"Captain, I'm sorry I was so clumsy tonight. I can't think what came over me, sir."
The same thing that seemed to come over everyone when in the presence of the unnerving Captain Redmayne, Lionel thought wryly. He had only to enter a room for people to begin dropping things, breaking things, stammering and stumbling.
He usually found such bumbling far more amusing than he had tonight. It seemed his sense of humor had gone a-begging sometime during the moments when Mary Fallon Delaney had become a bride.
Lionel glanced at the unopened bottle of fine claret he'd intended to use to toast yet another victory once he'd broken the woman's resolve, gotten her to admit—what? That her absurd tale of a secret betrothal and a bastard in her belly was a lie? That for some reason she was struggling to protect this Ciaran MacDonough? Perhaps because he was the criminal Redmayne was seeking.
It had seemed such a simple plan, there in the street with the crowds all around. Easy enough to outwit one headstrong female with a temper far too easy to stir, and every emotion painted on her face as brightly as the rouge on a ha'penny harlot's cheeks.
Yes, it should have been as simple as teaching a raw beginner a lesson in swordsmanship. Cut past all the pretty trappings of loyalty, generosity, and even patriotism until one struck that most elemental need in the center of any living creature—the will to survive.
Self-preservation. He'd seen men barter their own souls to grasp it. Watched them betray their comrades, their mothers, their wives and children when they felt the kiss of the blade on their own throat. Mary Fallon Delaney was no different.
He'd been so very certain. Give Miss Delaney enough rope, and she would hang herself—and her companion, too. It had been rather entertaining, toying with his prey when he'd been sure of victory. There had been times he could almost taste her fear, her indecision, her panic, and the hot fire of anticipation had risen in his body, a feeling akin to passion.
He'd even made certain the woman couldn't rationalize her actions away. No, nothing so simple that she could unravel it when the time suited her. He'd made damn certain it was a marriage by the laws of man and her nuisance of a God. A true marriage, with one of her Catholic priests presiding, and her claim that she was carrying a child driving away any possibility of annulment.
He'd watched and waited throughout the ceremony for the inevitable shattering, sensed the roar of emotions in the man who stood beside her, rigid with outrage and fury. Once, in the West Indies, Redmayne had seen a runaway Scotsman fresh from the convict ships caught in a mantrap, the savage jaws mangling his leg. Personally, Redmayne abhorred such crude measures. After all, had the master of the ship done his job correctly, manipulated the convict's will, the fool would never have run.
But still, he remembered the Scot. For despite the pain, the devastation that would cripple him for life, the man had glared at his captors as if he were an embattled king, refusing to admit that the fierce metal teeth of the trap were grinding his flesh. Ciaran MacDonough reminded Redmayne of that man.
Fool. Damned fool. Hadn't MacDonough realized he was helpless? Redmayne had wondered, waiting for either bride or groom to break down. But the couple had spoken the vows despite Redmayne's most expert goading. Ciaran MacDonough had slipped the ring on her finger, and suddenly the thing was done.
Redmayne had battled to keep the smirk on his face, his eyes as devoid of emotion, but a blue-hot frisson of anger had squeaked past his control, sizzling along his nerves like a bolt of lightning no one else could see.
Yet he'd known it was there—anger, for the first time since he'd been a boy.
Unnerving. In the space of two days Mary Fallon Delaney had accomplished the impossible. And it was damned disconcerting.
"Sir?" The aide-de-camp's voice cracked just a little, and the captain turned back to Barton. It was all Redmayne could do not to grimace. A fine sheen of sweat now beaded the young man's upper lip.
"I thought you were gone," Redmayne said, irritation prickling him. He damn well didn't like anyone hovering about when he was thinking.
"You didn't dismiss me, sir. Not officially."
Sometimes Redmayne thought Barton wouldn't dream of breathing unless he'd given the man permission. There were times Lionel had almost been tempted to give the order.No more breathing until I give the command.Unfortunately, he should have thought to give it half an hour ago. That way he'd have gotten a little peace.
"You're dismissed, Barton," Redmayne enunciated so clearly most men in his garrison would have been bolting out of the room as if a flesh-eating monster were at their heels.
"Sir, I was wondering, sir."
"A dangerous pastime."
The youth's Adam's apple bobbed twice in his scrawny throat. Did Barton have any idea how easily he betrayed himself to anyone with half an ounce of wit? Grandfather would disapprove. How many times had the old man made Lionel stand before a mirror until the boy had smoothed out any ripples of emotion to his satisfaction?
Reveal nothing.
The motto had been newly carved into the mantel above the fireplace at Rawmarsh, the slashes upon the new marble reminding Lionel of a fresh scar. Perhaps he should send Barton to grandfather for schooling. Doubtless the old man needed a new pupil. But Barton wasn't intelligent enough to match wits with Paxton Redmayne. His brains would be seared to ash before a fortnight was past.
And there was a distressing overabundance of puppyish eagerness in his face, despite all Redmayne's efforts to quench it. He feared Barton behaved as if life were an adventure to be enjoyed instead of a nasty jest to be mastered.
"Sir, I happened to see some men building battering rams, and I thought... I wondered... Are you expecting a fight? There don't seem to be any strongholds to storm hereabouts."
Heaven save him from men hungry for their first blooding. It was so inconvenient when they realized it was their own blood likely to be spilt. He wondered what Barton would say if he told him the truth. That the enemies they'd soon be attacking would be more apt to cause injury by toppling over on them than by returning fire.
"You mean, you failed to see the great castle upon the sea cliffs? Your powers of observation leave much to be desired."
"The-the one that's tumbling down, sir?" Barton asked, astonished. Then his chin dropped a notch, as if suddenly believing his commander had just made a joke at his expense.
