which way, petals fragile, and yet too busy thriving to realize it should be battered and withering under such harsh conditions.
Redmayne's own memory stirred, a deep voice, as warm as summer sun, his own father's strong arms outstretched: "Fly to the sky, my little lion...." Even now there were times when he could almost remember what it was like to be tossed high above his father's head, to hear the echoes of his own squeals of delight as he flew, certain Papa would always be there to catch him. Another fairy tale. Another lie. That boy had lost the life he'd known, too. But he hadn't turned his face to the sun.
He shook off the unwelcome memory, wishing the infernal woman would drown the shades of his past in her chatter. But the stubbornly genial companion who had been so talkative moments before had vanished. She'd lapsed into silence, concentrating on threading her needle, her lashes lowered, her full lips pressed together. Tending a quiet heartache, the loss of her father? Why should it matter to Redmayne? Silence was what he craved, wasn't it? Then why the devil was he suddenly prodding her to go on? What was it about her story that sounded all too familiar?
"This man who took Primrose Cottage, I don't suppose he had a name?"
"It was so long ago... and Papa didn't speak of it to me. He believed in filling his daughter's head with fairy stories, her arms with flowers, and her skirts with meadow breezes. I knew so little of his business affairs. But I did meet the man once. Paxton, Papa called him. Mr. Paxton."
The hand that held Redmayne's spoon halted midway to his mouth. "It's a common enough name, one would think," he reasoned, loathing himself for his unease.
"Perhaps. But the man wasn't common." He saw a fine tremor work through her. "I glimpsed him once and felt so—so cold. I'd never felt quite so cold. He had the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. Pale and empty, as if—as if there wasn't a soul inside."
"He was an Irishman?"
"No. Nor English either, though he spoke it well enough. It was as if the flavor of half a dozen different languages was still on his tongue. But whenever he came to the cottage, I'm ashamed to admit I did my best to avoid him, ran off to work in the gardens or something. It was too cold with him in the house."
If this Paxton was the same man Redmayne knew, he could understand the urge. How could a starry-eyed briar rose like Rhiannon Fitzgerald know that she could never run fast enough or far enough or hide herself well enough to escape those eyes that had so disturbed her? If Paxton Redmayne wanted to find her, hell itself wouldn't be deep enough to hide in. Or had her father merely been a minor amusement for the old man? Something to allay his boredom until a quarry worthy of his intellect came along? Paxton could never resist toying with people's lives, like a cat with its prey. And yet a country barrister—a bumbling philanthropist, no less—was not his usual quarry. But that was the genius in the old man—that he was as changeable as water, taking on the shape and form of whatever vessel he chose to inhabit at the moment.
God, how the old bastard would laugh if he could see Redmayne here now in this cart with this innocent-eyed woman who had been so desperately wronged. It was the kind of jest Paxton Redmayne enjoyed the most.
Redmayne struggled not to betray the vise of grimness tightening inside him. Why the devil had he been cursed enough to run afoul of the woman? Was this some kind of cruel jest of fate? Or was it the pull of destiny she'd spoken of when she refused to desert him?
He'd been flung in the woman's path. She'd snatched him from the jaws of certain death only to tell him that the dragon who had haunted his boyhood nightmare might have stalked her as well. Might still be stalking her, oblivious as she was to it.
What had she claimed? That the man who had broken her father's finances and taken her cottage away had been called Paxton? The whole affair reeked
Redmayne's own memory stirred, a deep voice, as warm as summer sun, his own father's strong arms outstretched: "Fly to the sky, my little lion...." Even now there were times when he could almost remember what it was like to be tossed high above his father's head, to hear the echoes of his own squeals of delight as he flew, certain Papa would always be there to catch him. Another fairy tale. Another lie. That boy had lost the life he'd known, too. But he hadn't turned his face to the sun.
He shook off the unwelcome memory, wishing the infernal woman would drown the shades of his past in her chatter. But the stubbornly genial companion who had been so talkative moments before had vanished. She'd lapsed into silence, concentrating on threading her needle, her lashes lowered, her full lips pressed together. Tending a quiet heartache, the loss of her father? Why should it matter to Redmayne? Silence was what he craved, wasn't it? Then why the devil was he suddenly prodding her to go on? What was it about her story that sounded all too familiar?
"This man who took Primrose Cottage, I don't suppose he had a name?"
"It was so long ago... and Papa didn't speak of it to me. He believed in filling his daughter's head with fairy stories, her arms with flowers, and her skirts with meadow breezes. I knew so little of his business affairs. But I did meet the man once. Paxton, Papa called him. Mr. Paxton."
The hand that held Redmayne's spoon halted midway to his mouth. "It's a common enough name, one would think," he reasoned, loathing himself for his unease.
"Perhaps. But the man wasn't common." He saw a fine tremor work through her. "I glimpsed him once and felt so—so cold. I'd never felt quite so cold. He had the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. Pale and empty, as if—as if there wasn't a soul inside."
"He was an Irishman?"
"No. Nor English either, though he spoke it well enough. It was as if the flavor of half a dozen different languages was still on his tongue. But whenever he came to the cottage, I'm ashamed to admit I did my best to avoid him, ran off to work in the gardens or something. It was too cold with him in the house."
If this Paxton was the same man Redmayne knew, he could understand the urge. How could a starry-eyed briar rose like Rhiannon Fitzgerald know that she could never run fast enough or far enough or hide herself well enough to escape those eyes that had so disturbed her? If Paxton Redmayne wanted to find her, hell itself wouldn't be deep enough to hide in. Or had her father merely been a minor amusement for the old man? Something to allay his boredom until a quarry worthy of his intellect came along? Paxton could never resist toying with people's lives, like a cat with its prey. And yet a country barrister—a bumbling philanthropist, no less—was not his usual quarry. But that was the genius in the old man—that he was as changeable as water, taking on the shape and form of whatever vessel he chose to inhabit at the moment.
God, how the old bastard would laugh if he could see Redmayne here now in this cart with this innocent-eyed woman who had been so desperately wronged. It was the kind of jest Paxton Redmayne enjoyed the most.
Redmayne struggled not to betray the vise of grimness tightening inside him. Why the devil had he been cursed enough to run afoul of the woman? Was this some kind of cruel jest of fate? Or was it the pull of destiny she'd spoken of when she refused to desert him?
He'd been flung in the woman's path. She'd snatched him from the jaws of certain death only to tell him that the dragon who had haunted his boyhood nightmare might have stalked her as well. Might still be stalking her, oblivious as she was to it.
What had she claimed? That the man who had broken her father's finances and taken her cottage away had been called Paxton? The whole affair reeked
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