Beyond Compare (10 page)

“Good.” Broughton smiled, pleased to have disposed of the matter. “That’s settled, then. I shall send Jennings a note.”

The family meeting broke up not long after that, and the duke returned the ivory reliquary to its place in the locked case. Kyria started out of the room, feeling thoroughly disgruntled. The last thing she had intended today was to commit herself to a day spent in the company of Rafe McIntyre.

Before she reached the door, Rafe stepped forward and stopped her, saying with a grin, “It won’t be so terrible, ma’am. You’ll hardly know I’m there.”

That, Kyria thought, was most definitely not true; that was precisely the problem with this man—she was always much too aware of his presence. However, she could not help but feel she was being a trifle unreasonable. Rafe was doing her a favor by escorting her safely, and she had been churlish about it.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McIntyre. You must not take it the wrong way. I am simply a little sensitive about people trying to protect me. Swaddling one in silk still leaves one unable to move.”

“Your family is just concerned about the danger. They have every reason to be.”

Kyria sighed. “I know. And it really isn’t my family that is the problem. They are generally quite willing to allow any of us our freedom. It is the main reason we are considered so peculiar.”

“Who was it, then, that got you all-fired determined
to do everything on your own?” He held up a hand, saying, “No, wait, let me guess. Your suitors?”

“I have grown so tired of hearing what a delicate flower I am, how in need of protection. Really, Mr. McIntyre, look at me. Do I look delicate? I am taller than a good number of them. It is ludicrous.”

He shook his head. “Now, me, I like a sturdy female.”

Kyria arched one well-tended eyebrow at him, murmuring, “Sturdy?”

Rafe’s blue eyes danced. “That doesn’t sit too well, either, huh?” He leaned in closer, and Kyria’s pulse began to race. “I have an advantage over those other fellows, though. It’s hard to think of a person as a delicate flower when I first saw you clambering around in a tree like a monkey.”

Kyria had to smile back, a dimple popping into her cheek. “Belatedly, thank you for coming to my rescue then.” She hesitated, then added, “And thank you for offering to escort me. Papa would have insisted on doing it otherwise, and he would have hated taking off time from his pots. I apologize for being rude.”

“Apology accepted,” Rafe said, adding, “provided, of course, that we take a little trial run.”

“A what?”

“You know—go out for a ride tomorrow, while your father is waiting to hear from his Mr. Jennings, just to see if anyone pops out to knock us over the head.”

Kyria looked at him, realizing that he had neatly maneuvered her into doing precisely what she had not wanted—and twice, at that! He smiled at her, his arms crossed, leaning negligently against the doorjamb, and
there was something so appealing about him that Kyria could not keep from chuckling.

“All right,” she agreed. “Tomorrow I’ll take you on a tour of the countryside.”

K
yria and Rafe rode out the next morning on their tour of the estate. Kyria had thought about circumventing any degree of intimacy on their ride by bringing along the twins, who were still somewhat at loose ends without a tutor. However, she could well imagine the smile that Rafe would send her if she did, the knowing twinkle in his eye. It would be as good as acknowledging that she could not handle being alone with him, she decided, and she immediately discarded the idea.

So, after breakfast the next morning, when Reed had departed for his trip to London, she ordered their horses brought round, and the two of them set off. Kyria could not help but feel a certain lift of her spirits as they rode along. She had worn her newest riding habit, a royal-blue skirt and bodice cut in a military style, with black frogging down the front. She had had it made right before she and her family left London at the end of the season, and she had not yet worn it. This morning seemed the perfect time for it, crisp, but dry, with an autumn sun casting its golden light over the landscape.

She led him on a tour of the estate farms, calling greetings to the workers who stopped their work to hail
her and occasionally pausing to talk to one or two of the farmers. Then, with a mischievous smile, she asked him if he cared to see the local haunted spot.

“Of course,” he agreed, the dimple in his cheek deepening. “A visit wouldn’t be complete without a haunted place.”

They cut through a copse of trees and came out in a small clearing. Backed by a graceful laurel tree stood six stones of varying height, some no more than four feet and one as tall as six. They were rather narrow stones, standing on end in a jumbled little group, not a circle, yet not a line, either. They were pitted and weatherbeaten, decorated with lichen, some leaning a little to one side.

Surrounded on three sides by trees, the spot was hushed, except for the faint rustle of the bare branches in the breeze. They dismounted, tethered their horses to a tree and approached the stones.

“Why is it haunted?” Rafe asked. “It seems a very pleasant place to me.”

“Does it?” Kyria looked at him, faintly surprised. “A number of people dislike it. They find it eerie.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the quiet. Or maybe it’s the local legend.”

“And what is that?”

“Oh, one with a wicked lord, of course, who lusted after a beautiful maiden. She used to come to this spot, you see, late at night, to dance with her sisters. He followed her and saw them dancing, and he was so filled with lust that he grabbed her and began to ravish her, but the sisters were witches, you see. That is why they danced in the clearing beneath the laurel tree, and when he tried to harm their sister, they were so filled
with fury that they called down revenge on the lord right then and there. But in their haste and their fury, they missaid the spell, and all of them were turned to stone on the spot.”

“Ah, I see. So the tallest one must be the wicked lord.”

“Of course. And the smaller one beside him, leaning away, that is the object of his desire, trying to pull away from him. And the others are the sisters.”

“One of them was very short,” he commented, pointing to the smallest stone.

Kyria chuckled. “She is kneeling as she wails out her grief and anger.”

“Ah, I see.” Rafe nodded. “It seems too beautiful a spot for such a tale.”

“I know. It is one of my favorite places. It seems to me…well, as if it is a magical place.” She cast a sideways glance at him, faintly embarrassed. “Of course, Olivia tells me that it wasn’t magic at all, but probably one of the ancient places—a burial ground, perhaps, or maybe the remains of a pre-Roman fort that was later torn down. But Theo maintains that it is really one of the rings, like at Stonehenge, a place of ancient Druid worship, and that the rest of the circle was torn down during the Middle Ages by zealous Christians—that was done, you know.” She smiled. “Theo prefers a little magic, too, I think.”

“It’s a special place,” Rafe said, turning around and looking at the whole clearing, “whatever it was. I’m glad you brought me here.”

They strolled among the stones, and Kyria stopped to brush her hand across one or two of them. She was a little surprised that she had wanted to show Rafe the stones. She rarely came here with anyone else, even
her sisters and brothers. It was a place where she liked to sit alone and daydream, letting the rest of the world drift away.

They sat down for a time beneath a large oak tree, leaning back against the trunk, not saying much, simply enjoying the quiet. As they sat, Rafe slipped his hand into hers, interlacing their fingers. Kyria glanced at him, aware that she should say something, make some protestation. But she said nothing. It felt good to have his hand in hers, his warm, rough flesh against her softer skin; it felt somehow right.

“What is it like where you lived?” she asked. “Is it very different?” She had always loved to hear Theo’s stories of the places he had been, and there had been times when she had been rather envious of his life. There was something in her that yearned, too, to see other places, to have great adventures. Though she was in most ways very satisfied with her life, enjoying the parties, the clothes, the designs she drew, even the task of keeping her large, off-kilter family running along more or less smoothly, she also found herself longing for something more.

Rafe smiled. “England is very beautiful and green—and small. Where I lived—in the Rockies—the mountains were towering and majestic. It is the sort of place that makes you realize how very minor you are in the scheme of things. In the winter, you have snow several feet deep and you get snowed in so long you get cabin fever and think you’re going to go insane from all the white and the alone. The West is huge—great, sweeping plains of grasses, enormous herds of buffalo.” He shrugged. “Of course, that is entirely different from where I grew up. Virginia is much more civilized. Even the mountains are a more normal size.”

“What was it like there, where you grew up?”

“Wide, lazy rivers, fields and fields of tobacco. Hot as Hades in the summer.” He smiled faintly, remembering. “Our house was redbrick, neat and square, with a fireplace on either end.”

“Why did you leave?” Kyria asked.

He glanced at her, then away, and shrugged. “It was after the war. Times were…hard.” Rafe gazed out across the clearing, his face hardening. “Everything was different. I was different. It was time to move on.”

He released her hand and stood up in one fluid motion, reaching down to Kyria to help her up. “Just like it is now,” he said, his tone light as it usually was, but his face remote, unreadable.

Kyria took his hand and stood up. When he would have released her hand, she held on to it for a moment longer, looking at him intently. There was something that had lingered in her mind from the moment she met him, a question that, raised as she had been in her mother’s humanitarian beliefs, had worried at her every moment she was with Rafe, but which, for politeness’ sake, she had refrained from asking. But now, surprising even herself a little, she blurted it out. “How could you have…have done what you did? How could you have owned a slave?”

His eyebrows sailed up, though his eyes remained as unreadable as before, but he said only, “I’m afraid you have been misinformed. I have never owned a slave.”

Kyria looked at him blankly. “I wasn’t misinformed, exactly. No one told me. I just assumed…”

He gave her a twisted sort of smile, almost a grimace. “A large number of people in the South didn’t own slaves, you know. My mother and I were among them. We were the poor relations. My mother married
badly, according to her family—and to her, actually, after my father died, leaving her penniless. He was a schoolmaster, very handsome, they say, but utterly lacking in worldly goods, I’m afraid. After his death, we had to depend on my uncle.”

“Oh. I…I’m sorry.” Kyria blushed, further embarrassed that her uncustomary rudeness had pushed him into a subject that was obviously uncomfortable for him.

Rafe shrugged. “There is no need.” He smiled, a little more genuinely now, and went on, “It wasn’t the terrible life of an orphan you might imagine. My uncle was a very kind man. He gave my mother a cottage on his plantation, and I was educated with his own children. I even had a horse to ride. And when I was older, he sent me to college. I was going to read for the bar after that.” He stopped. “But then the war came along, and that was end of that.”

He started to turn away, but Kyria reached out and placed her hand on his arm, halting him. She knew that he wanted to end the subject, but she could not leave it. It seemed to her suddenly very important that she know.

“Then why,” she asked, “did you fight?”

He looked at her levelly for a moment, then said, “I said I am a Southerner, ma’am. I did not say I fought for the South.”

Kyria’s hand fell away, and she looked at him in astonishment, which mingled with a strange swelling of relief. “You mean…”

He gave a curt nod. “Yes. I fought for the Union—for abolition, I should say, for I didn’t really give a damn about the Union.” Kyria barely heard his last
words, for he turned away as he said them, “And I was a traitor to my home.”

Rafe strode quickly away to the horses, and Kyria had to break into a trot to catch up with him. “But, wait!” she cried, amazed by his words. “That was a wonderful thing you did. A courageous—”

He swung around, his face hard and closed. “I don’t talk about the war,” he said flatly.

“But I only meant that—”

Rafe took a quick step forward, startling her, and grasped her by the shoulders. Before she could even gasp, he jerked her forward and planted his lips on hers.

His mouth was hard, even bruising, and the suddenness of the kiss took Kyria’s breath away. She went limp for a moment, her senses whirling, before a saving anger swept through her and she stepped back, pushing against his chest.

“What was that?” she blazed, her green eyes glittering like emeralds. “Do you think that you can kiss me into submission?”

“I kissed you to shut you up,” he snapped back. A twinge of humor tugged at the corner of his mouth as he went on, “Obviously I didn’t succeed.”

“You certainly did not, and you
will
not, either,” Kyria warned. “I am not some tavern wench that you can—”

The rest of her speech was lost as he gave a half laugh and pulled her into his arms again, his mouth stopping hers. This kiss was gentler and more lingering, his lips moving over hers in a way that made her forget her ire and sink into him, her arms going up around his neck. Her mouth opened under his and she let out a little moan of pleasure. His arms closed around her tightly, pressing her into him. Her breasts flattened
against his solid chest, and she could feel the hard lines of his legs against hers through the cloth of her habit.

He raised his head for a moment only to change the slant of their mouths and kissed her again. Kyria’s heart slammed against her rib cage, and she found herself wanting to press so tightly to him that she blended into him. It was the strangest feeling she had ever had—hot and peculiar and exciting—and she wanted the moment to go on forever.

His hands slid down her back and curved over her hips, digging into her buttocks and lifting her up into him. Kyria gasped as she felt the hard length of him against her, and an answering fire leaped to life deep within her loins. Desire rushed through her, stunning in its intensity, and she trembled, holding on tightly to him.

Rafe raised his head, his arms loosening slightly around her, and for a long moment he stared down into her eyes. Kyria gazed back up at him, flushed and momentarily speechless.

He started to speak, but the words seemed to stick, and he stopped and cleared his throat. “I think it’s time we went back,” he said finally.

It was another long moment before his arms went slack around her and he stepped back. Kyria turned away, straightening her jacket and skirt, struggling to regain control of her wayward senses.

“Yes.” Her voice came out small and shaky, and she stopped, drawing in a breath, then saying more firmly, “Yes, no doubt you are right.”

The ride back to Broughton Park was made largely in silence, while Kyria struggled with her thoughts. When they arrived at the house, a groom hurried to take
their horses, and a footman eagerly opened the door to them.

“My lady,” he said with obvious relief, reaching out to take Kyria’s hat and riding crop.

“What is the matter, John?”

“There is a man here, a foreign man.”

Kyria’s interest was instantly aroused. She noticed that the footman had not called their visitor a “gentleman.” She glanced over at Rafe and saw that his attention, too, had been caught by the word
foreign.

“He is in the blue parlor,” John went on. “He wanted to see His Grace, but your father left strict instructions not to be disturbed.”

Kyria could well imagine that her father, after the events of the past few days, had probably locked himself in his workshop and would not come out until supper, if then.

“Her Grace said that you would deal with the matter when you came home. I told the visitor that it would be some time before you returned, but he insisted on waiting for you. So I placed him in the blue parlor.”