of a father. But instead she only picked at a loose thread as if it held the secret to unraveling the universe.
"That was the strangest part." A crease formed between her delicate brows. "As long as I could remember, Papa had been turning away a great many clients. He gave himself to every pursuit wholeheartedly, wouldn't take any case unless he would be willing and able to sacrifice the last drop of his blood for the cause. But in the weeks before we lost Primrose, the people who had been clamoring for his help disappeared as well."
"Trust rats to know when a ship is sinking," Redmayne muttered, more to himself than to the woman.
Her eyes widened. "Odd you should say that. That's exactly how I felt. As if Primrose were a mouse's hole and some giant invisible cat lay in wait outside it, frightening away anyone who might come near. It was so sudden, so complete—the silence, the feeling of isolation."
Redmayne was astonished to feel a stirring of curiosity in spite of himself.
She looked down at the mending in her lap, her voice dropping low. "I wouldn't have minded leaving the cottage so much if I'd felt that the new owner would love it as I had. Care for my mama's roses, take joy in the gillyflowers carved into the mantelpieces. It was a house that had been cherished from the moment it was built. The walls, the very walls, whispered of love." For the first time a wistfulness touched the rare purity of her features, making them even more vulnerable than before. Redmayne's shoulders tightened, but not entirely with impatience. "I knew the house would be lonely after we were gone."
The girl had been packed into a gypsy cart, lost practically everything she owned, not to mention any chance at a decent future—for what kind of man would marry a penniless girl in a garish painted cart?—but as the wagon rattled off into an uncertain future, what had she been worried about? That the house her irresponsible ass of a father had lost would be lonely.
Over the years, Redmayne had worked hard to perfect his gift for seeing into other people's minds—into their motives and fears, weaknesses and vices—for to know one's opponent was vital in the vast game that was life. Yet he always viewed whatever he discovered with detachment. Why was it that the picture of Rhiannon Fitzgerald stung? A wistful woman-child's face peering out of the back of the bright-painted caravan, straining to catch a last glimpse of her world before it disappeared?
God's blood, if he didn't feel an uncharacteristic urge to utter some word of sympathy or comfort! Useless rot. It would change nothing that had happened. Still, he couldn't help but wonder just a little about the young girl and her father, cast to the winds of fate on the open road.
"It was difficult, no doubt, wandering about, suddenly paupers."
The woman actually broke into a smile. "I was homesick for a little while, but there was no use in grieving. Parties and beaux, all the pieces of that other life were gone."
Of course any suitors would have abandoned her. It was to be expected. She was a woman without a dowry, whose father was little more than a benevolent madman. What benefit could be derived from taking such a wife? And yet not every suitor would have turned his back on Rhiannon Fitzgerald, Redmayne acknowledged with an unaccustomed twinge of bitterness. There were some noble fools sprinkled in among the ranks of men. Fools like the man who had won the heart of Mary Fallon Delaney, a man who would have slain dragons in her name.
"Once we were on the road, this life grew easier. The countryside was so beautiful, it soothed my spirit. Perhaps I no longer had my mother's roses, but all Ireland was my garden now, Papa told me." Her mouth softened, sweetened, her eyes touched with a faint, pensive shadow. "And I was his briar rose because I bloomed wherever I was planted, and always turned my face up to the sun."
A briar rose... it fit her, that sobriquet. Untidy, tangling every
"That was the strangest part." A crease formed between her delicate brows. "As long as I could remember, Papa had been turning away a great many clients. He gave himself to every pursuit wholeheartedly, wouldn't take any case unless he would be willing and able to sacrifice the last drop of his blood for the cause. But in the weeks before we lost Primrose, the people who had been clamoring for his help disappeared as well."
"Trust rats to know when a ship is sinking," Redmayne muttered, more to himself than to the woman.
Her eyes widened. "Odd you should say that. That's exactly how I felt. As if Primrose were a mouse's hole and some giant invisible cat lay in wait outside it, frightening away anyone who might come near. It was so sudden, so complete—the silence, the feeling of isolation."
Redmayne was astonished to feel a stirring of curiosity in spite of himself.
She looked down at the mending in her lap, her voice dropping low. "I wouldn't have minded leaving the cottage so much if I'd felt that the new owner would love it as I had. Care for my mama's roses, take joy in the gillyflowers carved into the mantelpieces. It was a house that had been cherished from the moment it was built. The walls, the very walls, whispered of love." For the first time a wistfulness touched the rare purity of her features, making them even more vulnerable than before. Redmayne's shoulders tightened, but not entirely with impatience. "I knew the house would be lonely after we were gone."
The girl had been packed into a gypsy cart, lost practically everything she owned, not to mention any chance at a decent future—for what kind of man would marry a penniless girl in a garish painted cart?—but as the wagon rattled off into an uncertain future, what had she been worried about? That the house her irresponsible ass of a father had lost would be lonely.
Over the years, Redmayne had worked hard to perfect his gift for seeing into other people's minds—into their motives and fears, weaknesses and vices—for to know one's opponent was vital in the vast game that was life. Yet he always viewed whatever he discovered with detachment. Why was it that the picture of Rhiannon Fitzgerald stung? A wistful woman-child's face peering out of the back of the bright-painted caravan, straining to catch a last glimpse of her world before it disappeared?
God's blood, if he didn't feel an uncharacteristic urge to utter some word of sympathy or comfort! Useless rot. It would change nothing that had happened. Still, he couldn't help but wonder just a little about the young girl and her father, cast to the winds of fate on the open road.
"It was difficult, no doubt, wandering about, suddenly paupers."
The woman actually broke into a smile. "I was homesick for a little while, but there was no use in grieving. Parties and beaux, all the pieces of that other life were gone."
Of course any suitors would have abandoned her. It was to be expected. She was a woman without a dowry, whose father was little more than a benevolent madman. What benefit could be derived from taking such a wife? And yet not every suitor would have turned his back on Rhiannon Fitzgerald, Redmayne acknowledged with an unaccustomed twinge of bitterness. There were some noble fools sprinkled in among the ranks of men. Fools like the man who had won the heart of Mary Fallon Delaney, a man who would have slain dragons in her name.
"Once we were on the road, this life grew easier. The countryside was so beautiful, it soothed my spirit. Perhaps I no longer had my mother's roses, but all Ireland was my garden now, Papa told me." Her mouth softened, sweetened, her eyes touched with a faint, pensive shadow. "And I was his briar rose because I bloomed wherever I was planted, and always turned my face up to the sun."
A briar rose... it fit her, that sobriquet. Untidy, tangling every
Similar Books
