Read Cates, Kimberly for Free Online

consequence." He grimaced, glancing about. "Who are you, and exactly where am I?"
    "My name is Rhiannon Fitzgerald. And you're in my gypsy cart in a glen ten miles from the ruins of Ballyaroon."
    Redmayne should have been grateful, her answer scattering the last vestiges of his dream to the winds. Other images flooded to replace them. Deserted roads he'd traversed alone. Battered ruins that had once been a village. The first crack of a shot shattering the unearthly stillness. A trap laid ever so carefully for a fool careless enough to wander into it.
    By all logical accounts, he should be on his way to hell now. He could remember his enemies closing in on him. The tramping of their footsteps drawing ever nearer to the ring of stones in which he'd sought shelter until at last it seemed they should be treading on his very hand. And even if he dismissed that extraordinary escape, they should have hunted him down while he lay flat on his back, unconscious. God knew, it should've been easy enough for his enemies to find this monstrosity the woman called a gypsy cart.
    If and when they did find him, this time he'd be ready.
    Instinctively, Redmayne groped at his waist. "My pistol—where's my pistol."
    She looked puzzled for a moment, then sighed. "It's in the clearing where I found you, I suppose."
    "Could I trouble you to go and fetch it?"
    "I'm afraid it's ten miles away, and growing dark. It could be anywhere between here and Ballyaroon. I was somewhat distracted because of your wounds."
    Redmayne's lips tightened. "I see. I suppose it doesn't matter. After all, you must have some kind of weapon hereabouts, traveling the way you do."
    "I have Milton." She smiled at him.
    "Milton? Is that your husband?" He should have been more relieved at the prospect.
    "No. I'm not married." A becoming pink stained her cheeks. The woman was blushing, and a horde of frustrated assassins might be swarming down on the cart at any moment!
    Redmayne pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temple.
    "If you would allow me to speak to this Milton, whoever he is, Miss Fitzgerald, I'm certain we can come to an understanding—"
    "I don't think it would do much good. You see, Milton is my dog. He takes great pride in guarding the camp. He had a most unfortunate collision with a horse's hoof when he was foxhunting, and ever since then his senses haven't been quite clear. He has a habit of growling at tree roots and missing entirely any rabbits that run beneath his nose. But he tries very hard to be fierce when he isn't stumbling into trees."
    Redmayne grimaced. "I hope he writes poetry better than he keeps watch."
    A tentative smile curved those too tender lips. For an instant he wondered if he'd ever been quite so innocent. "I'm afraid I named him Milton not because of his literary prowess, but because—"
    "Because he can't see well. But I must say, it's obvious even the beast sees things more clearly than you do."
    "I don't understand."
    "What were you thinking? A lone woman, taking up a strange man in the middle of nowhere—a man who'd obviously been shot and left for dead. Any person with half a wit would have left me there and driven as far away as possible. I doubt the men who did this to me would be averse to putting a few holes in you for good measure while your guard dog attacked his own shadow."
    Surprising himself with a sharp tug of impatience, Redmayne struggled to sit up, the fresh-smelling sheet sliding down the plane of his chest to pool against his stomach. He glimpsed the pale tan of his bare skin. What the devil?
    He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt bed linen against his skin. He'd slept in his shirt and breeches as long as he could remember, always prepared to rush from his chamber in a heartbeat. Battles and ambushes, emergencies of all kinds, didn't keep regular daytime hours, and a commander would look dashed foolish running around with a sheet clasped about his hips.
    He raised his gaze coolly to the young woman,