since Redmayne returned, so he could hardly be off plaguing some unfortunate girl with a bout of calf's love.

What the devil was the matter with him? Redmayne wondered. He'd made hard choices in the years of his command. Why was it that this one haunted him despite all logic? Because he'd come to care for the boy just a little, despite his efforts to remain aloof. And yet this time Barton would have to fend for himself. It was the only choice he could make. Wasn't it?

Unable to bear being closed in another moment, Lion got up, strode out into the sunshine. He was merely attempting to get things into perspective. It was only by chance that he came across Barton, more haggard than ever as he tended to his duties.

The lad glanced up, his eyes filling with something unreadable as he saw Redmayne's face. Pain? Loss? Dread?

"Captain, sir, is something amiss?" Barton straightened, his gaze sweeping out behind them, as if searching for something, someone. But what? Who?

"Why?" Redmayne asked softly. "Should there be?"

Barton's gaze flickered away, fastened on the ground. "I don't know, sir."

Redmayne should have walked away. He intended to. He took three steps; then something inside him made him stop, turn, fix a penetrating stare on Barton. "I just received word that two people of interest to you have died."

"Who?"

"Sir Thorne and that Irishman—what was his name?"

The boy's face washed ash gray. "Seamus O'Leary."

"Yes. O'Leary. He was struck by a carriage. While Sir Thorne finally drowned himself in drink, it seems." Redmayne wanted to sound careless, barely interested. Why the devil did his voice betray him, suddenly roughening around the edges. "Be careful, boy."

He cursed himself the instant the words were out of his mouth. Fool—damn fool!
"Never show weakness"
—his grandfather's maxim echoed through Redmayne's mind. For God's sake, Barton might yet prove to be his enemy! Shaken, uncertain, Redmayne spun on his heel and stalked away, hoping to hell he hadn't just made the worst mistake of his life.

"Men are impossible," Rhiannon muttered as she ran the brush down Socrates's flank, wishing she could as easily brush aside the thoughts troubling her. Nearly two weeks had passed since that glorious night when Lion had carried her to his bed, kissed her, touched her with such fevered need, let her peer deep into the most guarded reaches of his heart.

She should be elated, all but drunk with joy. For even though he'd never said the words, no man could show such tenderness unless he loved.

She blushed remembering how fiercely he was fighting to defend her honor, refusing to complete their lovemaking. Foolish man, didn't he know she cared little what the world beyond that bedchamber thought? How could anything so wonderful, so loving, ruin anyone? No, instead it would heal soul-deep wounds like the ones she had seen in Lion's eyes from the first day she'd found him among the standing stones above Ballyaroon.

Yet as the days passed there was no sign of peace in Lion's face. He worked like a man possessed, a new fever in his eyes. To make it more torturous, he'd barely touched her, stealing only kisses chaste enough to be exchanged before a bevy of nuns.

It was frustrating, infuriating, disappointing, and she sensed it caused him even more misery than it did her.

"I want you so much," he had murmured in her ear, "but I can't have you until this is settled."

Until
what
was settled? This madness about whoever had stalked him at Ballyaroon? The echoes of his past she barely understood? His own raw terror of loving, of trusting? She'd pleaded with him a dozen times, asking him to let her share whatever was troubling him. Offer him comfort, at least, in his bed. But he'd only shaken his head, touched her tenderly, then marched off into his unseen battle alone.

She sighed, then grew still at the sound of footsteps behind her. Barton. She would have been glad to see the youth—he'd been all but invisible the past week— except that he looked so changed. "Kenneth"—she used his Christian name without thinking, laying one hand on his arm—"are you ill?"

An odd smile curled one corner of his mouth. "No, miss, just—just a little tired, I'm thinking."

"Then you should rest. I'll speak to the captain about it."

"No!" He paled, his voice cracking. "You can't do that."

"Whyever not? If you're not ill now, you soon will be if you carry on as you have been. Is something troubling you? Please, let me help you."

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do, except me."

"I don't believe that."

Despair and determination warred in the youth's face. He looked away. "It's true. I just have to see this through—" He stopped, alarmed, as if he'd just realized what he'd said to her. Dark color stained his cheeks. "Forgive me for rambling. I need to see to the business that brought me here." He straightened his shoulders with heartbreaking courage. "There is a message just arrived for you at the captain's headquarters."

"But why? No one beyond the garrison knows I'm here. I can't think who would be sending me anything."

"It's an invitation to dine, I think."

"Whoever from?"

"A Mr. Paxton Redmayne, Esquire."

"Lion's grandfather? It must be," Rhiannon said, astounded. She hesitated, remembering Lion's mysterious nightmare, his bitterness toward the man who had raised him.

Barton flushed. "I meant to tell the captain first, but he's off with that Knatchbull fellow. The time is very specific, so I thought you might wish to send an answer as soon as possible. He is staying at Manion House, an estate about six miles from here. If you wish to go, I could see you there."

She fretted her bottom lip. Lion would object to her going to meet his grandfather. There could be no question about that. And yet the old man was his only living relative. If Lion were truly to heal, might not mending his relationship with this man hold the key?

"Thank you, I think I will." She placed the brush back in the bucket, and ran a hand across the top of Milton's sleek canine head. "Will you promise me one thing before we go? You will take better care of yourself, won't you, Kenneth? Once all this nonsense is settled, I'm certain things between you and the captain will be mended, and you'll be back to your regular duties as his aide."