Briar Rose by Kimberly Cates
Rhiannon Fitzgerald never knew her true heritage—or if her talent for healing was bequeathed by fairy magic, as her father believed. The gentle lass who roamed the hills of Ireland knew only that she must help creatures in need. But her sweet, sheltered world was about to be shaken by an alarming discovery among the mysterious standing stones above the ruins of Ballyaroon. Lying at her feet was wounded Captain Lionel Redmayne, a steely British officer as feared by his own men as by his enemies. Their worlds could not be more different, but something lured these two solitary hearts to find solace in each other's mysterious ways.
With healing herbs and a soothing touch, Rhiannon set out to save Captain Redmayne. But she knew nothing of the risks ahead. In her care was a man who was harmed by a secret assailant; a man who could overwhelm her very soul with his hungry passions. Yet here, too, was the hero promised to her by destiny, whose love was locked in a past of secrets and pain, and in a heart to which she alone held the key...
A REMEDY FOR HURTING HEARTS
The muscles beneath her hand grew as taut as iron bands, Redmayne so still it was almost frightening. She glanced at his face, saw his eyes shut tight, a knotted muscle twitching in his jaw.
"Did I hurt you? Are you all right?"
"No, damn it. I'm not all right."
"What... what is wrong?"
"This." He growled, his hand sweeping up to delve into the damp tangle of her hair. He tugged her mouth down toward his. Her heart slammed against her ribs at the hot intent glimmering beneath his lashes. And Rhiannon wondered if she'd ever have the will to draw another breath as the sensual fullness of Redmayne's mouth closed over hers.
The contact jolted through her as if he'd infused her with the very essence of life—awakened her from a nursery world, all bright smiles and pretty stories, fistfuls of daisies and scuffed play slippers—and suddenly she'd awakened in a realm of legends and lovers, passions and promises.
She should have been shocked, for his was no tentative kiss. It gripped her in a fist of sensation, wild and wonderful and so unfamiliar she never wanted it to end.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Sonnet Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 1999 by Kim Ostrom Bush
Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-01495-1
Printed in the U.S.A.
To my niece Alyssa Bush, who "would rather read than anything." Thank you for doing me the great honor of dedicating your first book to me. You asked me to put your name in one of my own books. Here it is, sweetheart. This one is for you.
Much love, Aunt Kim
PROLOGUE
The pistol ball seared a lightning-hot bolt through flesh, the bitter tang of gunpowder burning in the air, but Captain Lionel Redmayne scarce felt it. Death— every reluctant soldier's lover—was coming to claim him at last on this barren, deserted stretch of Irish road.
Redmayne leveled his own pistol at shadowy attackers who melted into clumps of heather behind outcroppings of rock, seemingly from the mist itself. Three of them. Maybe four. Scenting his blood.
He could almost taste their victory. He'd have to make this shot count. It might be his last. Anyone familiar with a pistol knew as well as he did that it would take precious seconds for him to reload, seconds in which they could close in for the kill. And in the twenty minutes he'd managed to keep them at bay, these men had shown themselves practiced in every method of dealing death.
It was a miracle he'd held them off this long. If he could fight them blade to blade, he might stand some chance. But they had no interest in a fair fight when they'd ambushed him here in the ruins of Ballyaroon. They didn't want a battle. They wanted a corpse. His.
He objected, of course, though not out of any grand passion for life. He'd been barely six years old when he realized that dying was easy. It was living that was far harder. In his years in the army he had stared into the face of his own death so many times he'd come to dismiss it as a fleeting nuisance, like the faint buzzing of a bee too close to his ear. He just figured this would be a damned embarrassing way to die.
The infamous, terrifyingly omniscient Captain Lionel Redmayne cut down on a deserted stretch of Irish road because he'd been fool enough to travel without a cadre of guards in a land that would sooner have tea with the devil than with the English army. Not to mention the fact that he'd been too distracted by thoughts that tugged at him, troubled him, like importunate children no matter how resolutely he tried to shove them away.
He fired at a blur of movement, heard a cry of pain. At least he'd have company on his way to hell, he thought with some satisfaction, fighting to reload his pistol.
Who the devil were they? he wondered, struggling to jam another pistol ball down the barrel of his weapon. A man liked to know who was shooting at him.
Who hated him enough to hunt him down? Less capable officers he'd tramped over on his way to promotion; common folk caught in a vise between their well-being and his duty; those who feared him, hated him, or saw him as an impediment standing in their way. A grim smile twisted his lips. It would be far easier to sort out who didn't hate him.
Yes, there were plenty who wanted him dead—but there was a perilous step from desiring it to making it a reality. And a towering leap from a bullet or sword blade wielded in a fit of passion against an enemy, to the hiring of an assassin. There was something exceedingly cold-blooded in the knowledge that whoever was responsible for this attack might even now be holding polite conversation at a table glittering with crystal, or lounging in a bedchamber seducing some woman.
But it seemed his question would go unanswered.
Only one thing was certain: once this fight was over, there would be no one to mourn him. Lionel Redmayne would slip beneath the silvery surface of life, leaving not so much as a ripple of grief or loss in any other living soul.
It hadn't mattered a damn to him in fifteen years of campaigning. Why did the thought suddenly leave something hollow, aching in the pit of his stomach?
It was this infernal land where passions lay so thick it was impossible to breathe without sucking them in. It was the memory of one moonlit night when flame-red hair tumbled about a woman's flushed face as she danced for another man, love hot in her eyes. A pulsing ember of life so vivid that for the first time in Redmayne's life he couldn't crush it, even in the name of duty. Mary Fallon Delaney had made a glaring mockery of everything he'd believed about himself. Had made him question...
Another shot rang out, and he felt the ball tear through his thigh. His eyes swept the village ruins, suddenly glimpsing a ring of ancient stones half-toppled twenty-five yards distant. If he could reach it, he might be able to... to what? Escape was impossible, but the stones might provide enough shelter so that he could take yet another assassin with him when he died. That would be reward enough.
Redmayne grimaced, scrambled upward, his thigh burning, his head swimming with bitter irony. He'd come to Ireland determined to destroy relics of the past like this ring of stones... tear them apart and fling them into the sea. That way the infernal Irish could forget... the absurd kiss of magic, the tales of long faded glory, the past that was of no use to them. They would accept the future that was inevitable. He'd been so certain he understood the people of this place. He hadn't expected that he could be sucked into their special brand of madness.
His elbow slammed into a stone, pain jolting through him. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder with his good leg, one hand clamped tight over the wound in his other. He heard a shout, glimpsed the pale flash of a man's face. Near. Too near.
The stone ring swirled around him, dark, cool, unearthly, as he dragged himself into a crook between two stones. As if there were anyplace dark enough to conceal him!
Black haze tugged at him, drawing him deeper into cold, still waters. He heard vague shouts of confusion, but it didn't matter anymore. They would find him. And when they did... death.
Images swam beneath his half-closed lids. Papa... his father's battered doctor's bag, its shiny contents spilled out on a scarred table, useless at last. Fear clamping tight in his belly, the need to tuck his own small hand in Papa's strong one. But Papa's hands were busy holding on to the blue-veined ones of the old woman. "Reach out your hand, Mary," Papa had urged softly. "They're waiting for you... your mama, your papa, the babes you lost so long ago. Everyone you've ever loved.... They've come to lead you to heaven."
Sure, so sure Papa had been. Lionel had believed it too. Perhaps he still did. But it didn't matter. Couldn't matter for him.
Redmayne winced at the twisting pain somewhere deep inside him where no bullet could touch. No one would come from heaven to take his hand on this barren hill. Even his compassionate father would turn his back on the man his son had become.
Redmayne closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of quiet despair, waiting for the end. He was tired. So tired, the sharp edges of emotions bleeding, his very body seeming to fade away, a piece at a time. Soon there would be nothing left. But then, had he ever really been anything... anyone at all?
Redemption—the word flashed through the red haze of his pain, shimmered there, but he turned his face away. He'd be wiser to put his faith in fairies and magic, in destiny and fate, than to believe in forgiveness for a man like him. There would be no hand stretching down from heaven.
"To the devil, then," he muttered in a rasping breath, reaching into the swirl of mist. "Take me, if you dare."
CHAPTER 1
The fairies were whispering the faintest of warnings, which tingled along Rhiannon Fitzgerald's freckle-spattered cheeks and settled deep into her bones. She braced herself against the rocking of her rainbow-hued gypsy caravan and gripped the reins more tightly. Eyes the warm green-gold of a forest primeval searched the wild, rocky landscape swept clean of afternoon mist. The ghostly ruins that had once been the village of Ballyaroon kept unearthly watch over the quiet hills, standing stones with their well-kept secrets, just visible above the verdant green of the next rise.
"Don't let your imagination run wild, Rhiannon," she chided herself, dashing a wayward lock of cinnamon hair from her cheek. "There is nothing amiss. You're only reacting to this place. Echoes of old pain, old sorrows. They grow louder when you're alone." The thought should have offered more comfort.
After all, her reasoning might be valid enough. From the dawning of her first memory, Rhiannon had felt as if an invisible ribbon stitched into her breast bound her to the heartbeat buried deep in these timeless hills, a link carrying piercing sweetness, sorrowful yearning, a joy and a curse. Stark awareness of things seen and unseen beyond the drab veil of most people's reality—ghost-shadows of ages long vanished, silent cries of wounded woodland creatures, the fragrant magic of healing herbs white witches had gathered when the earth was new, and the irresistible pull of tides called destiny.
It was the gift of the fairy-born, her da had told anyone who would listen. Her mother's parting boon before she returned to the magical kingdom of Tir naN Og, leaving her mortal lover and her child behind.
There were times when Rhiannon wished most fervently her mother had seen fit to leave her something a little less troublesome—a pretty locket, perhaps, or a letter Rhiannon could read—precious words that might bring to life the woman she'd never known.
"The least she could have done was leave instructions on how to turn this—this 'gift' off once in a while so I can have some peace," Rhiannon complained to the soft-eyed vixen peering between the slats of an overturned basket beside her. But her vague attempt at humor fell flat. The unsettled feelings only intensified as she peered into that pointed little face, so wise yet so vulnerable beneath wisps of russet fur.
"Perhaps I'm just feeling strange because I'm going to miss you, mo chroi," she said, her throat tightening. A sense of pride and impending loss tugged at her as she shifted both reins to one hand and eased her finger into the basket to stroke a silky ear. "Your foot is all mended now. It's time to set you free."
Free. Far away from the foxhounds that had nearly killed her, or their rich masters, chasing after in a mad rush of wind and scarlet coats and blooded horses, delighting in the hunt.
She gazed at the rocky, wild terrain about her, deserted except for ghosts of rebellions past, a place far distant from any of the great houses that would host the blood sports. Not even the most intrepid fox-hunter would dare traverse such rugged land. Out here the little vixen would have a fighting chance to survive.
So just let her go here, now, and turn around, a voice inside Rhiannon whispered. Don't venture deeper into whatever disturbance is troubling you. What possible difference could a few more miles make? All the difference in the world. She could always feel when the place was right to release her creatures, sense it, a tingling in her chest. She'd been so certain the standing stones here above the ruins of Ballyaroon would be perfect, felt herself drawn toward them. Was she listening to warning whispers now, or had she merely discovered the handiest way to postpone releasing her little charge for as long as she could? The creature nibbled, delicate as a duchess, on her finger.
Rhiannon blinked back tears. Yes, that had to be what was troubling her. From the time she'd carried her first wounded bird home to be mended, she'd both loved and hated the day she released her charges back to the wild. But it had been different, back at Primrose Cottage. Papa had been there to drive her out to the small parkland surrounding their modest estate in his gig. Her cousins had scampered about, Orla's eyes round with wonder and excitement as she and Triona pilfered the picnic Cook had prepared. Warm gingerbread and sour lemonade to take away the bite of sadness Rhiannon felt when she let her creatures go.
Now there was only the wide, empty sky, the whickering of Socrates the dray horse, the bumbling of Milton the foxhound as he ran into anything in his path, and the self-satisfied purring of Captain Blood the one-eyed feline with a pirate's heart. The family that had delighted in those soft summer skies was long gone.
No, that wasn't true, Rhiannon thought. She could still feel their presence in the mist. Hear the echo of their laughter in the wind. Sometimes it was almost as if they touched her. Papa, stolen by the hungry waves of the sea. Mama, that beautiful misty woman who lived only in her imagination. But she could call back so many precious memories, finger them like polished stones. And she could visit Triona and her new husband, John, whenever the silence got too loud or the road too solitary.
Her mouth curved, a little wistful at the memory of Triona's pleas that she stay on at the MacKenna farm forever, the worry in her cousin's eyes warming Rhiannon's heart. "You shouldn't be alone out there with Uncle Kevin gone," Triona had said. "Something could happen. You could get hurt, grow sick, and no one might know until it was too late. And there are men— desperate men who might—"
"You know I don't have to be afraid, Triona," Rhiannon had replied. "The fairies look after their own."
Triona's brow had crinkled, troubled. "'Tis a lovely story, being fairy-born, Rhiannon, but... but you can't still believe it's true."
Taken by a mischievous streak, Rhiannon had stared at her cousin with wide-eyed innocence, protesting that she accepted her father's tale as gospel. And yet she'd realized long ago that, pretty as the story was, it was also the perfect way to ease the pain for a little girl whose mama had abandoned her and never looked back. And it had softened the. pain, at least a little, with glittering magical possibilities.
She had brushed aside Triona's concerns but held fast to the precious gift of love that lit her cousin's eyes. And she tried
hard never to forget how very lucky she was.
Besides, she knew something Triona couldn't understand. She was never really alone. She smiled, stroking the fox's ear one last time. "One thing I can be certain of, little one. Your basket will be filled before I know it. It won't be long before the fates will put another wounded creature in my path."
With wry humor, she turned her attention back to her driving, uncertain where she would find herself. Socrates was given to taking shameless advantage of his mistress's notorious lack of concentration, veering off course to munch any patch of likely-looking clover he could sniff out. Once she'd been roused from daydreams to find he'd followed a hay cart halfway to Dublin! But in an uncharacteristic burst of obedience, the beast had stayed on track, almost as if he, too, felt the tug of their destination.
She looked up in surprise. The shattered cottages of the village had fallen behind her, and the towering fingers of the standing stones reared up before her, so close she could see the ancient symbols carved into their gray surfaces, hear the echoes of bards' songs still tangled about them.
She'd always felt fascination when stumbling across the fairy forts and dolmens, the passage graves and crumbling castle ruins that dotted the land. But this time there was something different in the haunting melody of the wind, a pulsing rhythm more urgent.
She tried to grasp it, hoped to unravel its meaning, but suddenly Socrates dug his hooves into the turf, balking so abruptly he nearly overset Rhiannon. She clutched at the overturned basket, just managing to keep it from flying off the seat, the vixen darting about in alarm as pans hanging from the ceiling inside the caravan crashed against each other in a resounding cacophony of clangs.
"What in the name of heaven?" Rhiannon choked out, trying to calm the horse as he tossed his head, trying to shy sideways. The unease she'd done her best to explain away flooded back, more insistent than ever.
"Whist, now, Socrates, whist," she murmured in the special voice that had soothed countless wild things. The horse pricked his ears, stood still, but she could see the fine tremor skating beneath his disreputable gray hide.
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