by Jo Goodman
Kenna made a face. “At twenty-three one’s prospects dwindle dramatically. I am firmly on the shelf.”
“Only because you refused a London Season.”
“If you say so,” she said, yawning sleepily. She wondered if Nicholas would recognize the ruse. She wasn’t tired in the least, but her London Season, or rather the lack of it, was a subject she refused to discuss. Nick’s generosity had made it possible for Yvonne to have a splendid season and she had accepted the marriage proposal of a young viscount. Now she was Lady Parker, living in a picturesque country home in the north and dividing her time between a half dozen committees dedicated to good works and her three lively children. No surprises there, Kenna thought a shade wistfully. Yvonne certainly had taken the proper course. Though they corresponded frequently Kenna had not even seen her youngest nephew. A visit to Cherry Hill was long overdue. When Nick left she would compose a letter and invite herself to visit the Parkers.
“Will you be able to sleep now?” Nick asked.
“Mm.”
“I take that to mean yes.” He kissed her warm cheek. “You haven’t forgotten that Rhys is due to arrive on the morrow?”
Kenna bit her lip to keep from asking Nick what had he thought prompted the nightmare. He would only tell her her fears were unfounded, reminding her that Rhys had been the one who rescued her from the cave, had been the one who carried her to safety, eschewing help from the servants. Rhys was the one who kept a vigil by her bed when even Nicholas and Victorine had succumbed to exhaustion and the one who had been bitterly hurt when Kenna practically threw him from her room upon awakening, Nick never believed the part Rhys played in Kenna’s dreams had any basis in reality. Rhys was like a son to Robert Dunne, he told Kenna. It was inconceivable that Rhys could be guilty of murder. Besides, Rhys was seeing Yvonne safely to her room during the time Kenna was exploring the cave. Kenna had, perforce, to accept it, but the explanation did nothing to ease her mind.
Why then, she wondered, did Rhys Canning frighten her so? “Nick?”
Nicholas halted in his progress to the door and turned to face Kenna. “Is there something else?”
Impulsively she asked, “What were you wearing the night of the masque?”
Nick looked at her strangely. “Why on earth do you want to know that now? It can be of no account.”
“Humor me.”
“I was the devil himself. Everyone remarked on the cleverness of my guise. Old Nick, you know. Never say you don’t remember?”
Kenna frowned. “I suppose I didn’t. I thought…oh, never mind. You’re right. It can hardly be of any account now.”
Nick watched Kenna’s eyes close sleepily again. When her frown vanished, composing her face into the trusting serenity of a child, he left.
Kenna waited until Nick’s footsteps receded in the hallway before she threw back her covers and got out of bed. At her writing desk she began composing a letter to Yvonne. If Nick knew what she was planning he would be put out with her, so Kenna explained in her missive that Yvonne must never mention Kenna had invited herself. She didn’t have any worries that Yvonne would not understand the urgency she felt to be gone from Dunnelly. She had only to mention Rhys’s name and Yvonne would command her to come to Cherry Hill. Even though Yvonne did not truly comprehend Kenna’s aversion to Rhys, she would extend the invitation for Kenna’s sake.
Of course Yvonne knew of her nightmares, had even shared Kenna’s bed in the early days when the dreams came frequently and with an intensity that woke most of the house. They were vague, nebulous dreams then, more frightening because upon waking Kenna could remember almost nothing of them. Yet Rhys’s presence had provided a common thread of sorts and Kenna’s sleeping fears had transformed into a conscious repugnance of the man she had once considered a brother. While Yvonne had come to love Rhys for his unstinting devotion to the Dunne family, Kenna resented the way he had made himself invaluable during the period following her father’s death.
According to Yvonne, Rhys had taken charge of everything. Nicholas was shattered by his father’s murder and could think of nothing but revenge, though to whom it should be directed eluded him. Victorine, though she tried to nurse Kenna, was finally bedridden with shock and no one was certain Kenna would recover. It was left to Rhys to see to the arrangements and offer comfort to those who could appreciate it. Kenna could not help the cynical smile that touched her generous mouth. Rhys’s comfort to Nick and Yvonne may have been of the purest motives, but in light of her most recent dreams she questioned his response toward Victorine.
As Kenna cursed the confusing nightmares that plagued her, a drop of ink spattered her signature. She blotted it and fanned the vellum in disgust. Yvonne was certain to know the letter was penned in haste and her thoughts had been elsewhere. After Kenna folded the missive she placed it on a salver for the maid to post in the morning and returned to her bed. Satisfied that she would receive an answer in a few days and sure she could suffer Rhys’s presence for that short while, Kenna fell into a blessedly peaceful sleep.
As was her custom, Kenna woke early and dressed for her morning ride. Her gray gelding was waiting anxiously in the stables, nosing the groom who was adjusting his bridle.
“I’m certain that’s fine, Adams,” Kenna said, coming up behind the groom and stroking the white star on Pyramid’s nose. “Pyramid is ready to go, aren’t you, boy?”
“As you say, Lady Kenna, but I don’t want any accidents like the last one.” Adams ran a hand over his sparse crop of silver hair. “Like as not that piece of work took ten years off my life.”
Kenna smiled, patting the groom on his shoulder. “Then you’ll only live to be one hundred.”
Adams straightened and adjusted the saddle, giving it a sharp tug to make certain it was secure. “And don’t you make light of it,” he said sternly though there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing you off myself that morning.” He gave Kenna a leg up.
“You refine upon it too much. It happened months ago, almost six to be exact, and yet you have remarked upon it nearly every day since then. It would be more remarkable if I were the only rider to have never taken a spill. I appreciate your concern, but I do wish you would cease speaking of it. You will shatter my confidence.”
“Humph. ’Tis a lucky thing your stepmama was riding with you, else you could have been on your back in the brook for hours. You took that spill and nearly broke your neck because the girth was worn through. I would have seen it.”
“I’m certain you would have, but I could hardly ask you to saddle my horse when you were laid low with stomach trouble.”
“And that’s another thing,” Adams went on grumpily. “I never had a bit of trouble with my breadbasket before or after.”
Kenna’s brows drew together and she quieted her restless horse. “Just what are you saying, Adams?”
Adams looked away, uncomfortable under Kenna’s direct gaze and questioning. “Don’t mind me, Lady Kenna. I’m just an old man what sometimes gets a notion in his head and can’t shake it. Go on with you.” He slapped Pyramid on the rump and called out to her to be careful as she rode away. When Kenna was out of sight he sat down on a bale of hay and plucked a stem of dry grass to pick at a bit of last night’s stew still lodged between his molars. Heaven knew if Nicholas got wind of what he had said to Kenna he would be looking for other employment and it was not something Donald Adams relished. Yet today he had come as close as he had ever dared to letting Kenna suspect the truth. Damn! He knew that strap had been sawed clear through and he had taken it straight away to Nick when he discovered it. Nicholas dismissed the man who had saddled Kenna’s horse that morning and made Adams promise not to mention his findings to Kenna. She would never understand that someone had deliberately tried to hurt her. Knowing the frail state of Kenna’s mind—her nightmares were common knowledge among the staff—Adams agreed. Yet his promise bothered him. Didn’t Lady Kenna have a right to know that her fall
had been a calculated attempt to cause her grievous injury, perhaps even kill her?
Kenna rode Pyramid at a sedate pace until she was out of sight of the stables then she urged her mount to a gallop and jumped the stone wall that bounded Dunnelly to the north. Circling round she tempted fate and jumped the wall again before she guided Pyramid through the shallow icy brook and into the woods. Their progress was nearly silent as Pyramid’s hooves settled in the light layer of snow covering the ground. Kenna breathed in the serenity of the winter wood and the crisp clear air that was a balm to her senses. Her conversation with Donald Adams was firmly relegated to the back of her mind.
Just when she thought nothing could spoil her enjoyment of the morning she heard a loud snap and the keening cry of a wounded animal. Weaving Pyramid through the thick grove of trees she headed toward the sound and dismounted as soon as she found the steel trap that had closed around the hind leg of a fox. Her first thought was for rescuing the animal and she located a sturdy fallen branch to pry open the metal jaws. It was a difficult task because the fox was frightened and twice sank his sharp little teeth into her velvet riding coat.
“You’re not helping me, poor thing,” Kenna said soothingly. “If you’d just stay still a moment I’d get you free.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Startled by the thundering voice behind her, Kenna fell back on her posterior and dropped her stick. She cried out as the fox nipped at her stockinged leg above her boot. She started to scramble out of the animal’s reach, an action that was much aided by the unwelcome assistance of two strong hands beneath her arms. When she was pulled to her feet she spun around, hands on her hips, a militant look in her eyes, and faced Rhys Canning.
It galled her further that he should be one of the few men she still had to look up to. “I thought my actions were self-explanatory. It would please me greatly if you would help or leave.” She turned away and bent over for the branch only to have Rhys take it from her hand. When his gloved hand touched Kenna’s, she abruptly pulled back and a swift, almost pained expression came to his face. “I’ll help. Stand away. There’s no need for you to be bitten again.”
Kenna moved back, watching Rhys insert the stick for leverage and pry the trap open. Fascinated by the capable, graceful strength of his hands, Kenna’s eyes strayed from the fox. She looked away hurriedly when the animal was free so Rhys would not guess she had been wondering how his hands might feel touching her when he wasn’t merely helping her to her feet. She was shocked and angry that she could think of him in such a light.
“Thank you,” she said sharply and then reddened at the snap her voice.
Rhys brushed some snow from his knees as he got to his feet. “You’re welcome. I think.” He motioned in the direction the fox had gone. “I believe he’ll recover. He was fortunate his leg wasn’t broken and equally lucky you stumbled upon him.”
“Yes, wasn’t he.” She was impatient for Rhys to be gone and refused to be drawn into conversation. She’d walk on hot coals before she admitted the fox had Rhys to thank for his reprieve.
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“A scratch. It’s nothing.” There was a rivulet of blood running down her leg but she was not likely to lift her skirt and let Rhys Canning see it. She would attend to it in the privacy of her room. Kenna glanced at the coal black stallion tethered restlessly beside Pyramid. “Beelzebub is anxious to leave.”
Rhys laughed. “His name is Higgins as you well know.”
“Well, it is a singularly sorry name for an animal who looks like Satan.”
“Perhaps.” Rhys shrugged, a glimmer of a smile edging his mouth.
Kenna supposed it was too much to ask Rhys not to smile. She could not bear it if he knew how it bothered her when his handsome face split into a grin. “Aren’t you going to ride him to the house?” she asked, tapping a small mound of snow with the toe of her boot.
“Yes, of course.”
He was being deliberately obtuse. She refused to allow him to penetrate her mantle of distant reserve any more than he already had. “I am going to continue my ride. Don’t let me keep you. I’m certain they’re waiting for you at the house.” She turned away.
Damn her, Rhys thought. She had retreated again. For a moment it seemed she would argue with him, fire off a spark of something other than ice. The morning was cold enough without her lowering the temperature. He followed her, eyeing the stiff set of her narrow shoulders and back and offered her a leg up.
Kenna took Rhys’s help, wishing she could tread upon his face. She and Pyramid had only gone a few yards when Rhys caught up with her.
“I sent my valet on ahead in the coach. I knew you would be out riding. Nick will know where I am. I thought I would join you.”
So that was how he had come upon her. She had become predictable. Somehow the thought brought an ache to her throat. “As you will.”
Rhys knew that was as close to an invitation as he was going to get and he supposed he should feel pleased she hadn’t flatly refused to have him trailing her side. She had done that before. Rhys was too astute, though, to congratulate himself that any progress had been made in their relationship. She seemed intent on proving to him that she could tolerate his presence and the fact he was being merely tolerated took most of the joy away.
Several times his eyes strayed from the path ahead to Kenna. She had grown into a beauty, a fact that seemed to astonish her brother, but not Rhys. Kenna was still careless of her looks, as if she were unaware of the subtle changes that had transformed her from a loose-limbed schoolgirl into the profound symmetry of womanhood. Rhys missed the fire of her hair but admitted the red-gold suited the quiet demeanor she had acquired since her father’s death.
Seated as she was on a proper lady’s saddle, Kenna’s face was partially hidden from Rhys. It didn’t matter in the least for he knew every contour of her face from the high arch of her cheekbones to the sensuous curve of her wide mouth. He knew the shape of her winged brows, the tilt of her dark chocolate eyes, and the nose that had been made slightly aquiline by the fist that had broken it. He felt as if he had actually touched the slender stem of her neck countless times, feeling the pulse in her throat come to life beneath his hands. In truth, for years he had not touched more than Kenna’s hand.
She wore her hair in a thick braid more suited to the child she had been than the adult she was. It swung across her back in time to Pyramid’s movements. Rhys subdued the urge to pull it by curling his fingers into his palms and reminding himself that if Kenna was older, then so was he. She would not appreciate antics that would tug at her memories of a happier time. It maddened Rhys that Kenna was unwilling to put the tragedy of ten years ago behind her and get on with her life. She might look a woman, with her sweetly rounded curves and elegant poise, but she carried a certain innocence about her that Rhys was as weary of seeing as he was the icy reserve that protected it.
In his mind he warned her: My patience is at end, Lady Kenna Dunne. I am through being your whipping boy.
“I wouldn’t have thought Nicholas would put up with poachers,” he said to break the silence.
Deep in her own thoughts, it took Kenna a moment to realize Rhys had spoken. “What? Oh, he doesn’t. I can’t think what possessed old Tom Allen to set that thing on Dunne land.”
“Tom Allen? You know the poacher?” Rhys wouldn’t have been surprised if the old Kenna had offered the information, for she had made it her business to know everyone on or around Dunnelly, but that this new Kenna knew caused his dark brows to raise in thoughtful regard.
Kenna twisted her head a bit to level a hard stare at Rhys. “If you insist upon talking I would rather you came around. I’m not going to strain my neck to speak.”
Rhys let Pyramid move ahead and then guided his horse to Kenna’s other side. “Tom Allen?” he repeated, trying not to show his impatience with her mood.
“Why shouldn’t I know him? His family’s been poaching in th
is area for as long as anyone can remember. Though it’s not his way to use traps. I’ll have to speak to him about that.”
“Then you don’t intend to tell Nick?”
“No.” She did not want to expound upon her answer but she recognized Rhys’s probing mood. “It’s no secret that Nicholas takes his position as lord of the manor very seriously. He rather likes to think the locals respect him too much to poach on his land. Every Christmas he gives the Allens a smoked ham and deer meat. They accept it but—”
Rhys chuckled. “But Old Tom has his own respect to think of.”
“Exactly.” Kenna allowed herself a brief smile which faded as she shot Rhys an earnest look. “You won’t mention it to Nick, will you?”
Rhys pretended to consider her request. “No, not if you promise to speak to Allen about the trap. If that fox hadn’t found it first it could have been Pyramid’s leg that was caught. You might have been thrown and trampled.”
Kenna had already thought of that and she had not been as kind to herself as Rhys had been. She definitely would have been thrown and only the most unusual piece of luck would have kept Pyramid from crushing her in his mad frenzy to escape the trap.
“I’ll speak to him this afternoon. His home is only a few miles from here.” It will give me a reason to leave the house and you, she told herself. “Tom will have to hear from me that I won’t sanction his use of traps. It’s too cruel.”
“So there is a soft spot in your heart after all.” Rhys hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud but when he saw Kenna give a start he knew he had done just that.
“For some of God’s creatures,” she said pointedly.
“Another well-aimed arrow, Kenna. I should have learned to duck them by now.”
“You should have learned not to provoke them. I can’t imagine why you even want to spend time with me. Nick and Victorine would be most happy to have your company.”