was so eager to ferret out the traitors who stalked him, or because he was eager to reach his command, but rather because he would have charged through the devil's own army to get away from her.
Why display such unseemly haste? For the simple reason that the woman was driving him mad. Not since his grandfather had anyone or anything raked at his nerves this way. He hadn't allowed it. But something about Rhiannon Fitzgerald made him feel closed in, as if the air had become too thick to breathe, not unlike the way a falcon must feel, imprisoned by the bars of a cage, a mocking voice purred inside his head.
"Captain Redmayne?"
Being jerked back to the present was a most annoying sensation.
"I know you are not accustomed to taking advice, but I'm going to suggest this to you anyway." Her voice lilted with Irish music, yet was more resolute than that of any besieged soldier he'd ever heard. "I've been snarled at, snapped at, and bitten more than once, all to no avail. It would be far more practical to use your energy to get well rather than to attempt to bully me into changing my mind. But it is your decision."
Was the woman actually patronizing him? Captain Lionel Redmayne? Something hot and uncomfortable knotted in his gut. Anger? Uncertainty? Maybe a little of both.
He could scarce believe it. Her eyes met his directly, no fear, no distrust. Didn't the woman have the wit to realize what he was?
No. She had a clear enough picture. Her observation echoed in his mind: "used to getting your own way by fair means or foul." But she was determined to defy him.
So the woman wanted to cross swords with him, did she? She thought herself a worthy opponent? Fine. He'd never been able to resist a challenge. After all, he'd been schooled by the most ruthless man alive.
But how best to defeat her? He mused for a long moment; then his eyes narrowed. Of course. There was only one thing to do. Make his stubborn guardian angel as anxious to be rid of him as he was to be rid of her.
Yet she was unaffected by the sharp wit and the cold glares that had always been his most finely honed weapons. There had to be another way to break Mistress Sunshine's resolve. How could he horrify her so completely that she would abandon her high principles, happily dump him at the garrison's doorstep, and drive her ridiculous horse and wagon away at breakneck speed?
Redmayne turned toward her, his gaze snagging on the rosy curve of her lips. Generous and inviting, dewy fresh, they shone, glossy in the light of the sun. He would wager his soul that those lips were as untouched by man as the briar roses tangled in a secret glen. What would happen if he plundered them?
It was a despicable plan. Made more loathsome still by everything she'd done for him. He actually felt a twinge. Fortunately, his conscience was so out of practice it was easily silenced. He didn't really intend to ravish her, after all, only scare her a little. And whatever his motives, she would benefit from the results as well. Be safer. Released from this crucible of betrayal he was embroiled in, a deadly game in which each move might be the last.
Come to think of it, his plan was fitting, somehow. Poetic justice. She seemed so smug, so certain she understood every secret corner of her wounded creatures' hearts. It was time to discover whether the lady had any idea what it felt like not to be the savior but the prey.
Redmayne had always loved the hours before a siege—time to plan the perfect battle, play out the scenes in his head again and again until no lives would be lost to carelessness or flawed logic. Mistakes, costly at any time, were paid in battle with men's blood. Yet this campaign was different. He'd never before given a damn about the effect the altercation would have on the enemy. Enemy. A green-eyed woman with roses in her cheeks and stubbornness ingrained in every fiber of her being, stubbornness that had saved his life and tried his renowned patience.
With every
Why display such unseemly haste? For the simple reason that the woman was driving him mad. Not since his grandfather had anyone or anything raked at his nerves this way. He hadn't allowed it. But something about Rhiannon Fitzgerald made him feel closed in, as if the air had become too thick to breathe, not unlike the way a falcon must feel, imprisoned by the bars of a cage, a mocking voice purred inside his head.
"Captain Redmayne?"
Being jerked back to the present was a most annoying sensation.
"I know you are not accustomed to taking advice, but I'm going to suggest this to you anyway." Her voice lilted with Irish music, yet was more resolute than that of any besieged soldier he'd ever heard. "I've been snarled at, snapped at, and bitten more than once, all to no avail. It would be far more practical to use your energy to get well rather than to attempt to bully me into changing my mind. But it is your decision."
Was the woman actually patronizing him? Captain Lionel Redmayne? Something hot and uncomfortable knotted in his gut. Anger? Uncertainty? Maybe a little of both.
He could scarce believe it. Her eyes met his directly, no fear, no distrust. Didn't the woman have the wit to realize what he was?
No. She had a clear enough picture. Her observation echoed in his mind: "used to getting your own way by fair means or foul." But she was determined to defy him.
So the woman wanted to cross swords with him, did she? She thought herself a worthy opponent? Fine. He'd never been able to resist a challenge. After all, he'd been schooled by the most ruthless man alive.
But how best to defeat her? He mused for a long moment; then his eyes narrowed. Of course. There was only one thing to do. Make his stubborn guardian angel as anxious to be rid of him as he was to be rid of her.
Yet she was unaffected by the sharp wit and the cold glares that had always been his most finely honed weapons. There had to be another way to break Mistress Sunshine's resolve. How could he horrify her so completely that she would abandon her high principles, happily dump him at the garrison's doorstep, and drive her ridiculous horse and wagon away at breakneck speed?
Redmayne turned toward her, his gaze snagging on the rosy curve of her lips. Generous and inviting, dewy fresh, they shone, glossy in the light of the sun. He would wager his soul that those lips were as untouched by man as the briar roses tangled in a secret glen. What would happen if he plundered them?
It was a despicable plan. Made more loathsome still by everything she'd done for him. He actually felt a twinge. Fortunately, his conscience was so out of practice it was easily silenced. He didn't really intend to ravish her, after all, only scare her a little. And whatever his motives, she would benefit from the results as well. Be safer. Released from this crucible of betrayal he was embroiled in, a deadly game in which each move might be the last.
Come to think of it, his plan was fitting, somehow. Poetic justice. She seemed so smug, so certain she understood every secret corner of her wounded creatures' hearts. It was time to discover whether the lady had any idea what it felt like not to be the savior but the prey.
Redmayne had always loved the hours before a siege—time to plan the perfect battle, play out the scenes in his head again and again until no lives would be lost to carelessness or flawed logic. Mistakes, costly at any time, were paid in battle with men's blood. Yet this campaign was different. He'd never before given a damn about the effect the altercation would have on the enemy. Enemy. A green-eyed woman with roses in her cheeks and stubbornness ingrained in every fiber of her being, stubbornness that had saved his life and tried his renowned patience.
With every
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