Free Cates, Kimberly by Briar Rose Page A

except outside," she stammered by way of an explanation, "and—and then I wouldn't be able to hear you if you cried out."
    Amusement vanished. Redmayne didn't move a fraction, but felt a hardening inside himself, a tightness in his chest. He mustered the tones that had never failed to send the offender scrambling off in retreat. "I won't be subjecting you to any more such nonsense." I'll cut my own throat first, he finished grimly to himself.
    But Rhiannon's too tender mouth softened, her eyes flooding with compassion. "Once, when I had a nightmare, Papa told me that even the bravest of soldiers needed someone to hold on to when the dragons came at night. Even then I thought a soldier's dragons must be ever so much fiercer and more frightening than mine. I'm glad you had your own father to call for, Captain." She reached out one hand, laid it on his cheek. "You needn't feel ashamed."
    Redmayne's throat closed. He forced a sneer onto his lips. "Ashamed? Madam, you obviously have a high opinion of your powers of intuition. This time, however, you are mistaken."
    Her eyes glowed with earnestness. "You needn't worry. I'll never tell anyone about the night you cried out. And we don't ever have to speak about it again unless you wish to."
    She'd read his thoughts? How damnably strange, Redmayne thought with a chill. Not since he was ten years old had anyone been able to unravel the workings of his mind. He'd guarded them far more closely than any miser his treasure hoard. Lucifer was supposed to see into the souls of his prey. They were not supposed to go prying merrily into his.
    And as for her vow that they would never speak of his momentary weakness again... Bloody hell, he'd never known a woman born who could refrain from ferreting out any intriguing tidbit of information once she'd caught the scent of a secret. Doubtless this woman was just better than most at disguising her intentions. But bedamned if any torture master wielding weapons of steel or of luminous green-gold eyes could wrench any confidence out of Captain Lionel Redmayne.
    "Miss Fitzgerald, your vow of silence is immaterial to me. There is nothing more to speak of." He gave a careless wave of one hand.
    "You don't believe me, do you? That I'll keep my word?"
    Blast if she hadn't managed to disconcert him again! "What I believe is of no importance."
    "I feel very sorry for you, Captain."
    Pity? That most loathsome of poisons! How dare she! If she were a man... what? He'd have found a way to make her pay for such a violation. "Your sympathy is wasted on me."
    "How sad. What kind of people have hurt you thus, that there is no one you trust? Someone must have betrayed you. I never will." The stark sincerity in her forest-hued eyes should have pierced clean through to Redmayne's heart. Fortunately he did not possess one. Yet there was something singular about so much earnestness, so much innocence, combined with a fearlessness any soldier on the field of battle would envy. Something that affected Redmayne in a way he couldn't quite name.
    A lazy contempt was his usual reaction to too much goodness, and curiosity as to how long it would last if confronted with real pain, real adversity. He'd made a game of estimating exactly how much pressure it would take before virtue snapped. If there was one valuable lesson his grandfather had taught him, it was that a man's powers of deduction needed to be kept honed sharper than his sword. And just as a master swordsman practiced every day the movements of his craft until they were second nature, so the warrior of the mind sharpened his skills at every opportunity.
    Only twice had Redmayne been unable to discover a crack in the armor of his opponent—when he'd matched wits with Mary Fallon Delaney, and the man who had risked all to love her. An odd sensation. But not as odd as the one that stole through him now.
    He started in astonishment, wrenched from his musings as Miss Fitzgerald wrapped her fingers gently about his.