"Necessity, boy. Fate. A runaway carriage crashed into a crowd of shoppers on a Paris street. Stephen Kane happened to be nearby. He raced through a hideous tangle of crazed horses, overturned carriages, injured people. He tended everything like a madman— efficiently, brilliantly."
Lion tried to grasp this image of a father he could scarce remember. A good man. A brave man. A decent man, so busy fighting to heal others that he'd ignored the danger to himself.
"Several of the victims would have died without his efforts. I was eternally grateful for their distress."
The strange comment yanked Lion back from the scene playing out in his imagination, the desperate groping for some picture of his father—the shade of his hair, the shape of his mouth. But all he could hear was the echo of that deep voice calling him "my little Lion."
"You were glad of their distress? Why? Were you conducting some sort of study?"
"No. The chaos gave me a chance to talk to you. Your father perched you high upon a stack of boxes to keep you safe. You were barely four years old, but you sat there so intent, watching everything. Your eyes were so hungry—frightened, yes, sickened by what you saw—and yet it was as if you were devouring everything with that voracious mind of yours. From the first moment I spoke to you, I knew that you were exactly what I had been searching for."
Lion's stomach turned at the image of the small boy perched on the edge of an abyss more dangerous than he could ever know, while his father, oblivious to the devil who had slipped into their lives, was fighting to save others. It was chilling, the thought that if his father had been just a half an hour earlier in his travels they never would have stumbled into Paxton Redmayne's sight. Things might have been so different. Something buried deep in Lion cried out, reaching for that life that had never been, that father he had known for far too short a time. Love he might have known even before he met his gypsy angel.
But much as he craved knowledge of the family lost in childhood shadows, he needed to find his lady, make certain she was safe.
"You've never seen fit to regale me with such family information before. I have little interest now."
"You have no curiosity about who your parents were or why they were in Paris?"
"Rhiannon is my concern."
"Ah, then you are more like your father than I would have guessed. It took me scarce three doctor's calls to discover that he was nigh out of his mind with worry about your sister, who was going blind, despite your father's best efforts.
"Ah, yes, the great healer was helpless," Paxton mocked with a laugh. "It was quite amusing. He'd cast his practice in Ireland to the winds, couldn't even speak French, but hoped a doctor he'd heard of, a specialist neck deep in research, could save what little was left of your sister's sight." The old man chuckled. "Yes, trust the Irish to be impractical. I should've guessed from the moment I knew Celtic blood ran in your veins that you would be impossible to govern."
"I take that as the highest compliment," Lion said, knowing it was true.
"Your father spent every shilling he possessed before he realized the French specialist was a charlatan whose research was an elaborate fraud. By that time the disease that was stealing your sister's sight threatened to take her life as well." A smug smile curved the old man's mouth. "I knew of another doctor, one who might offer him hope."
Lion's hands tightened into fists, imagining his father's helplessness, desperation. Paxton Redmayne prying through a well of soul-deep pain and grief and using that pain against him. "What did you do?"
"I offered him everything money could buy: life for his daughter, the possibility she might even be made to see again, and more coin than your father could earn in a lifetime. In exchange I asked that he sell me only one thing: you."
Lion's stomach churned at the impossible choice Paxton Redmayne had offered. And at the horrific certainty that Lion's father had taken it. He must have, for Lion had ended up in Paxton Redmayne's hands. Then why did Lion suddenly find himself asking? "Did he do it? Sell me to you?"
"Your father? He wouldn't be reasonable, of course. No, you were his pride and joy, his little Lion." Paxton sneered at the endearment, the brief phrase that was all Lion remembered from the man who had tossed him high in his arms.
"Then how—"
"I took what he wouldn't give me."
Lion imagined countless scenarios—God knew, he'd seen the lengths his grandfather would go to to get his own way. "Then I have family out there somewhere?"
Paxton made a show of unfurling the ruffles at his cuff. "It would have been most untidy, leaving them alive to search for you. And they would have. They were the sort to turn the world upside down until their dying day. I merely hastened that day, to save myself the inconvenience."
"That day? You're talking in riddles!"
"I told you from the beginning your family died in a fire. I neglected to tell you that I paid someone to set it."
Redmayne's blood ran cold—for the death of the family he'd never had a chance to know, and for other, more immediate reasons. By thunder, why would the old man be babbling about such a thing? Confessing to murder? What possible motive could he have? Lion didn't dare think about it. He'd lose control of his hate, his fear.
"That was all a long time ago," he said. "I'm scarce going to be outraged regarding people I don't even remember, if that was your intent."
"No. I was merely reminiscing about the lesson it taught me, what I had to avoid the next time. The merest breath of parental love can taint a child forever."
Next time... The words unnerved him with all they hinted at. But he had to concentrate on finding Rhiannon, sweeping her off somewhere safe. There was no limit to the lengths his grandfather would go to.
"I haven't the time to bandy insults with you," Lion said. "I have duties that await me. Summon Rhiannon, and I won't intrude on your hospitality any longer."
Cunning shone beneath Paxton's lowered lashes. "Are you afraid for her, boy? You needn't be. She's in the tender care of your most trusted aide, Sergeant Barton." The old man caressed the words as tenderly as if he were testing the sharpness of a blade, watching in pleasure as a thin line of blood rose where it touched his skin. "Barton has proved to be a most useful young man time and again. I cannot thank you enough for your astuteness in making him your aide."
There could be only one meaning to that. Barton had been in league with his grandfather all this time. The youth had somehow been shackled into doing the accursed devil's will, and now Barton had escorted Rhiannon into the jaws of one of Paxton Redmayne's diabolical traps.
Lion fought rising panic and hardened his voice. "Where is she, old man? Tell me or—"
"Or what? The first thing I taught you was not to make threats you cannot carry out. Any move then becomes ridiculous, blustering like a helpless child."
"This is no threat, I assure you. Take me to Rhiannon now, or I'll have to kill you." He made the words sound careless. Could the old man know how many times Lion had imagined killing him late at night, when the horror filled his dreams and slicked his body with sweat? He'd imagined killing Paxton Redmayne as the only certain way to end his legacy of evil.
His grandfather laughed, pacing to a small table that looked frighteningly familiar—the gaming table, set with its exquisite chess pieces. Had the old man carried it with him all this time? "Ah, you are reduced to making threats. What did I teach you? To consider every issue from your opponent's point of view. Think, Lionel. You can hardly blame me for attempting to reclaim what you stole from me the day you left Rawmarsh: the queen."
"Rhiannon is not part of the game."
"Fine, boy. You wish to reclaim your lady? I'll take you to her."
Without another glance, he strode from the room, leaving Lion no choice but to follow. Up the winding staircase, higher, higher. Finally, at the end of a long corridor, Paxton flung wide a door. Rimming the edge of the building high above the stone courtyard was a curved balcony, bound by a waist-high rail of carved ston
e. Beyond, the Irish countryside undulated like a glorious painting, too vivid to be real.
"What the devil?" Redmayne growled under his breath, every instinct coiling tighter within him.
"You asked for your lady. I merely intend to present her to you."
Lion followed his grandfather around the bend of the balcony, then froze in horror. There, balanced on top of the narrow stone rail, a white-faced Rhiannon stood, bound hand and foot with nothing between her and the deadly fall to the cobbles below.
What held her there, so still? She was pinned between stone and sky by the barrel of the pistol clutched in Kenneth Barton's shaking hands as he stood an arm's length behind her on the broad sweep of the balcony.
Lion's heart stopped. Christ's blood, if she didn't fall off, the accursed turncoat would shoot her, most likely by accident more than intent. What the hell— had the old man gone mad? These were scarce his subtle methods. Nothing could be cruder than a lone woman balanced between life and death this way.
"Lion." She mouthed his name, desolation in her eyes.
It took every bit of strength Lion could muster not to race to Rhiannon, devil take the pistol fire, and snatch her to safety. But that was what the old man was waiting for, hoping for. If this was the hellish revenge he'd arranged for Lion's sins, then the slightest move would set into motion some fiendish trap that would cost Rhiannon her life.
He had to outwit his grandfather somehow. Had to keep his head. It was his lady's only chance.
"C-Captain," Barton stammered. "I—I'm sorry. I had to—"
"My grandson isn't interested in your paltry excuses, Barton. Your true loyalties are evident enough under the circumstances."
Betrayal ripped deep, and Redmayne hated himself for trusting anyone, especially this boy with his spaniel eyes and his weak, traitorous heart. He'd warned Barton about the death of O'Leary and Sir Thorne. God save him, had Redmayne's own words sealed Rhiannon's fate? Had Barton sold her to Paxton Redmayne in a desperate bid to save his own life?
"What did he use to manipulate you, boy?" Lion demanded. "There is still time to tell him to go to the devil."
Barton shook his head, misery etched in every line in his face. "It's too late. You don't understand."
"I understand this much. Only a coward points a gun at a woman, Barton. You want to fire at someone, boy? Shoot me, if you think you're man enough."
A low sob broke from Barton's chest, but the pistol never wavered.
Careless, Lion berated himself. That last comment had been devastatingly careless. Offering himself in Rhiannon's place—he might as well kill Rhiannon himself and be done with it. The old man would know Lion's own death would be easy, whereas the death of the woman he loved...
"You are wasting your time berating him," Paxton said. "Barton and I understand each other completely, do we not, Sergeant?"
The youth's Adam's apple bobbed crazily in his throat, his eyes glittered wildly, as if he desperately wished to speak. But Barton only nodded, his jaw clenched white-hard.
Lion couldn't afford any more mistakes. And yet hadn't his grandfather stumbled as well? The old man himself had grown desperate enough to resort to crude methods. Whatever had unsettled him so, precipitated this madness, was chipping away at Paxton Redmayne's legendary control.
Lion had to find a way to use that flaw against him. Think, he told himself fiercely. He had to remember everything he'd tried to forget—the hours of plotting strategy, trying to pry into his grandfather's inscrutable mind, exploiting any weakness, digging away at the tiniest chip in his armor.
Only twice in all the games they'd played had his grandfather lost his legendary icy calm—tiny revelations of true emotion that Lion had been discerning enough to see. Both times it had happened because the old man had lost control of the game between them—not the game on the chessboard but rather the grander, larger contest of wills.
Exploit it, damn it, Lion told himself fiercely. It may be Rhiannon's only chance.
With that, Lion chuckled, crossing to the rail, leaning against it with mock negligence. "I can hardly look at this whole scenario without blushing," he said. "Don't you feel a trifle absurd, old man? Such theatrics! It must be dashed demeaning to be reduced to melodrama. You who prided yourself on being so clever, so subtle. Reduced to the most pedestrian villainy."
His grandfather's eyes glinted. "You don't fool me with all your bravado. You never did. I can taste your weakness, the way a wolf scents blood on the wind."
"How unappetizing that must be—especially when sipping fine wine. I should imagine it would quite ruin one's enjoyment. Surely you can pause long enough in this Cheltenham tragedy you've concocted to tell me what has reduced you to such a pathetic level."
"If you only knew."
Lion took heart from the new edge in his grandfather's voice.
"This is yet another stroke of brilliance far beyond your comprehension," Paxton said.
"Yes, yes. No one has ever thought of this before— point a gun at a woman to bend someone to your will." Lion rolled his eyes heavenward. "It's hardly worthy of you. But then, at your age, you are perhaps growing a bit senile, losing some of your wits. Nothing to be ashamed of. It's common enough, I am told."
"Losing my wits? I think not. When I'm rotting in my grave, I will still have three times the cunning you ever did."
"An interesting claim. I'd be willing to test it—right now, in fact, if you'd have the good manners to die."
"You first, boy. Though you've been exceedingly stubborn about it."
Redmayne stared into his grandfather's eyes, saw the truth there. "You. It was you who wanted me dead at Ballyaroon."
The old man didn't deny it. He merely smiled, like a diabolical child caught torturing one of the cats in the stables.
"I probably should have guessed, but the method was so crude I didn't believe it possible. Hired assassins, Grandfather?" Lion said. "It lacks style. In fact, it shows a considerable lack of imagination, not to mention rank cowardice."
"You think name-calling can upset me? As if I cared any longer what you thought!"
"The question is why? Why this sudden interest in hastening my death? True, I've been tampering with your business interests for quite some time, so I imagine you've sustained some losses. But despite my best efforts, your financial empire is hardly ready to tumble down. Forgive my curiosity, but I can't help wonder—"
"You want to know why I wanted you dead?" That ageless face darkened with hatred so intense it struck Lion like a fist. "It is simple enough. What is the first thing I taught you at that chessboard?"
Lion remembered countless punishments, each more grueling than the last, filling him with terror every time he made a move upon the marble board. "Win at any cost."
"I won't lose to you."
Lion stared into the old man's face, realization sweeping through him. "That is it!" he said, astonished. "You know you already have lost, and you can't bear it. In spite of everything you've tried to do to me, every way you've fought to trap me, tangle me up in your twisted plots, I've managed to escape. I won, didn't I, Grandfather? The day I turned my back on Rawmarsh and on you and joined the army."
"No. You were a mere posturing fool. I was certain—" Paxton broke off, eyes narrowing—at what? Lion scrabbled desperately to comprehend his silence. A misstep?
"Were you certain I would come crawling back?" Lion asked.
"I'd made you fit for nothing else. Nothing but matching wits with me. You were mine, to use against my enemies."
"No. I was never yours. You knew it. That was what you couldn't forgive. Years of work. Years you'd invested in me. For what? Perhaps it's understandable, why you would want to kill me. Fine. Do it."
"No!" Rhiannon choked out, stopping his heart as she all but lost her balance. "Lion, don't say that!"
He fought valiantly to ignore her, knowing it was her only chance to survive. Praying for the first time in his life that the angels or the fairies she was born of
would protect her, he shrugged one uniformed shoulder. "You want me dead? Go ahead, grandfather," he urged softly. "Have Barton, your toadie, point his pistol at me and pull the trigger. No one knows better than you how little value I place on my life. It is immaterial to me whether I live or die."
God, how his grandfather had taunted him when he was a little boy, desperate to end his pain, shattered by loneliness, wanting to join his father in heaven. Lion could still hear that mocking voice, insinuating itself into every moment of his day, jeering as he pressed a penknife into Lionel's small hand. "It's sharp enough, if you dig the blade deep. Go ahead, boy. Kill yourself. Show yourself a worthless coward to your father."
Even now Lion could remember the reaching-out inside him, grasping for the world beyond. Peace. He'd wanted peace. But something had risen up inside him, determination not to grant Paxton Redmayne such a victory over his spirit.
But the boy who hadn't cared if he lived or died had vanished, the man who had charged into battle without fear was gone. It was a lie now, his seeming carelessness. A lie. His whole being screamed for life. He had been awakened from a living death by the kiss of a fairy-born beauty. Was it possible the fates had merely taunted him, dangled paradise before him, meaning all the while to snatch it away?
"You say you wish to win at any cost, grandfather. Kill me. Your victory is complete." He wasn't naive enough to believe the old man would ever let Rhiannon live, to be a witness, after all she had seen. But if he could manage to distract his grandfather and unsettle Barton, goad them into making a mistake, he might be able to get the pistol he'd concealed in his boot and blast Barton into eternity while flinging himself at his grandfather and driving him over the ledge.
Death—never in all his years of soldiering had he wanted to deal it out more than he did at this moment.
But he could see the triumph in his grandfather's face, the cunning. "Perhaps I was a trifle hasty in hiring the assassins. I can only thank you for delivering into my hands the chance at a far more poetic vengeance. You see, it's meaningless to steal a life from someone who doesn't mind dying. But if there is someone innocent who might die as well, perhaps that would be the most fitting revenge of all."
Briar Rose Page 29