Cates, Kimberly

PROLOGUE

The pistol ball seared a lightning-hot bolt through flesh, the bitter tang of gunpowder burning in the air, but Captain Lionel Redmayne scarce felt it. Death— every reluctant soldier's lover—was coming to claim him at last on this barren, deserted stretch of Irish road.

Redmayne leveled his own pistol at shadowy attackers who melted into clumps of heather behind outcroppings of rock, seemingly from the mist itself. Three of them. Maybe four. Scenting his blood.

He could almost taste their victory. He'd have to make this shot count. It might be his last. Anyone familiar with a pistol knew as well as he did that it would take precious seconds for him to reload, seconds in which they could close in for the kill. And in the twenty minutes he'd managed to keep them at bay, these men had shown themselves practiced in every method of dealing death.

It was a miracle he'd held them off this long. If he could fight them blade to blade, he might stand some chance. But they had no interest in a fair fight when they'd ambushed him here in the ruins of Ballyaroon. They didn't want a battle. They wanted a corpse. His.

He objected, of course, though not out of any grand passion for life. He'd been barely six years old when he realized that dying was easy. It was living that was far harder. In his years in the army he had stared into the face of his own death so many times he'd come to dismiss it as a fleeting nuisance, like the faint buzzing of a bee too close to his ear. He just figured this would be a damned embarrassing way to die.

The infamous, terrifyingly omniscient Captain Lionel Redmayne cut down on a deserted stretch of Irish road because he'd been fool enough to travel without a cadre of guards in a land that would sooner have tea with the devil than with the English army. Not to mention the fact that he'd been too distracted by thoughts that tugged at him, troubled him, like importunate children no matter how resolutely he tried to shove them away.

He fired at a blur of movement, heard a cry of pain. At least he'd have company on his way to hell, he thought with some satisfaction, fighting to reload his pistol.

Who the devil were they? he wondered, struggling to jam another pistol ball down the barrel of his weapon. A man liked to know who was shooting at him.

Who hated him enough to hunt him down? Less capable officers he'd tramped over on his way to promotion; common folk caught in a vise between their well-being and his duty; those who feared him, hated him, or saw him as an impediment standing in their way. A grim smile twisted his lips. It would be far easier to sort out who
didn't
hate him.

Yes, there were plenty who wanted him dead—but there was a perilous step from desiring it to making it a reality. And a towering leap from a bullet or sword blade wielded in a fit of passion against an enemy, to the hiring of an assassin. There was something exceedingly cold-blooded in the knowledge that whoever was responsible for this attack might even now be holding polite conversation at a table glittering with crystal, or lounging in a bedchamber seducing some woman.

But it seemed his question would go unanswered.

Only one thing was certain: once this fight was over, there would be no one to mourn him. Lionel Redmayne would slip beneath the silvery surface of life, leaving not so much as a ripple of grief or loss in any other living soul.

It hadn't mattered a damn to him in fifteen years of campaigning. Why did the thought suddenly leave something hollow, aching in the pit of his stomach?

It was this infernal land where passions lay so thick it was impossible to breathe without sucking them in. It was the memory of one moonlit night when flame-red hair tumbled about a woman's flushed face as she danced for another man, love hot in her eyes. A pulsing ember of life so vivid that for the first time in Redmayne's life he couldn't crush it, even in the name of duty. Mary Fallon Delaney had made a glaring mockery of everything he'd believed about himself. Had made him question...

Another shot rang out, and he felt the ball tear through his thigh. His eyes swept the village ruins, suddenly glimpsing a ring of ancient stones half-toppled twenty-five yards distant. If he could reach it, he might be able to... to what? Escape was impossible, but the stones might provide enough shelter so that he could take yet another assassin with him when he died. That would be reward enough.

Redmayne grimaced, scrambled upward, his thigh burning, his head swimming with bitter irony. He'd come to Ireland determined to destroy relics of the past like this ring of stones... tear them apart and fling them into the sea. That way the infernal Irish could forget... the absurd kiss of magic, the tales of long faded glory, the past that was of no use to them. They would accept the future that was inevitable. He'd been so certain he understood the people of this place. He hadn't expected that he could be sucked into their special brand of madness.

His elbow slammed into a stone, pain jolting through him. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder with his good leg, one hand clamped tight over the wound in his other. He heard a shout, glimpsed the pale flash of a man's face. Near. Too near.

They were closing in on him....

The stone ring swirled around him, dark, cool, unearthly, as he dragged himself into a crook between two stones. As if there were anyplace dark enough to conceal him!

Black haze tugged at him, drawing him deeper into cold, still waters. He heard vague shouts of confusion, but it didn't matter anymore. They would find him. And when they did... death.

Images swam beneath his half-closed lids. Papa... his father's battered doctor's bag, its shiny contents spilled out on a scarred table, useless at last. Fear clamping tight in his belly, the need to tuck his own small hand in Papa's strong one. But Papa's hands were busy holding on to the blue-veined ones of the old woman.
"Reach out your hand, Mary,"
Papa had urged softly.
"They're waiting for you... your mama, your papa, the babes you lost so long ago. Everyone you've ever loved.... They've come to lead you to heaven."

Sure, so sure Papa had been. Lionel had believed it too. Perhaps he still did. But it didn't matter. Couldn't matter for him.

Redmayne winced at the twisting pain somewhere deep inside him where no bullet could touch. No one would come from heaven to take his hand on this barren hill. Even his compassionate father would turn his back on the man his son had become.

Redmayne closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of quiet despair, waiting for the end. He was tired. So tired, the sharp edges of emotions bleeding, his very body seeming to fade away, a piece at a time. Soon there would be nothing left. But then, had he ever really been anything... anyone at all?

Redemption—the word flashed through the red haze of his pain, shimmered there, but he turned his face away. He'd be wiser to put his faith in fairies and magic, in destiny and fate, than to believe in forgiveness for a man like him. There would be no hand stretching down from heaven.

"To the devil, then," he muttered in a rasping breath, reaching into the swirl of mist. "Take me, if you dare."

CHAPTER 1

The fairies were whispering the faintest of warnings, which tingled along Rhiannon Fitzgerald's freckle-spattered cheeks and settled deep into her bones. She braced herself against the rocking of her rainbow-hued gypsy caravan and gripped the reins more tightly. Eyes the warm green-gold of a forest primeval searched the wild, rocky landscape swept clean of afternoon mist. The ghostly ruins that had once been the village of Ballyaroon kept unearthly watch over the quiet hills, standing stones with their well-kept secrets, just visible above the verdant green of the next rise.

"Don't let your imagination run wild, Rhiannon," she chided herself, dashing a wayward lock of cinnamon hair from her cheek. "There is nothing amiss. You're only reacting to this place. Echoes of old pain, old sorrows. They grow louder when you're alone." The thought should have offered more comfort.

After all, her reasoning might be valid enough. From the dawning of her first memory, Rhiannon had felt as if an invisible ribbon stitched into her breast bound her to the heartbeat buried deep in these timeless hills, a link carrying piercing sweetness, sorrowful yearning, a joy and a curse. Stark awareness of things seen and unseen beyond the drab veil of most people's reality—ghost-shadows of ages long vanished, silent cries of wounded woodland creatures, the fragrant magic of healing herbs white witches had gathered when the earth was new, and the irresistible pull of tides called destiny.

It was the gift of the fairy-born, her da had told anyone who would listen. Her mother's parting boon before she returned to the magical kingdom of Tir naN Og, leaving her mortal lover and her child behind.

There were times when Rhiannon wished most fervently her mother had seen fit to leave her something a little less troublesome—a pretty locket, perhaps, or a letter Rhiannon could read—precious words that might bring to life the woman she'd never known.

"The least she could have done was leave instructions on how to turn this—this 'gift'
off
once in a while so I can have some peace," Rhiannon complained to the soft-eyed vixen peering between the slats of an overturned basket beside her. But her vague attempt at humor fell flat. The unsettled feelings only intensified as she peered into that pointed little face, so wise yet so vulnerable beneath wisps of russet fur.

"Perhaps I'm just feeling strange because I'm going to miss you,
mo chroi,"
she said, her throat tightening. A sense of pride and impending loss tugged at her as she shifted both reins to one hand and eased her finger into the basket to stroke a silky ear. "Your foot is all mended now. It's time to set you free."

Free. Far away from the foxhounds that had nearly killed her, or their rich masters, chasing after in a mad rush of wind and scarlet coats and blooded horses, delighting in the hunt.

She gazed at the rocky, wild terrain about her, deserted except for ghosts of rebellions past, a place far distant from any of the great houses that would host the blood sports. Not even the most intrepid fox-hunter would dare traverse such rugged land. Out here the little vixen would have a fighting chance to survive.