had given the man a piece of her soul? "Rhiannon Fitzgerald."
"Miss Fitzgerald." The lieutenant swept her a theatrical bow. "This island can be most hazardous to the health of a lone English soldier. An astonishing number of accidents can befall those who stray too far from their garrison."
"Perhaps it is the mist, Sir Thorne. People have become lost in it for ages past." She attempted to stall, praying that she'd get some sort of insight into Sir Thorne and his compatriots. "Or maybe the fairies stole your officer away. They've been taking mortals prisoner in Ireland since time began."
Thorne's mouth hardened, his eyes narrowing, and in that instant Rhiannon caught a glimpse of what it might mean to have this man as an enemy. "I am a simple soldier, Miss Fitzgerald, given to far more practical answers to such mysteries. Your countrymen are an unruly lot, prone to acts of cowardice, cutting soldiers down with an assassin's blade, a sniper's bullet."
Rhiannon instinctively straightened her spine. "People can become most unreasonable when their homes are pulled down over their heads." It wasn't the wisest thing she could have said under the circumstances, but the words slipped out before she could stop them. She couldn't help glancing again at the Irishman, wondering if one of those shattered cottages had induced him to serve as guide to the enemy. The man winced, then shuttered it away.
As if suddenly aware of his tactical error, Sir Thorne twisted his lips into a grimace of a smile. "You are quite right, Miss Fitzgerald. I beg you to forgive my clumsiness. It is not a soldier's job to question his government's policies in a conquered land, be they fair or foul. We are trained to obey orders. That is all."
That was true enough. And it had often disturbed Rhiannon when she heard hatred of the English poured out more freely than whiskey about hearth fires and crossroads. True, the English government had been brutal, ruthless, in its dealings with Ireland. But sprinkled among the seasoned soldiers who carried out their orders were fresh-faced country boys from Yorkshire and Kent, driven into the army by the same desperate need to survive as the impoverished Irish.
Rhiannon had seen those English boys' eyes grow troubled, filled with regret as they followed their officers' commands. She'd sensed that the things they'd done and seen would haunt them. And as time passed, she'd seen them harden, shut down their emotions as they grew too painful to bear. Enemies, those boys and the Irish crofter's sons, and yet they were more alike than either of them knew.
And men like Sir Thorne and Captain Redmayne were the ones who commanded them to fight each other. Rhiannon's stomach tightened with loathing.
"Miss Fitzgerald." The man Sir Thorne had identified as Sergeant Barton stepped forward. "We are really quite desperate to find this officer. He is a most remarkable man and a brave one." The sergeant's boyish face grew so earnest that for an instant, Rhiannon considered spilling out the truth. Yet, as if of their own volition, her eyes flicked to the rugged features of Sir Thorne.
"I... I don't think I can help you," she said. By the gates of Tir naN Og, had she lost her mind? Redmayne was just beyond the door, so gravely injured that it would be best if he saw a doctor. Who could predict whether or not he would spike a fever, the wound turn putrid? Her skills at healing might prove meager indeed if put to such a test.
"Perhaps we could speak with your husband? He might have seen something you missed?" Sir Thorne took a step forward, eyeing the caravan door.
"My..." Rhiannon leaned back until her shoulders were flat against the door. "I have no husband."
Something ugly sparked in the lieutenant's eyes. "You are alone?"
The words raked across her nerves. Fool. Stupid fool! To let such a man know she was utterly vulnerable.
"Perhaps you would be kind enough to loan me some char-cloth to start a fire tonight. These hills are
Debby Herbenick, Vanessa Schick