of his grandfather's ruthlessness. And if the man Rhiannon remembered was Paxton Redmayne, she could have no idea how much danger she might still be in. No game of wits was ever over until Paxton declared it so. No one knew that better than Redmayne. A subtle chill tracked down his spine. He crushed it ruthlessly.
It wasn't that he was afraid for the girl or that he felt responsible for her in any way, he told himself. Whatever disaster her father had gotten her into was purely incidental to him. But there were other matters to consider. He'd never been one to cast away opportunities fate presented him. And the chance to thwart the old man... it was a temptation tantalizing beyond imagining.
Perhaps fortune had thrown him into Rhiannon Fitzgerald's path for a purpose. Some small half-forgotten force called conscience winced at the thought, but he crushed it, gaze fixed intensely on the woman now bending over her needlework. If she had run afoul of his grandfather, it was possible, just possible, that she might prove a valuable pawn in the endless game of chess between Redmayne and the man who still haunted his nightmares.
"Captain Redmayne?" Her worried query startled him, drawing him back to the present—the cramped confines of the gypsy cart, the penetrating warmth of her hazel eyes, and the unnerving awareness of his own stupidity. He'd left himself vulnerable during those moments when he allowed his mind to wander.
"What is it, madam?"
"Is something amiss? You look so... strange."
Redmayne drew his accustomed cool mask over his features. "A hazard of getting oneself shot, I fear. All that grimacing and groaning, trying to put on a brave face. It gets wearing after a while."
The woman looked so chagrined that any man with a drop of compassion in his veins would have wished the words back. "How utterly selfish of me! Prattling on about things you can have no interest in."
"You mistake me, madam. You've distracted me marvelous well."
Heavy lids drooped low over his eyes, so he wouldn't have to look at Rhiannon Fitzgerald's innocent face. Yes. She'd given him something else to think about besides his wounds. For only an idealistic fool would refuse to use a weapon fate might well have cast into his hands.
CHAPTER 4
Night songs drifted in from the distant sea, a fairy murmur beyond the secluded glen. Few could hear it anymore, Rhiannon knew. Not because it was so very difficult, but because they were too busy to listen. It had always comforted her somehow, the bittersweet lullaby of the waves making love to the shore. She'd closed her eyes, sensing generations of women, quiet, pausing still in their busy lives for a moment to listen to the sound of eternity.
But tonight the familiar melody only lapped at the restlessness inside her, not soothing but stirring up so many feelings, so many doubts, so many memories, so many fears.
Emotions awakened by the enigmatic man whose white-gold hair lay tangled upon her pillow. As she sat in the cart, chattering away, she hadn't realized the reverberations he'd managed to set off with his questions, and the merest flickering of an eyelash, or turning of the corner of his mouth.
It was only later, as she went about her tasks, that she became aware of the consequences of their conversation.
Strange, she'd been so determined to leave Primrose Cottage behind her, that life and the starry-eyed seventeen-year-old who had lived it seemed almost spun of fairy tales, belonging to someone far different from herself. She'd made a conscious choice to look ahead in the five years since the gypsy cart had rumbled away from the cottage. She'd vowed to accept life's unexpected gifts instead of yearning for a life that had vanished.
She and Papa had still had each other. That was all that had really mattered. No power on earth could steal away the love that had been the very core of Rhiannon's being. But tonight, tears she'd never shed pressed against her heart, and for some reason, Papa
It wasn't that he was afraid for the girl or that he felt responsible for her in any way, he told himself. Whatever disaster her father had gotten her into was purely incidental to him. But there were other matters to consider. He'd never been one to cast away opportunities fate presented him. And the chance to thwart the old man... it was a temptation tantalizing beyond imagining.
Perhaps fortune had thrown him into Rhiannon Fitzgerald's path for a purpose. Some small half-forgotten force called conscience winced at the thought, but he crushed it, gaze fixed intensely on the woman now bending over her needlework. If she had run afoul of his grandfather, it was possible, just possible, that she might prove a valuable pawn in the endless game of chess between Redmayne and the man who still haunted his nightmares.
"Captain Redmayne?" Her worried query startled him, drawing him back to the present—the cramped confines of the gypsy cart, the penetrating warmth of her hazel eyes, and the unnerving awareness of his own stupidity. He'd left himself vulnerable during those moments when he allowed his mind to wander.
"What is it, madam?"
"Is something amiss? You look so... strange."
Redmayne drew his accustomed cool mask over his features. "A hazard of getting oneself shot, I fear. All that grimacing and groaning, trying to put on a brave face. It gets wearing after a while."
The woman looked so chagrined that any man with a drop of compassion in his veins would have wished the words back. "How utterly selfish of me! Prattling on about things you can have no interest in."
"You mistake me, madam. You've distracted me marvelous well."
Heavy lids drooped low over his eyes, so he wouldn't have to look at Rhiannon Fitzgerald's innocent face. Yes. She'd given him something else to think about besides his wounds. For only an idealistic fool would refuse to use a weapon fate might well have cast into his hands.
CHAPTER 4
Night songs drifted in from the distant sea, a fairy murmur beyond the secluded glen. Few could hear it anymore, Rhiannon knew. Not because it was so very difficult, but because they were too busy to listen. It had always comforted her somehow, the bittersweet lullaby of the waves making love to the shore. She'd closed her eyes, sensing generations of women, quiet, pausing still in their busy lives for a moment to listen to the sound of eternity.
But tonight the familiar melody only lapped at the restlessness inside her, not soothing but stirring up so many feelings, so many doubts, so many memories, so many fears.
Emotions awakened by the enigmatic man whose white-gold hair lay tangled upon her pillow. As she sat in the cart, chattering away, she hadn't realized the reverberations he'd managed to set off with his questions, and the merest flickering of an eyelash, or turning of the corner of his mouth.
It was only later, as she went about her tasks, that she became aware of the consequences of their conversation.
Strange, she'd been so determined to leave Primrose Cottage behind her, that life and the starry-eyed seventeen-year-old who had lived it seemed almost spun of fairy tales, belonging to someone far different from herself. She'd made a conscious choice to look ahead in the five years since the gypsy cart had rumbled away from the cottage. She'd vowed to accept life's unexpected gifts instead of yearning for a life that had vanished.
She and Papa had still had each other. That was all that had really mattered. No power on earth could steal away the love that had been the very core of Rhiannon's being. But tonight, tears she'd never shed pressed against her heart, and for some reason, Papa
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