felt very far away.
The officer, Captain Redmayne, had made it seem so. No sympathy in his face, no discomfort at her revelations. Rather, a steady gaze stark with understanding, as if he'd seen past everything, to the most secret, tightly locked box she'd buried deep in her soul, the place where she kept anger and loss, grief and blame, and the haunting image of eyes like cold stones.
Now it was as if his probing had jarred a half-healed wound, made her intensely aware of it when she'd wanted with all her heart to let it fade into a soft-edged dream that could never hurt her.
Milton sidled up, rubbing his great head against her, nudging her hand as if to say, I'm here. I know you're sad.
She stroked his silky ears. But even that familiar comfort couldn't still the restlessness, the unease, coiling ever tighter inside her. Always before, the night had seemed soft and full of mystery, a time to stare into the fire and dream. But all that had changed in the hours since she'd discovered Captain Redmayne lying wounded among the standing stones.
Somewhere in that darkness a thousand unanswered questions still lurked about the loss of Primrose Cottage and the man who had stolen it away. Dangers stalked beneath night's black curtain—the captain's attackers wandering about, toasting his supposed death? Or hunting, trying to make certain that their victim was on his way to hell?
Almost more frightening was the knowledge that plenty of Irish crofters between this glen and Redmayne's garrison would be all too happy to give the English captain a helping hand along that deadly journey. She shivered, the night wind turning chill and damp. She was never alone. She'd been so certain of that when she'd brushed aside Triona's fears on the last visit to the farm.
But tonight the isolation pressed against her, the uncertainty, the strain, exhaustion weighing her down like rain-sodden skirts. Quietly she slipped into the caravan and locked the small wooden door. Then she turned in the cramped quarters to where Captain Redmayne lay sleeping on the narrow bed.
She gazed down at him a long moment, needing desperately to... to what? Feel even the slightest human touch? An idea flitted into her head as she gazed down at the sliver of mattress not swallowed up by Redmayne's body, and she plucked at some loose trim on her cuff, uneasy.
Triona—and even Papa—would be appalled at the very thought of Rhiannon even considering committing such an immodest act. Lying down with any man, especially one she barely knew. But it wasn't as if she wanted to ravish Captain Redmayne, she reasoned, she only needed to sleep. And he had lost a great deal of blood. He'd be in no condition to ravish her even if he'd wanted too.
Wasn't that one of the lessons she'd learned on the road? Not to be tyrannized by other people's arbitrary rules? She was only being sensible. If she slept beneath the wagon, as Papa so often had, she wouldn't hear the injured Redmayne cry out if he needed something.
"Stop rationalizing, Rhiannon," she muttered in self disgust. "Admit the truth. You're afraid. You need this far more than he does."
She eased off her boots, loosened the tightest buttons at her throat, and edged onto the mattress.
It was as if the bed had shrunk somehow, its size devoured by Redmayne's long, lean body. And yet over time she'd grown used to taking up as little space as possible, after nights of keeping baskets of injured creatures close beside her. She would just think of the elegant Captain Redmayne as a particularly large hound.
She might even have managed a smile at her attempt at humor, but Redmayne wasn't any tame hound. More like the wolf she'd tended—fiercely intelligent, untamable, dangerous. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. The warmth of his nearness seeping through the chill inside Rhiannon.
She'd worry tomorrow about being devoured. Tired... she was so tired. She curled up on the edge of the bed and let her eyes drift
The officer, Captain Redmayne, had made it seem so. No sympathy in his face, no discomfort at her revelations. Rather, a steady gaze stark with understanding, as if he'd seen past everything, to the most secret, tightly locked box she'd buried deep in her soul, the place where she kept anger and loss, grief and blame, and the haunting image of eyes like cold stones.
Now it was as if his probing had jarred a half-healed wound, made her intensely aware of it when she'd wanted with all her heart to let it fade into a soft-edged dream that could never hurt her.
Milton sidled up, rubbing his great head against her, nudging her hand as if to say, I'm here. I know you're sad.
She stroked his silky ears. But even that familiar comfort couldn't still the restlessness, the unease, coiling ever tighter inside her. Always before, the night had seemed soft and full of mystery, a time to stare into the fire and dream. But all that had changed in the hours since she'd discovered Captain Redmayne lying wounded among the standing stones.
Somewhere in that darkness a thousand unanswered questions still lurked about the loss of Primrose Cottage and the man who had stolen it away. Dangers stalked beneath night's black curtain—the captain's attackers wandering about, toasting his supposed death? Or hunting, trying to make certain that their victim was on his way to hell?
Almost more frightening was the knowledge that plenty of Irish crofters between this glen and Redmayne's garrison would be all too happy to give the English captain a helping hand along that deadly journey. She shivered, the night wind turning chill and damp. She was never alone. She'd been so certain of that when she'd brushed aside Triona's fears on the last visit to the farm.
But tonight the isolation pressed against her, the uncertainty, the strain, exhaustion weighing her down like rain-sodden skirts. Quietly she slipped into the caravan and locked the small wooden door. Then she turned in the cramped quarters to where Captain Redmayne lay sleeping on the narrow bed.
She gazed down at him a long moment, needing desperately to... to what? Feel even the slightest human touch? An idea flitted into her head as she gazed down at the sliver of mattress not swallowed up by Redmayne's body, and she plucked at some loose trim on her cuff, uneasy.
Triona—and even Papa—would be appalled at the very thought of Rhiannon even considering committing such an immodest act. Lying down with any man, especially one she barely knew. But it wasn't as if she wanted to ravish Captain Redmayne, she reasoned, she only needed to sleep. And he had lost a great deal of blood. He'd be in no condition to ravish her even if he'd wanted too.
Wasn't that one of the lessons she'd learned on the road? Not to be tyrannized by other people's arbitrary rules? She was only being sensible. If she slept beneath the wagon, as Papa so often had, she wouldn't hear the injured Redmayne cry out if he needed something.
"Stop rationalizing, Rhiannon," she muttered in self disgust. "Admit the truth. You're afraid. You need this far more than he does."
She eased off her boots, loosened the tightest buttons at her throat, and edged onto the mattress.
It was as if the bed had shrunk somehow, its size devoured by Redmayne's long, lean body. And yet over time she'd grown used to taking up as little space as possible, after nights of keeping baskets of injured creatures close beside her. She would just think of the elegant Captain Redmayne as a particularly large hound.
She might even have managed a smile at her attempt at humor, but Redmayne wasn't any tame hound. More like the wolf she'd tended—fiercely intelligent, untamable, dangerous. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. The warmth of his nearness seeping through the chill inside Rhiannon.
She'd worry tomorrow about being devoured. Tired... she was so tired. She curled up on the edge of the bed and let her eyes drift
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