Irritating puppy, acting hurt. Redmayne had told him the truth. It was Barton's own fault he was too dense to realize it. "My plans and strategies are none of your concern,” Redmayne said. "Your duty is to keep my things in order, to make certain my uniform is pressed, my sword is sharpened so that when the time comes, all is in readiness."
"Yes, sir. It's just that all the preparations, the battering rams and such, and the lady who was married here today—it was all so odd. Made everyone wonder if they might be linked somehow."
Redmayne stared into the flames without acknowledging a word of what Barton had said.
"We couldn't help overhearing it was supposed to be a... a kind of trick. No one believed the wedding would ever really happen. But in the end, she did marry."
She had. It had been one of the boldest countermoves Redmayne had ever witnessed. It had stunned him utterly, and he'd not been surprised for a very long time. Something like admiration had stirred in him. Doubtless that explained the ragged edges he couldn't quite smooth out. He was unaccustomed to being thwarted. And Mary Fallon Delaney seemed to be making a career out of doing so.
But the game was far from over, and she was too passionate to move wisely for very long. He only needed to wait until her rashness betrayed her. It was just a matter of time. And Redmayne had cultivated the art of patience into a weapon far more lethal than a pistol.
The question was, how far would the lady go in her attempt to win? Had she just cast the rest of her life into the hands of MacDonough? Was she even now sharing a bridal bed with her unexpected husband? Redmayne's eyes narrowed a fraction. No. Pretenses would have to be kept up, but there would be little purpose in actually bedding him—unless, of course, Redmayne had posted guards at the bedposts. Then, doubtless, Mary Fallon would do whatever she deemed necessary to convince him. She was a most determined woman.
"Captain, sir, do you think Miss Delaney was telling the truth? Perhaps she is in love with Mr. MacDonough."
The fine muscles of Redmayne's face tightened just a fraction. He was unaccustomed to misjudging his opponents. "Don't be a fool, Barton."
"But why else would she do what she did today?"
Redmayne's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you think, perhaps, I should discuss strategies with you, Barton? Might your stunning intellect uncover something I have missed?"
The young man's face washed pale. "No, sir. Of course not, sir. Forgive my impertinence. I'll leave you now." He hustled to gather up the uniform in need of mending and the shards of porcelain to be disposed of. Redmayne hoped the infernal fool wouldn't cut himself to ribbons on them in the meantime. If he bled on the captain's uniform it would be the outside of enough.
"Good night, sir," Barton said with a ridiculous salute, then stumbled out the door and closed it behind him.
With a grimace, Redmayne crossed to the bottle of claret and opened it. After filling a goblet, he took a sip.
Barton was a fool, but he had given voice to the material question.
Perhaps she is in love with Mr. MacDonough. Why else would she do what she did today?
"Why indeed?" Redmayne muttered. He'd pondered over that question countless times in the hours since Mary Fallon Delaney's new bridegroom had hauled her away.
It had been aggravating, watching Hugh Delaney and MacDonough tow Fallon away before he was done with her, before he'd peeled back whatever pretenses, whatever veils she'd drawn over her motives. For an instant he'd wanted to draw his sword and block her way, force them to stay until he gave them leave to go. A ridiculous display of power, saber-rattling between men. It would have been a grave tactical error. And one thing Lionel Redmayne never made was a mistake.
Even so, the woman had flashed him a glance in the last moment before she swept from the room. One tiny glance that had taunted him, tempted him. It was exhilarating. It was unthinkable. But then, Mary Fallon Delaney was completely unpredictable, with courage any general under siege would kill to possess. Still, Redmayne had found that courage came easily enough when one underestimated one's opponent. And Miss Delaney, with her sheltered, gentry life here in the wilds of this barely civilized land, could have no idea what kind of a man she'd just crossed swords with.
Or did she? He recalled her animated features the night he'd found her wandering about the castle ruins, when he'd told her of his plan to destroy the circles of standing stones, the hulking shells of castles, the dolmens the Irish thought fraught with mystic powers.
She'd understood his theory with a quickness that surprised him. No sense slashing at the body of an enemy when one could cleave straight to the heart. And the horror that had flooded her eyes had told him everything he'd needed to know.
He'd found the jugular of these ungovernable people who had caused nothing but trouble for England since the day they'd first been conquered. And if his threat had upset Mary Fallon Delaney so much, what would it do to a man like Silver Hand?
Most smugglers in England would be thrilled at the thought of the authorities being distracted. They would probably begin building dolmens of their own to occupy the soldiers. But there was something different about Silver Hand, something Redmayne had sensed from the beginning. It wasn't greed that motivated the smuggler.
There was something else. And the instant his men began the destruction they would smoke the rebel out.
A brilliant move. One worthy of a master.
Redmayne set down the goblet of claret and crossed to his trunk. Opening it, he removed the tiny wooden box that he'd hidden in the farthest corner.
How many times had he almost thrown it into the fire? Every time he'd been transferred to a new command he'd resolved to do so.
It was dangerous to allow the clutter from one's past to accumulate, his grandfather had always said. Nothing could betray a man faster to his enemies. Weaknesses, secrets, tiny clues could be forged into a weapon. And Redmayne had made more than his share of enemies in his stellar rise through the ranks before a clash with a fool had plunged him into obscurity here in Ireland. But despite his best intentions, in the end he had always returned the box and what it contained to the trunk.
He lifted the lid. Candlelight flickered into the depths of the tiny chest. Slowly, Redmayne withdrew a lone game piece, the figure garbed in medieval splendor.
Why had he kept it? As a sentimental token of the years when he was raised by his grandfather? Some grand appreciation of artistry or beauty?
