Briar Rose

by Kimberly Cates

  At times Redmayne was tempted to tell the man to spare him the despondent looks. He had no intention of carrying Rhiannon anywhere, least of all to his bed.

  Redmayne grimaced. It was true enough, he figured, though often at night when he closed his eyes he'd see her, so clearly, as she'd looked during those nights they spent together—tousled, completely vulnerable, the tender curve of her parted lips, the swell of her breast against her nightgown, the whisper softness of her sighs.

  He swore under his breath as he felt himself harden beneath the flap of his breeches. An involuntary reflex, he'd learned during studies of anatomy. Still, he hadn't been troubled by such an embarrassing reaction since he was a raw lad. Nothing revealed a man's weakness more clearly.

  A sharp rap on the door yanked a grateful Redmayne away from his thoughts. Sitting down behind his desk to hide his discomposure, he bade the person to enter.

  Private Twynham saluted smartly. "There's someone here to see you, Captain. Wouldn't state his business, but said you'd know why he was here."

  "I believe you've forgotten to enlighten me as to the gentleman's name, Twynham, assuming my visitor is a gentleman."

  A dull red crept up from the private's collar, but he only grumbled. "Not much o' the gentleman about this man, I wouldn't say. But if a name would help, he calls himself Samuel Knatchbull."

  Redmayne stilled. Gentleman? No. He'd agree wholeheartedly with Twynham's estimation of the man's character. But then, that was exactly why the captain had hired Knatchbull. Redmayne affected a bored shrug. "You might as well send him in. Oh, and I have a missive to be delivered to the head groom at once. It seems there was some question about my betrothed's horse running mad. I want to inform the man that he is not to take any rash action without direct orders. If anyone is to have the pleasure of shooting that animal, it will be me." He dug out the note, one that could have been delivered at any time, but would conveniently ensure a quarter hour of complete privacy.

  Twynham took the missive and saluted, then ushered Knatchbull into the room, closing the door behind him with a military click. Redmayne surveyed Knatchbull for a long moment. All long bones and loose joints, the man shambled toward him, his face showing not a hint of symmetry, one eye lower than the other, a crooked nose, an overlong mouth filled with imagination and humor.

  Knatchbull had never explained the wreck of his face, whether it was a curse from the time of his birth, or a hellish gift from someone's fist. But Redmayne hadn't hired him for his appearance when they'd met years ago. He'd taken Knatchbull into his employ because the man had the most fiercely intelligent eyes Redmayne had ever seen beyond his own mirror.

  "Allow me to offer felicitations," Knatchbull said in a baritone so rich and beautiful it might have belonged to an archangel. "I hear you are to be married."

  "That is the rumor," Redmayne allowed—the truth, such as it was. "I assume you haven't traveled all this way to congratulate me."

  "Hardly. I came for another purpose. I received word that your grandfather is traveling to Ireland."

  The boy still buried deep in Redmayne shuddered to life, chilled. He hardened himself against that child's sick loathing, almost supernatural dread. He'd long since discovered that Paxton Redmayne was not the omniscient god he'd delighted in making a little boy believe he was. Rather, he was only a particularly vicious mortal.

  "He's to stay in an associate's country house to tie up some rather difficult ends in yet another of his business schemes, the story goes, this one involving shipyards near Belfast."

  "Belfast. The other side of the island. That should be enough distance between us."

  "I fear he is to be disappointed. The precarious family fortune he was hoping to shatter has taken a sudden turn for the better. It seems they have sparked the interest of an investor. One with enough nerve to board a, ahem, sinking ship."

  Redmayne's lips curled in cold pleasure. "One can only hope the investor has the wit to keep them afloat."

  Knatchbull met his gaze with complete understanding. "If I were a betting man, I know where I would place my wager. And so, I fear, will your grandfather, the instant he discovers what is afoot. I've heard whisperings that he is most displeased with his luck of late."

  "He never was able to endure frustration, though he went to any pains to make certain others suffered it in absolute silence. The Belfast affair should be interesting to watch."

  "That remains to be seen. I only wanted to make certain you were aware of his visit. And to deliver these." Knatchbull handed over a pouch full of documents. "More of the usual, I'm afraid. I can stay over until morning, give you a chance to peruse them, sign whatever you wish; then I can carry them away with me, if you prefer."

  "Yes. That will be fine. As it happens, there is another matter I want to lay before you. An inquiry of sorts. It has to do with a country barrister who seems to have run afoul of Grandfather. Lost everything, including an estate by the name of Primrose Cottage."

  For the first time something akin to worry darted into Knatchbull's sage eyes. "May I suggest that we concern ourselves with that affair somewhat later, Captain? At the moment things are somewhat unwieldy, and I think we would be ill advised to display too much of our hand at present."

  "I don't give a damn what else you're roasting over those fiendish fires of yours, Knatchbull. I want this matter delved into, plumbed to the very quick. And I want it done now."

  "I wouldn't presume to question your decisions. God knows, you've been a genius thus far. But I tell you, something is afoot. Paxton Redmayne is not a man who enjoys being made to look a fool. There is no predicting what lengths he might go to."

  "You needn't fear, Knatchbull. Your fee will be paid regardless of what kind of temper fit Grandfather indulges in. I have provision for you penned neatly in my will."

  "That is comforting to know. However, I much prefer you alive. I just want to warn you—"

  Redmayne's jaw hardened, bitterness icing his voice. "Trust me, Knatchbull. No warning you could offer would be dire enough where my grandfather is concerned. That is one lesson the old man made certain I understood quite well. The barrister in question is one Kevin Fitzgerald."

  "Fitzgerald?" Knatchbull's eyes glittered with interest. "Isn't that the last name of your betrothed?"

  "It is. Fitzgerald was pursuing a case. Rhiannon remembers little about it, except that someone was anxious to see his inquiries at an end."

  "And all he lost was his fortune and property?" Knatchbull chuckled. "If your grandfather was involved, perhaps this barrister of yours got off lightly. Paxton is more than happy to silence anyone permanently when it suits him."

  "I doubt Kevin Fitzgerald was any match for grandfather, if he was anything like his daughter." Redmayne looked away, remembering the love in Rhiannon's eyes, and the grief, whenever she mentioned the father she had lost. Perhaps Kevin Fitzgerald had been a dreamer, head thrust into the clouds, a grown man with the innocence and optimism of a child, one who believed that justice would prevail, that people were innately good. No. Kevin Fitzgerald would have been like a lamb hurled into a pit full of adders.

  "Captain, forgive me for prying, but I heard a rumor that you were missing for nigh a week, that you were wounded."

  "You heard right. A band of assassins took exception to the fact that I was breathing. They sought to remedy the situation."

  "Have you any idea who they might have been or why—"

  "My dear Knatchbull, such tender concern for my well-being. It is quite unexpected. No. I can't say I'm certain who is behind the attempt on my life. I recognized three men who were combing the countryside in search of me afterward. Two of the three had a reason to quarrel with me. None of them had the intelligence or cunning to lure me into such a trap."

  "Then you still have no idea who instigated the attack?"

  "No. The difficulty is that over the years I've made more than my share of enemies, both in the ranks and out of them. I am not a man who inspires devotio
n."

  But wasn't that what Barton had claimed? That his actions had sprung from loyalty? And hadn't Redmayne seen devotion in Rhiannon's eyes when she walked out to confront the three men who might well have come to kill him? A willingness to do battle to keep him safe? Ah, but he would do well to remember that his fairy-born lady was equally willing to risk her life to defend a fox or a wolf or a half-blind hound.

  "Where have you begun to make inquiries?" Knatchbull asked. "May I be of service?"

  "Perhaps later, after you've discovered who was behind the calamity that destroyed Kevin Fitzgerald."

  "But, Captain, the man is long dead, and his daughter is safe in your care, while you are obviously in imminent danger. I beg you, allow me to—"

  "Knatchbull, I regret the necessity, but I feel I must remind you that I am the one who pays your salary, gives you orders. Do as I bid you. Discover all you can about Rhiannon's father and the treachery that ruined him. Once those questions are answered, you may use your skills to ferret out my attackers, if it will amuse you."

  "By that time they might have succeeded in killing you! Captain, this makes no sense. Caution, logic, planning to the minutest detail, and realizing the importance of dealing with everything in its own time— these are the tools that have made us successful thus far. Stray from these principles, and we both know what will happen. It's a dangerous precipice we've been dancing upon. We could slip and fall. And damme, we've both worked too hard to allow that to happen."

  "I assure you that I will be the only one to fall. I've made certain you'll feel no repercussions. Let me worry about my own skin, Knatchbull. You do as you are ordered. But I do owe you my thanks for alerting me to the fact that the devil is coming to Ireland. Of course, there are plenty who would claim he has been here since the day we English landed."

  "How long has it been"—Knatchbull's voice broke into Redmayne's reverie—"since you actually saw your grandfather?"

  "I have not seen him since the day I defied him and joined the army. He had... other plans for my future, but even Paxton Redmayne couldn't wrench me from the grasp of the military once I'd taken the king's shilling. I had broken free at last."

  "Free? You've spent the past fifteen years attempting to thwart him."

  Redmayne opened the drawer of his desk, withdrew a palm-size object. He ran his fingertips over the tiny ridges and hollows that formed the only thing he had kept from the years when he was under his grandfather's tutelage: a chess piece so exquisitely carved ft seemed to breathe—the queen, the only woman on the game board. The most powerful piece of all.

  "It's a game, Knatchbull. Grandfather would tell you. It's all a game between us, begun when I was but five years old."

  "Perhaps it is time you made an end to it," Knatchbull suggested, a touch of sympathy about his long mouth. "Start living in the present instead of in the past. After all, with your marriage..." Knatchbull let his voice trail off.

  Redmayne looked away, his gaze falling on one of Rhiannon's bunches of flowers. A tangle of bright yellow kingcups and soft brushes of heather. Fresh and vibrant. Alive in a way he had never been. But it was too late. It was impossible to breathe warmth, life, into someone who'd been cold and dead for so long.

  "I'm afraid making an end to our game is impossible," Redmayne said. "After all, it's so difficult to find worthy opponents."

  "And after one of you dies?" Knatchbull asked, his craggy cheeks pale. "What then?"

  Strange. Redmayne had never even considered that. What would he do with his life once the looming specter of his grandfather was gone? For a heartbeat, he imagined a cottage door flying open, Rhiannon rushing out in a swirl of jam-stained skirts and clamoring children. He shoved the vision away, amazed at the pain in it.

  "Then it will be finished." Redmayne tucked the chess piece back in the drawer, imprisoning the carved queen under her veil of darkness where no one could see her, touch her, hurt her.

  Was that why he had taken the chess piece away from Rawmarsh? Was he so crippled inside, so twisted by Paxton Redmayne's lessons that the only thing he could feel chivalrous toward was a wood-carved lady who could never smile back at him? Never serve him tea in a chipped cup? A lady he could lock away when his emotions were too terrifying or his thoughts too bleak. Banishing her, as he'd tried to do with other images, other memories. Failing, forever failing to tuck them away where they could never find him.

  He didn't hear the footsteps in the hall, only the door flying open. Knew before he even turned who it would be. The only person who would dare enter his chambers without so much as a knock.

  He turned, full intending to shoot her a quelling glare, more out of habit than any hope it would have some effect. But as she and that gallumphing dog of hers burst into the room, her smile was so piercing, her eyes so bright he felt a pain in his chest instead.

  It was amazing she hadn't impaled herself on one of the mass of seamstress pins fastening a patchwork of what would become a gown about her lithe body. Her hands dripped with cascades of lace as delicate as the lashes framing her eyes.

  He knew the instant she realized someone else was in the room. Pink stained her cheeks, embarrassment curving her mouth so adorably that any other man would have kissed it.

  Redmayne stiffened for an instant, wishing he could warn her as he recalled the reactions he'd seen on other faces the first time they'd glimpsed Knatchbull—shock, a little horror, a desperate attempt to ignore the obvious. Even Redmayne had felt a certain lurch inside, though he'd hidden it well.

  He sensed Knatchbull's own effort to brace himself as Rhiannon turned in his direction, Milton scrambling in her wake. Whatever reactions the man had experienced in the past, it was obvious nothing had prepared him for the one he was treated to now.

  Rhiannon's features softened, not with pity, but with warmth and welcome, not attempting to pretend Knatchbull's deformity away as if it didn't matter, but rather accepting its existence, acknowledging in that single glance the pain it had caused him and her regret that he'd had to suffer it.

  She crossed to where he stood, and took Knatchbull's gnarled hands in her own, lace and all. "Forgive me. I have an abominable habit of rushing in without thinking. You see, this is the first new gown I've had in, oh, ever so long, and I've not the slightest idea about fashion. Lion is so much better at it that when I couldn't choose which lace, I thought I would ask him."

  Knatchbull's eyes, always so sharp with intelligence, gazed at her with such sudden hunger and gratitude that Redmayne was tempted to snatch her hands out of the man's grasp, but the last thing he wanted was for Knatchbull to guess what a ridiculous reaction he was having. Hellfire, even that infernal hound of hers was fairly wriggling with delight as he licked Knatchbull's dusty boot!

  Redmayne satisfied himself by saying, "Let me see the lace, then. It would be most vexing if you were still bristling with pins by the time of the fete. Imagine the injuries you would inflict on my soldiers."

  She laughed, and Redmayne was appalled at the relief he felt as she turned back to him, spreading the lace maker's wares across his desk.

  "Angels or roses?" she asked, frowning down at the delicate netting.

  Angels, he wanted to say. Angels to remind me of you.

  But he didn't dare. He couldn't display such vulnerability in front of Knatchbull, could barely acknowledge it to himself. Where the devil had such a sentimental thought come from in the first place?

  From her.

  "Roses," he said flatly. "Now, if you and that hell-born hound of yours have no objection, might I continue my business?"

  Her smile faltered, and he hated the fact that he'd taken some of the joy out of her decision. "Of course," she said, attempting to collar Milton. "How thoughtless of me." The beast made a break for freedom, leaving a paw smudge on the hem of her half-sewn gown. "Thank you for your help," she said as the dog disappeared out the door. "It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Knatchbull. Perhaps you would like to dine with us tonight?"


  Redmayne started to protest, but Knatchbull, with the aplomb Redmayne had always admired in the man, saved him the trouble

  "Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald, but I've traveled a long way and am quite weary. A solitary supper and early to bed will be most refreshing for me, though I regret the chance to get to know you better."

  Redmayne could tell that the man spoke the truth. No polite nonsense from Knatchbull.

  "Will you permit me to leave a tray in your room, at least? Something to nibble on should you get hungry, and a pot of tea. I have a special blend that eases aches and will help you to sleep."

  Redmayne looked at the man's ungainly body sharply, noting for the first time a weariness in him. Had it always been there, and had he been too blind to see it? Or had Rhiannon so put the man at ease that he felt safe enough to allow his exhaustion to show?

  "I'd not want to put you to any trouble."

  "It's no trouble at all. Anyone would be weary after so many hours on horseback."

  Redmayne grew still. He'd realized Knatchbull had come on horseback. If he hadn't been so distracted, he would've thought it strange. The man always lumbered up in a plain black carriage.

  Not once had Redmayne considered what it must have cost the man to ride so far on horseback, or why he would have done such a thing—in the interest of saving time. To warn him.

  Rhiannon would say it was loyalty, kindness... friendship, if he'd only open his eyes to see it.

  But then, his briar rose didn't understand the more mundane workings of men's minds: expediency, protecting one's interests, acting out of duty.

  "Please, Mr. Knatchbull," Rhiannon urged. "It would please me so much."

  Knatchbull smiled with a tenderness Redmayne had never seen before. "Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald. You're very kind."

  Redmayne felt unaccountably ill-tempered. Perhaps he should explain to the man the perils of Rhiannon's chipped cup. But it was obvious Knatchbull wouldn't care if the cutlery were bent and all the china shattered. He'd doubtless pick out bits of shortbread from amid the wreckage and claim it was the tastiest he'd ever eaten.