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.
Give the boy enough space. If he was indeed guilty, he would bolt. That would be all the answer Redmayne would need. Strange thing was, now that he'd come up with the plan, he had a sudden urge to bind the man to his usual tasks—so close by that Redmayne could hardly move without tripping over him. Blast, wasn't this complex enough without Redmayne sabotaging his own efforts?
"What are you going to do, sir?" Barton asked stiffly.
"I shall wait and see if your story bears out," Redmayne said. "I'm certain that duties can be found for you somewhere in the camp."
Barton swallowed hard. "Captain, sir, please. You have to believe I'm telling the truth. I've tended you for almost three years. I thought we'd begun to—to trust."
"You were mistaken, Kenneth." Why on God's earth had he used the boy's Christian name for the first time? One would almost think it was to soften his words. "I was taught never to trust anyone."
The words must have seemed harsh to the aide, as if Redmayne was brushing him aside. Barton could never guess that he had just trusted him, with a truth Redmayne himself had only just come to understand.
Turning away, Redmayne dismissed the aide. He stood for a long time in the growing darkness, candles unlit, as he probed the inner wound he'd exposed, at least to himself.
I was taught never to trust, the words echoed through him. "Aye, Rhiannon," he whispered, the twilight filling with the glow of her eyes. "Nor was I taught to love. I just never knew I regretted it. Until now."
CHAPTER 13
Redmayne paced the confines of his office, cursing his chronic lack of concentration. Barely a week had passed since he'd been mad enough to consent to the dance. A week unlike any other he had ever known.
It would have been easy enough to blame his restlessness on his encounter with Barton or on the effort it had taken to regain control of his troops. There were questions regarding his attackers—more confusing than ever. But those were minor distractions compared to the real problem.
It was Rhiannon who had upset the balance of his existence. Fresh bouquets of meadow flowers crowded surfaces that had once been bare. Laughter and endless chatter broke up the crushing silences of his day. A glowing feminine face greeted him across the dinner table each night—at least those nights when he couldn't think up an excuse to avoid her. Rosy lips curved in welcome, eager to tell him about the goings-on of her day and equally anxious to hear how he'd spent his.
Even late at night, when he dragged himself into his own quarters, he couldn't escape the evidence of her presence—his coverlets turned down, a fire blazing merrily, a tray waiting, with slices of cake or warm shortbread, little sandwiches stuffed with roast beef, and tea brewed, miraculously, to perfection, no matter what the time. As if she'd been waiting just for him. And on days that had been particularly grueling, there, on the tray, Rhiannon's precious chipped cup, as intimate as a kiss good night.
It was astonishing, terrifying, the expectancy he was beginning to feel, almost as if he needed the things she offered without his ever asking. And it made him fight ever harder to appear unaffected— he would stay later at a meeting over cartwheels or supplies, avoiding her as long as he could resist the pull of her smile.
Perhaps the woman really was fairy-born. What else could explain the strange spell she'd cast over the garrison and its inscrutable commander. She'd been among them precious little time, yet already he'd wager half the members of the regiment would gladly lay down their lives for the woman with her heart in her eyes, be she Irish or no.
And because he'd brought her here, even he would never be viewed in quite the same way again. He'd been hated, feared, dreaded, grudgingly respected. But Redmayne suddenly realized that never in his life had he been envied—until now.
It was an odd sensation, as if the mere assumption of the other soldiers that he too loved Rhiannon and that, even more astonishing to the men, she loved him—had forged some sort of bond between the stern captain and his men. Occasionally he even caught the most rash among them smiling in his direction!
Of course, the betrothal was simply a ruse. The men had been duped, if they had but the intelligence to realize it. The love story was all in their imagination. A captain with a heart of ice and an Irishwoman with all the warmth of summer in her eyes—the mere thought of such a union was absurd!
&nbs
p; Besides, there should be far more pressing matters for the troops to attend to—stamping out the ubiquitous sparks of rebellion that were forever flaring on this island, for example, or ferreting out the assassins who still lay hidden in the dark. And yet, despite his frustration, Redmayne couldn't blame the men for being enchanted.
She was like a breath of fresh air sweeping the length and breadth of the camp. Lonely men, who hated the oppression they stood for, marooned among a hostile populous, were exceedingly vulnerable to a woman's smile—not the camp follower's brittle come-hither grins, followed by bargains struck and a mockery of love in exchange for coin, but rather the smiles their mothers or sisters or sweethearts might have bestowed on them, filled with warmth and understanding and compassion.
Every man from the lowliest private to the highest in rank craved her attention, whether they would admit it or not. But Rhiannon, forever predictable, was kindest to the shy and the uncertain, the homesick and the injured, the men with troubled faces, who did their duty but hated everything the army sanctioned in Ireland.
He supposed he should be relieved at her popularity from a practical point of view. The men had kept her occupied while he tended to more important matters, but the entire situation had made him edgy, and nothing would please him more than to have the infernal ball over with, the assassins behind bars, and Rhiannon packed up and sent off...
Sent off where? That question constantly gnawed at him. Could he send her off alone again in her wagon, with her horse and her dog and cat and whatever injured creature she happened to stumble across? Humming where no one could hear her. Smiling where no one could see.
It had been difficult enough picturing her continuing in such a life before he'd seen her here. He'd managed to convince himself she enjoyed solitude, as he did. But the woman fairly thrived on the bustle of the camp, the countless hopes and dreams, secret woes and joys of the soldiers. The camp surgeon was ready to canonize her for sainthood. And Lieutenant Williams gazed at her with such sorrow in those spaniel-brown eyes, as if he pictured a cold, miserable future for her, with the icy Captain Redmayne.
Briar Rose Page 18