Briar Rose

by Kimberly Cates

  "Be careful!" she warned. "You'll tear open your wounds!"

  "That might be redundant, since there is a more than middling chance that our visitors intend to create a few new ones. Do you have a knife? A fire poker? Anything I can take out there with me?"

  "Out there? You're not going out there!"

  "Miss Fitzgerald—"

  "If those men are the ones who were hunting you, the last thing we need is for you to go charging out, making an even better target of yourself. I'll go alone, try to distract them."

  Distract them? The woman was so honest she might as well have the truth emblazoned across her forehead: "He's hiding under the bed." It was his pride that made him resolute, not any particular concern for her safety. He'd leave that to heroic fools.

  He grabbed her arm so tight it might leave bruises on that lily-fair skin. "Forgive my obstinacy, but I have an aversion to hiding behind a woman's skirts. Superior officers tend to frown on it when it comes time to make promotions."

  She glared at him, and he was suddenly struck with the core of intelligence he'd not noticed before beneath the dreamy sheen of her eyes. "I'm certain they'd be as happy to shoot you through my skirts as not, Captain. You hardly think they'd allow any witnesses to live, do you? If I can manage to deflect them, it might save both our lives."

  Reasonable. It was so damned reasonable. Then why did it irritate him so thoroughly?

  "You can wait in here with the poker and smash it down on their heads if they come searching." She whispered fiercely. "You'll have a much better chance with the element of surprise."

  "Where the devil is the poker?"

  "I brought it back inside, put it in the corner the morning after we cauterized your wounds."

  Redmayne glimpsed the shaft of iron, remembering. It took all of his will to uncurl his fingers, let her go. For a man who, a day before, had suffered little but boredom at the prospect of his death, he was suddenly damned edgy. Doubtless because it was bad form to get even a little shatterbrain killed after she'd saved one's life.

  "If you get yourself shot, madam, I shall be most put out" He attempted to speak carelessly, but he couldn't keep the slight roughness out of his tone.

  She paused, one hand on the small door, and flashed him a tremulous smile, full of courage, leavened with a humor that pinched in his chest. "So, Captain Redmayne, will I."

  CHAPTER 5

  A glare of sunlight blinded Rhiannon for a moment as she slipped out of the caravan and shut the door behind her, trying desperately not to reveal the bubble of panic lodged beneath her breastbone. She blinked, attempting to clear her eyes, half afraid of what she'd see. Yet what would it matter? She doubted assassins wore identifying uniforms, after all. She'd have no idea whether she confronted friend or foe until... what? One of them leveled a pistol at her?

  Her surroundings swam into focus as she stumbled down the narrow steps to the ground, Milton's barking rattling her nerves. The hound was leaping wildly at the roots of a nearby tree, but he hadn't cornered the intruders there. Three men ambled past the dog, two of them in the uniforms of the British army, the other in the threadbare garb of a crofter.

  How on earth had they stumbled across the entrance to this hidden glen? In all the times Rhiannon and her father had taken shelter here, she'd never seen so much as a solitary soul, no hoofprints or remains of a campfire. It had seemed possible that papa's explanation was true—that only the fairy-born could enter into the sweet green haven. But there was nothing whimsical about those who tramped across the heather now, no mist of the otherworld about them. They were men like Captain Redmayne, firmly rooted in the present, hard-featured, keen eyed. Intruders in Rhiannon's world.

  "Milton!" she called, and the foxhound bounded toward the sound of her voice. She buried her fingers in the bristling fur at the scruff of his neck, trying to take comfort in that familiar warmth. But it was as if she could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in the animal, and in the wounded man whose every breath she seemed to sense beyond the bright-painted caravan door.

  "Top o' the mornin' to ye, me lovely," the bull ox of a crofter shoved a battered hat back from undeniably Irish features, giving her a mild smile. Rhiannon stiffened, struck by the oddity of it—an Irishman aiding two English troopers. Yet poverty had driven plenty of men and women to betray their own countrymen. A sick wife, a child crying with hunger, a meager room that might be torn down over their heads if rent wasn't paid—such was the price of many an Irish soul.

  "'Tis a terrible fierce watchdog ye have there." The Irishman chuckled.

  "He can bite well enough when I point him in the right direction," Rhiannon said. Milton, as if understanding her meaning, sent forth his most fervent growl. The effect would have been far more menacing if he'd managed to aim it at the intruders.

  She winced at the rising tide of masculine chuckles.

  "Yer beast needn't exert himself on our account," the Irishman said. "We mean ye no harm. I be Seam us O'Leary, o' the Carrickfergus O'Learys, hired t'guide these fine gintlemin through the hills."

  "I can't imagine what the 'fine gentlemen' could want in these hills. Since the destruction of Ballyaroon, there is nothing to be found here but stones and heather... and ghosts."

  "It may very well be a ghost we're seeking." The more imposing of the two soldiers stepped forward with an uneven gait. Rhiannon shivered, and she couldn't help wondering how many enemies he'd sent to the hereafter. He looked as if he might have ridden from the pages of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a medieval warrior astride a destrier. Military might screamed from every line in the man's body.

  Even the bones of his face seemed at war with the flesh that covered them. A lantern jaw thrust out beneath a hawkish nose, deep-set eyes overshadowed by a prominent shelf of brow. A dashing scar hooked along one cheekbone, disappearing into the coarse black hair at his temple. And a sizzling tension emanated from him, but try as she might, Rhiannon couldn't trace its source.

  "Permit me to introduce myself," he said in surprisingly cultivated accents. "Lieutenant Sir Thorne Carville, formerly of the Sixty-fifth Cornwall."

  "Sir Thorne."

  "Mr. O'Leary, Sergeant Barton, and I have been engaged in a most desperate operation these few days past. An officer of the king's army has gone missing."

  They were searching for Redmayne. They had to be. She should have felt a rush of relief, flung open the caravan door, and returned the enigmatic captain to his fellow officers. It was the only logical action. Except for the note she'd slipped from Redmayne's pocket and read while he was unconscious. The one that had claimed the traitor he sought could be found among his own men. She bit the inside of her lip, torn by indecision.

  "As you know, Miss...?"

  "Fitzgerald." Why did she feel as if she had given the man a piece of her soul? "Rhiannon Fitzgerald."

  "Miss Fitzgerald." The lieutenant swept her a theatrical bow. "This island can be most hazardous to the health of a lone English soldier. An astonishing number of accidents can befall those who stray too far from their garrison."

  "Perhaps it is the mist, Sir Thorne. People have become lost in it for ages past." She attempted to stall, praying that she'd get some sort of insight into Sir Thorne and his compatriots. "Or maybe the fairies stole your officer away. They've been taking mortals prisoner in Ireland since time began."

  Thorne's mouth hardened, his eyes narrowing, and in that instant Rhiannon caught a glimpse of what it might mean to have this man as an enemy. "I am a simple soldier, Miss Fitzgerald, given to far more practical answers to such mysteries. Your countrymen are an unruly lot, prone to acts of cowardice, cutting soldiers down with an assassin's blade, a sniper's bullet."

  Rhiannon instinctively straightened her spine. "People can become most unreasonable when their homes are pulled down over their heads." It wasn't the wisest thing she could have said under the circumstances, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. She couldn't help glancing again at the Iris
hman, wondering if one of those shattered cottages had induced him to serve as guide to the enemy. The man winced, then shuttered it away.

  As if suddenly aware of his tactical error, Sir Thorne twisted his lips into a grimace of a smile. "You are quite right, Miss Fitzgerald. I beg you to forgive my clumsiness. It is not a soldier's job to question his government's policies in a conquered land, be they fair or foul. We are trained to obey orders. That is all."

  That was true enough. And it had often disturbed Rhiannon when she heard hatred of the English poured out more freely than whiskey about hearth fires and crossroads. True, the English government had been brutal, ruthless, in its dealings with Ireland. But sprinkled among the seasoned soldiers who carried out their orders were fresh-faced country boys from Yorkshire and Kent, driven into the army by the same desperate need to survive as the impoverished Irish.

  Rhiannon had seen those English boys' eyes grow troubled, filled with regret as they followed their officers' commands. She'd sensed that the things they'd done and seen would haunt them. And as time passed, she'd seen them harden, shut down their emotions as they grew too painful to bear. Enemies, those boys and the Irish crofter's sons, and yet they were more alike than either of them knew.

  And men like Sir Thorne and Captain Redmayne were the ones who commanded them to fight each other. Rhiannon's stomach tightened with loathing.

  "Miss Fitzgerald." The man Sir Thorne had identified as Sergeant Barton stepped forward. "We are really quite desperate to find this officer. He is a most remarkable man and a brave one." The sergeant's boyish face grew so earnest that for an instant, Rhiannon considered spilling out the truth. Yet, as if of their own volition, her eyes flicked to the rugged features of Sir Thorne.

  "I... I don't think I can help you," she said. By the gates of Tir naN Og, had she lost her mind? Redmayne was just beyond the door, so gravely injured that it would be best if he saw a doctor. Who could predict whether or not he would spike a fever, the wound turn putrid? Her skills at healing might prove meager indeed if put to such a test.

  "Perhaps we could speak with your husband? He might have seen something you missed?" Sir Thorne took a step forward, eyeing the caravan door.

  "My..." Rhiannon leaned back until her shoulders were flat against the door. "I have no husband."

  Something ugly sparked in the lieutenant's eyes. "You are alone?"

  The words raked across her nerves. Fool. Stupid fool! To let such a man know she was utterly vulnerable.

  "Perhaps you would be kind enough to loan me some char-cloth to start a fire tonight. These hills are intolerably cold and damp." He paced another step forward. "Doubtless you have some inside your caravan."

  God in heaven, had she betrayed herself somehow? His intent was clear. He was going inside. Determination carved deep brackets at the corners of his smug mouth.

  She scrambled for something, anything that might hold the man at bay. "You can't go in there." She hated herself for the catch in her voice.

  Thorne's gaze sharpened. "Why, madam? Have you something to hide?"

  "Yes! I—I mean, no! But it's too..."

  "Too what?"

  At that instant her eyes caught sight of a tiny blemish on the sergeant's face. Relief flooded through her as she grasped at one thing that might actually turn this man away. A man unafraid of sword thrust or pistol ball, battle or a swift hero's death. Yet there were other kinds of death that could strike terror into even the staunchest soldier's heart.

  "You asked if I had a husband. I don't. But... I do have a brother."

  Thorne chuckled. "Ready to fight for the glory of Ireland, no doubt?"

  "Not now, he isn't. Perhaps not ever." It didn't even take any acting expertise to look worn and worried, as if she'd labored days over a sickbed. "He's ill."

  The Irishman took a step back; even the sergeant looked a trifle uneasy.

  "I won't disturb him for long," Sir Thorne said. "Barely a moment."

  "That will be long enough to put you in danger. You see, he has smallpox."

  All three men retreated a step. O'Leary crossed himself, the sergeant letting out a low curse. Even Sir Thorne blanched beneath his ruddy tan.

  "Smallpox?" the lieutenant echoed uncertainly, and Rhiannon knew she'd struck her mark.

  "He's a mass of bleeding pox. It's horrible, how disfigured his poor face is." She managed a choked sob. "Listen to me, being so absurd, worrying about his face, when he might well be dead before sunset." She looked almost hopeful. "Perhaps one of you would be willing to help me. It's so difficult to move poor Liam. You could lift him from the bed, and I could change the fouled sheets."

  Panic streaked across the men's faces, their fear almost comical. "No, madam. We—we need to get on about our own mission." O'Leary was already scrambling toward horses tied at the edge of the clearing.

  "But, gentlemen, surely—"

  The sergeant edged forward, white-faced. "I suppose I could—"

  "Barton, no!" Sir Thome gripped the man's elbow. "Most unfortunate. My sympathies, madam. But orders to follow. Must see to them." The lieutenant hobbled toward his mount, half dragging Barton with him. Even from that distance, Rhiannon could see sweat beading the man's upper lip.

  Her whole body trembled as they wheeled their mounts around, spurring them away. Her knees buckled, and she sank down onto one of the steps, wondering if her heart would ever stop racing.

  Looping her arms around Milton, she buried her face in the soft fur of his neck. How long it was she couldn't be certain before the caravan door gently nudged her back. She scooted aside so that Redmayne could swing the door open. She looked up to find the captain braced against the frame, one hand clutching the handle of the poker. He used it like a cane to take the weight off of his wounded leg. Even so, his face was ash pale with suppressed pain, his unfathomable ice-blue eyes surveying the direction in which the soldiers had gone. Yet something that almost smacked of amusement was playing about his white lips.

  "You astonish me, Miss Fitzgerald. A tidy bit of lying, that was. Of course I would have seen through it in a heartbeat."

  Damn the man for being amused at her expense! She'd probably just shaved ten years off her life, so heart-stopping had that experience been! "Please forgive me!" she snapped. "I haven't had much practice!"

  His eyes widened in surprise. "Have I offended you? A thousand pardons. Your performance did well enough for our visitors. I could hear bits of what went on—enough to be most impressed."

  Was the insufferable man attempting to poke barbs into her fraying nerves? "I was probably the biggest fool this side of Derry! You could be on your way back to your garrison, to a doctor's care. And I—" she didn't finish. She didn't have to.

  "You could have been rid of a most inconvenient guest," Redmayne added for her.

  Heat flooded Rhiannon's cheeks at what he'd almost goaded her into saying. "I didn't mean that! I just... I still don't know why I didn't tell them you were here. You'd be far safer with an armed guard."

  "More likely I would have been dead," Redmayne said quietly. "And so would you."

  Rhiannon started, staring at him with round eyes. "But... but two of them were soldiers. They spoke about how brave you were. They said the whole garrison is combing the area."

  Redmayne grimaced. "I see. It might have been interesting to ask the gentlemen exactly why, and what moved them to search hereabouts."

  "They were desperate to find you."

  "Rhiannon, when I rode out of the garrison, not a solitary soul knew where I was going. These men knew exactly where to hunt."

  A stark chill surged through Rhiannon's veins. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you're right! The only ones who could have known..."

  "They had to be involved in luring me out here to be ambushed."

  She swallowed hard. "Then those m-men... they intended to... to murder you?"

  "Not necessarily. They might be merely pawns sent here by whoever was responsibl
e for the attack. I suppose it's possible. But whether they intended to kill me themselves, or unwittingly lead me into the clutches of this elusive enemy of mine matters little. The result would have been the same. Another unsightly hole in my uniform. Most distressing after you worked so hard to mend it."

  "When I think of h-how close I came t-to telling them you were here..." Rhiannon pressed one hand against his chest, as if that soft shield could somehow prevent an assassin's bullet from finding its mark.

  But there was no scorn in the captain's eyes, only surprise at her touch, and the tiniest quirk of a smile of understanding. "You couldn't have known. Even so, you didn't tell them. You even managed to turn them away. You continually surprise me with new talents, Miss Fitzgerald."

  "Perhaps they left this time, but they're still out there. They'll still be searching. It's thirty miles to your garrison, along lonely deserted roads. Plenty of time to find you. And even if I do manage to get you back to your command in one piece, you'll still be in danger. Who's to say someone won't creep into your quarters in the middle of the night and—"

  "Don't let your imagination run wild, my dear. I rarely sleep. All those years of campaigning on battlefields."

  "But you have to close your eyes sometime! It would take but a heartbeat."

  Redmayne stared at her, those uncanny eyes probing with the greatest delicacy, one brow arched in surprise. "So much passion, Rhiannon Fitzgerald," he said softly. "Such righteous indignation. A veritable Galahad in petticoats, you seem."

  It should have been mockery. It wasn't.

  "May I tell you something?" For an instant he seemed as if he would touch her cheek, but at the last moment, he drew away. "It is dangerous to let yourself care so much. There are far more brutal ends than the swift piercing of a bullet. The piercing of the heart, for example, by hard reality. The death of innocence and tenderness is painful indeed. I would not have you take such a risk on my account."

  She swallowed hard, turned her face away. "I would care about any creature who was being hunted. And I would rather feel that pain than be dead inside."