Kenna bit her lip to keep from asking Nick what had he thought prompted the nightmare. He would only tell her her fears were unfounded, reminding her that Rhys had been the one who rescued her from the cave, had been the one who carried her to safety, eschewing help from the servants. Rhys was the one who kept a vigil by her bed when even Nicholas and Victorine had succumbed to exhaustion and the one who had been bitterly hurt when Kenna practically threw him from her room upon awakening, Nick never believed the part Rhys played in Kenna’s dreams had any basis in reality. Rhys was like a son to Robert Dunne, he told Kenna. It was inconceivable that Rhys could be guilty of murder. Besides, Rhys was seeing Yvonne safely to her room during the time Kenna was exploring the cave. Kenna had, perforce, to accept it, but the explanation did nothing to ease her mind.
Why then, she wondered, did Rhys Canning frighten her so? “Nick?”
Nicholas halted in his progress to the door and turned to face Kenna. “Is there something else?”
Impulsively she asked, “What were you wearing the night of the masque?”
Nick looked at her strangely. “Why on earth do you want to know that now? It can be of no account.”
“Humor me.”
“I was the devil himself. Everyone remarked on the cleverness of my guise. Old Nick, you know. Never say you don’t remember?”
Kenna frowned. “I suppose I didn’t. I thought…oh, never mind. You’re right. It can hardly be of any account now.”
Nick watched Kenna’s eyes close sleepily again. When her frown vanished, composing her face into the trusting serenity of a child, he left.
Kenna waited until Nick’s footsteps receded in the hallway before she threw back her covers and got out of bed. At her writing desk she began composing a letter to Yvonne. If Nick knew what she was planning he would be put out with her, so Kenna explained in her missive that Yvonne must never mention Kenna had invited herself. She didn’t have any worries that Yvonne would not understand the urgency she felt to be gone from Dunnelly. She had only to mention Rhys’s name and Yvonne would command her to come to Cherry Hill. Even though Yvonne did not truly comprehend Kenna’s aversion to Rhys, she would extend the invitation for Kenna’s sake.
Of course Yvonne knew of her nightmares, had even shared Kenna’s bed in the early days when the dreams came frequently and with an intensity that woke most of the house. They were vague, nebulous dreams then, more frightening because upon waking Kenna could remember almost nothing of them. Yet Rhys’s presence had provided a common thread of sorts and Kenna’s sleeping fears had transformed into a conscious repugnance of the man she had once considered a brother. While Yvonne had come to love Rhys for his unstinting devotion to the Dunne family, Kenna resented the way he had made himself invaluable during the period following her father’s death.
According to Yvonne, Rhys had taken charge of everything. Nicholas was shattered by his father’s murder and could think of nothing but revenge, though to whom it should be directed eluded him. Victorine, though she tried to nurse Kenna, was finally bedridden with shock and no one was certain Kenna would recover. It was left to Rhys to see to the arrangements and offer comfort to those who could appreciate it. Kenna could not help the cynical smile that touched her generous mouth. Rhys’s comfort to Nick and Yvonne may have been of the purest motives, but in light of her most recent dreams she questioned his response toward Victorine.
As Kenna cursed the confusing nightmares that plagued her, a drop of ink spattered her signature. She blotted it and fanned the vellum in disgust. Yvonne was certain to know the letter was penned in haste and her thoughts had been elsewhere. After Kenna folded the missive she placed it on a salver for the maid to post in the morning and returned to her bed. Satisfied that she would receive an answer in a few days and sure she could suffer Rhys’s presence for that short while, Kenna fell into a blessedly peaceful sleep.
* * *
As was her custom, Kenna woke early and dressed for her morning ride. Her gray gelding was waiting anxiously in the stables, nosing the groom who was adjusting his bridle.
“I’m certain that’s fine, Adams,” Kenna said, coming up behind the groom and stroking the white star on Pyramid’s nose. “Pyramid is ready to go, aren’t you, boy?”
“As you say, Lady Kenna, but I don’t want any accidents like the last one.” Adams ran a hand over his sparse crop of silver hair. “Like as not that piece of work took ten years off my life.”
Kenna smiled, patting the groom on his shoulder. “Then you’ll only live to be one hundred.”
Adams straightened and adjusted the saddle, giving it a sharp tug to make certain it was secure. “And don’t you make light of it,” he said sternly though there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself for not seeing you off myself that morning.” He gave Kenna a leg up.
“You refine upon it too much. It happened months ago, almost six to be exact, and yet you have remarked upon it nearly every day since then. It would be more remarkable if I were the only rider to have never taken a spill. I appreciate your concern, but I do wish you would cease speaking of it. You will shatter my confidence.”
“Humph. ’Tis a lucky thing your stepmama was riding with you, else you could have been on your back in the brook for hours. You took that spill and nearly broke your neck because the girth was worn through. I would have seen it.”
“I’m certain you would have, but I could hardly ask you to saddle my horse when you were laid low with stomach trouble.”
“And that’s another thing,” Adams went on grumpily. “I never had a bit of trouble with my breadbasket before or after.”
Kenna’s brows drew together and she quieted her restless horse. “Just what are you saying, Adams?”
Adams looked away, uncomfortable under Kenna’s direct gaze and questioning. “Don’t mind me, Lady Kenna. I’m just an old man what sometimes gets a notion in his head and can’t shake it. Go on with you.” He slapped Pyramid on the rump and called out to her to be careful as she rode away. When Kenna was out of sight he sat down on a bale of hay and plucked a stem of dry grass to pick at a bit of last night’s stew still lodged between his molars. Heaven knew if Nicholas got wind of what he had said to Kenna he would be looking for other employment and it was not something Donald Adams relished. Yet today he had come as close as he had ever dared to letting Kenna suspect the truth. Damn! He knew that strap had been sawed clear through and he had taken it straight away to Nick when he discovered it. Nicholas dismissed the man who had saddled Kenna’s horse that morning and made Adams promise not to mention his findings to Kenna. She would never understand that someone had deliberately tried to hurt her. Knowing the frail state of Kenna’s mind—her nightmares were common knowledge among the staff—Adams agreed. Yet his promise bothered him. Didn’t Lady Kenna have a right to know that her fall had been a calculated attempt to cause her grievous injury, perhaps even kill her?
Kenna rode Pyramid at a sedate pace until she was out of sight of the stables then she urged her mount to a gallop and jumped the stone wall that bounded Dunnelly to the north. Circling round she tempted fate and jumped the wall again before she guided Pyramid through the shallow icy brook and into the woods. Their progress was nearly silent as Pyramid’s hooves settled in the light layer of snow covering the ground. Kenna breathed in the serenity of the winter wood and the crisp clear air that was a balm to her senses. Her conversation with Donald Adams was firmly relegated to the back of her mind.
Just when she thought nothing could spoil her enjoyment of the morning she heard a loud snap and the keening cry of a wounded animal. Weaving Pyramid through the thick grove of trees she headed toward the sound and dismounted as soon as she found the steel trap that had closed around the hind leg of a fox. Her first thought was for rescuing the animal and she located a sturdy fallen branch to pry open the metal jaws. It was a difficult task because the fox was frightened and twice sank his sharp little teeth into her velvet riding coat.
“You’re not helping me, poor thing,” Kenna said soothingly. “If you’d just stay still a moment I’d get you free.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Startled by the thundering voice behind her, Kenna fell back on her posterior and dropped her stick. She cried out as the fox nipped at her stockinged leg above her boot. She started to scramble out of the animal’s reach, an action that was much aided by the unwelcome assistance of two strong hands beneath her arms. When she was pulled to her feet she spun around, hands on her hips, a militant look in her eyes, and faced Rhys Canning.
