Beyond Compare (6 page)

“It will never be the same,” Olivia said.

“It will be better,” Thisbe told her stoutly.

“Yes. Don’t cry. Stephen will be most displeased with me if I send you down to the wedding all red-eyed,” Kyria teased.

“Promise me you will come to visit me when we return.”

“Of course,” Thisbe replied. “You will soon be sick of us, we shall visit so often.”

“Now,” Kyria said, smiling and firmly pushing all sad thoughts to the back of her mind, “it’s time we started for the church.”

Kyria’s hard work was rewarded by the fact that the wedding went off without a hitch. Standing beside her sister and watching Olivia’s lovely, glowing face beneath her wedding veil, Kyria knew that every minute of work had been worth it.

She watched Olivia, her face turned up to Stephen’s, her eyes shining with love, and for an instant, she felt a flash of envy. What, she wondered, would it be like to feel such love for a man? Kyria glanced out into the audience, her eyes seeking her own parents. Theirs had been a love match, too. Her mother, while genteel, was certainly not of a birth equal to the duke’s, but he had been smitten with love for her the instant she had burst into his office, demanding better conditions for the workers in one of his factories. They had married despite all his family’s protests and despite her mother’s disdain for the members of the nobility.

Thoroughly unalike, the gentle, vague, studious Broughton and his fiery, determined, social-reformer duchess had remained happily in love for almost thirty-three years now. Theirs had been the example of love with which Kyria had grown up, and she could not imagine marrying without that overwhelming emotion. And, Kyria reflected wryly, with all the blessings she had been given in life, love seemed to be the one thing that she lacked.

Her gaze went back to Stephen and Olivia, then beyond the couple to Rafe McIntyre. He smiled at her and winked, and Kyria quickly glanced away, a flush rising in her cheeks.

It was absurd, she thought, what Olivia had said about Mr. McIntyre. Utterly absurd. She had no interest in the man, and she was sure that he had no interest in her, other than as a mild flirtation, perhaps, to pass the
time until his friend was married and he returned to the United States. It was only Olivia’s naiveté that interpreted McIntyre’s smooth, flirtatious manner of speaking as some sort of real interest in Kyria.

Besides, she added mentally, she had no interest in him, anyway. There was something a little too smug about the look in his eyes, which were, by the way, just too blue for a normal man, and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled was, really, nothing that should have made her heart give a little lurch. Rafe McIntyre was all too aware of his effect on women, Kyria thought, and she was determined to show him that she was not the typical woman.

Even if she was attracted a little bit—nothing more than that, certainly!—she felt certain that he was not the sort of man she could possibly come to care about. There was a great deal more to a man than charm and good looks and being able to ride like a centaur, after all. She felt certain that his character was not such as she could admire. He was a Southerner, someone who had fought to keep the institution of slavery, someone who had owned other human beings. Kyria was not as given to political reforms as the duchess, but she held the same sort of humanitarian ideals as the others in her family. She could not imagine loving someone who had had so little regard for the lives of others.

No. Whatever little lurch her heart might give at the sight of him, Kyria was certain that Rafe McIntyre was not the man for her.

Stephen lifted Olivia’s veil and kissed her, and Kyria realized, with that same odd mixture of joy and loss, that the ceremony was over. The newlyweds led the way up the aisle, and Rafe gave his arm to Kyria to escort her out after them. She tucked her hand in the
crook of his elbow, feeling suddenly as self-conscious as a schoolgirl. She did not look at him as they followed Stephen and Olivia, and when they reached the foyer of the church, she started to turn away, pulling her hand from his arm.

Rafe put his hand over hers, holding it there for a moment, and Kyria looked up at him, eyes flashing. “I beg your pardon, Mr. McIntyre, but you seem to have an annoying habit of not releasing a woman when she wishes it.”

White teeth flashed in his tanned face. “I beg
your
pardon, ma’am. My mama always said I was lamentably lacking in manners. I just wanted to say something to you, and every time I see you, you take off like a rabbit.”

Kyria’s back stiffened at his words, and she raised her eyebrows in her haughtiest manner. “I have had a great deal to do the past few days, Mr. McIntyre. I am sorry if I was unable to attend to you. However, I feel sure that you found other companions.”

He chuckled. “Others, true. But none who could compare to you.”

“You are adept at flattery.”

“Not flattery. The truth.”

“Mr. McIntyre—” Kyria pulled her hand from his arm and folded her hands together “—you said that you wished to say something to me.”

“Yes. I understand that there will be dancing this evening.”

“After the reception and wedding supper, there will be a ball.”

“I wanted to request the honor of a waltz with you,” Rafe went on, “that’s all. I just wanted to make sure I got my bid in before your dance card was all filled up.”
He grinned. “I promise you, I do know how to waltz, despite my being an American.”

Kyria looked at him, a little puzzled, and he explained, “Lady Rochester asked me the other day if I had ever read Shakespeare. She seemed to think I grew up in a log cabin in the wilderness.”

“Oh, dear.” Kyria suppressed a smile. “My great-aunt has a secret fondness for the novels of your James Fenimore Cooper, I’m afraid. I apologize.”

He shrugged. “It’s all right. Actually, I did live in a log cabin in Colorado when I was mining for silver. But when I was younger, I lived in a place somewhat more civilized, and I had to learn all the social graces, including dancing. So I think I can promise not to step on your toes.” He paused, his eyes looking into hers, and again, Kyria felt the same strange little lurch of her heart. “Will you honor me with a dance?”

“Of course.” Kyria smiled, hoping that he had not seen anything in her face to betray the odd sensation she had felt, and turned away to join her parents.

The newly married couple received guests in one of the formal state rooms off the rotunda in Broughton Park, and afterward, the guests streamed into another of the large, elegant rooms, built almost two hundred years earlier for a family of high consequence and rarely used in the present by their easygoing descendants. There, an extensive wedding supper had been laid out, the result of hours of work and planning by Kyria and the Broughton House staff. The festivities were capped by an evening of dancing in the grand ballroom, sometime during which the newlyweds would leave for the beginning of their honeymoon.

Kyria, keeping an eye out for any problems and con
suiting with the butler, as well as making sure that no guest was left untended or without conversation, had little time to enjoy the proceedings. Even after Olivia and Stephen led the party out onto the floor for the first waltz, Kyria spent most of her time starting conversations wherever silence or boredom lurked and making sure that there were no wallflowers left stranded. To that end, she enlisted the services of her brother Reed and Rafe McIntyre, for she soon saw that, as he had promised, Rafe was able to waltz, was indeed quite adept at it, and whenever he returned his partner from the dance floor, she was always smiling and rosy with pleasure.

“You obviously have the magic touch,” Kyria told Rafe when he returned to her after escorting a chattering Lady Malcross off the floor. “Lady Malcross is usually more given to tears than to smiles.”

He grinned, raising his eyebrows. “Jealous?”

“Hardly,” Kyria retorted. “I simply wish I had had you at some other balls I have given.”

“No more than I wish it,” he retorted, and held out his hand to her. “Now…you owe me something for all the pleasantries I’ve had to dispense for the past hour.”

“I do?”

“Yes. That dance you promised me this afternoon?”

“Oh, but…” Kyria stopped, then smiled and gave in, reaching out to take his hand and let him lead her onto the floor. “All right. I suppose I should find out for myself what magic you work.”

“Hardly magic,” he told her, putting his hand to her waist. They stood, waiting for the music to begin. “You know what my secret is?”

Kyria shook her head.

“I listen to what a lady has to say.”

Kyria made a face. “It has to be more than that.”

“You’d be surprised.
You
are accustomed to attentive men. Look at you—of course your dance partner or any other man listens to you, looks at you, responds to you. But if you take Lady Malcross, whose husband probably falls asleep while she is talking, or her children, who are so accustomed to her tales of her ailments and woes that they nod and murmur ‘mmm’ without hearing a word…well, a woman like that blossoms when someone actually listens to her and answers.”

“I am sure that it has nothing to do with that face,” Kyria said dryly.

“What face?”

“Your
face,” Kyria retorted. “Don’t be coy, Mr. McIntyre. I am sure that you are used to women swooning over you.”

He let out a chuckle. “Why, darlin’, what a bold thing to say.”

The music began at last, and Rafe swung Kyria out onto the dance floor. He moved easily and gracefully, his hand at her waist, guiding her with a gentle confidence. There was no awkward pushing or pulling, no uncertainty of step, only a wonderful sensation of floating, secure in his arms. He gazed into her face, his intense blue eyes locked with hers, and it seemed for the moment as if there was no one else on the floor but the two of them.

Kyria breathed in a little shakily, understanding now exactly what brought that flush of pleasure to his dance partners’ cheeks. She could feel the warmth spreading through her, too, an almost giddy excitement, and she wondered how even Lady Malcross could think of anything to say as she danced with this man. Kyria felt as if every thought had flown from her head.

Something flared in Rafe’s eyes, and his hand tightened fractionally on her waist, and Kyria knew that it was a response to her own emotion. For the strangest moment, it was as though she felt what he felt, that she knew him, not in words or any sort of coherent thought, but as if they were somehow connected.

The music ended, and they stopped dancing. Kyria was suddenly disoriented, the moment of connection gone, leaving her feeling faintly empty and bereft. They stood for a moment, gazing at each other. Then Kyria whirled and moved quickly away.

Rafe stepped out onto the terrace and took a deep breath. The air was chilly, but it felt good on his skin after the heat of the ballroom. He was still strangely shaken from his dance with Kyria. He had felt something as they danced, something he had never experienced before, and he wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was exciting and disturbing at the same time.

He strolled along the terrace and down the steps, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a cheroot. Biting off the end, he struck a sulfur match on the sole of his shoe and lit the small cigar.

He ambled along one of the garden paths, smoking and gazing around at the garden, lit by torches placed along the paths. The walkway led around the corner of the house to the side lawn, where he had first seen Kyria. He smiled a little to himself as he looked over at the large oak tree. He turned, gazing out across the wide, well-kept driveway and onto the expanse of lawn beyond.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he peered into the darkness. Someone was walking up the drive
way, the dark figure barely picked out by the torches that lined the drive on both sides.

It seemed odd to Rafe that someone would be trudging up the drive at this hour, particularly with a wedding celebration in full swing in the house, and he watched the man curiously. He wore a hat and greatcoat, and he walked quickly, his arms wrapped around himself, as if to wrap the warmth of his coat more closely to him.

Suddenly another figure bolted from the trees and launched himself at the man walking up the driveway.

“Hey!” Rafe shouted, and started toward them.

The two men grappled, moving in a strange, awkward dance. Rafe tossed aside his cheroot and started running, wishing that his guns were not lying in a drawer in his bedroom upstairs. Metal flashed in the darkness between the men, then was gone, leaving one of the men crumpled on the ground.

R
afe called out again. The attacker looked back and saw Rafe running full tilt toward him, hesitated for a moment, then bent down, tugging something from the man he had attacked. The man on the ground rolled over, huddling protectively in on himself. The attacker glanced up again at Rafe, then turned and ran into the shelter of the trees.

Rafe skidded to a halt beside the man on the ground. “Are you all right?”

He bent over the man, speaking in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “Can you talk? What happened?”

The man groaned, and Rafe gently rolled him onto his back. His coat fell open, revealing a dark stain spreading across his white shirt. Rafe whipped his handkerchief out of his pocket and folded it, pressing it to the man’s wound.

The stranger opened his eyes and looked at Rafe, his gaze panic-stricken.

“It’s all right,” Rafe said quickly. “I won’t hurt you. Let’s get you into the house and see what we can do about that wound.”

The man stretched out one hand to Rafe, his fingers clutching Rafe’s lapel. “Please…Kyri…” he whispered.

“What?” Startled, Rafe stared at him. “Kyria?”

The man’s hand dropped away from Rafe, falling to a small bag that was tied to his belt. His hand closed protectively over the bag as he said, “Give…please.”

“You want to give this to Kyria?” Rafe asked. “Well, you can do that yourself, just as soon as I get you inside.”

The man spoke again, this time a jumble of words in a language that Rafe did not understand. Carefully, Rafe slid his hands beneath the man and began to lift him. He was a slight man, not as tall as Kyria, and Rafe picked him up easily, rising to his feet. The man let out another groan.

“Sorry,” Rafe murmured. He started toward the house, calling for help.

A moment later, the front door opened, silhouetting one of the footmen. He stood stock-still for a moment, then after calling back into the house, started down the steps on a run. Seconds later, two more footmen came hurrying out.

The men helped carry the stranger around the side of the house and in through the kitchen door. They were met with a stifled shriek from a housemaid.

“Get the butler,” Rafe ordered, and the girl nodded and hurried away.

They laid the man down on the long wooden table in the servants’ dining hall. Rafe’s handkerchief was soaked with blood, and he replaced it with a napkin, trying to stanch the blood.

“Get me bandages. Medical supplies,” Rafe told the footmen, who were still standing at the table staring
down in amazement at the man they had carried in. “Now!”

One of the footmen hustled out, and shortly afterward, Smeggars hurried into the room. He stopped at the sight of the man on the table.

“My God. I thought the girl was hysterical.” He looked up at Rafe. “What happened, sir?”

“Someone attacked him,” Rafe explained. “I was outside having a smoke and I saw him walking up to the house.” He described the assailant rushing out of the trees at the man and the tussle that ensued. “I think he stabbed him.”

“Good Lord!” Smeggars exclaimed. “I will get bandages.”

“I sent the man after some medical supplies,” Rafe told him. “If you will get me some scissors, I’ll cut away his shirt.”

“Of course, sir.” Smeggars stepped out of the room and was back in a moment, scissors in hand. He was followed by the footman, with a wad of bandages in one hand and a small tin box in the other.

Rafe set to work cutting the blood-soaked shirt away from the wound and carefully peeling it off. Despite his efforts to be gentle, the man cried out in pain. The wound was not wide, but it was deep. Rafe folded up one of the bandages and pressed it again to the wound.

“He needs to be stitched up,” Rafe said. “I can do it, but he really should have a doctor.”

“I have sent one of the footmen to find the doctor. He and his wife are here tonight,” Smeggars replied.

“Good. We’ll wait, then.” Rafe leaned closer to the man, listening to his breathing. There was an ominous gurgling noise as he breathed. “That doesn’t sound good. I think he may have a punctured lung.”

Rafe turned to Smeggars. “Do you know him?”

Smeggars shook his head. “I have never seen him before tonight, sir. He…he looks foreign.”

Rafe nodded. Even given the underlying pallor from shock and loss of blood, the man looked much too dark-skinned to hail from England. His hair was thick, black and short, curling slightly on his forehead.

“He asked for Lady Kyria,” Rafe said.

“What?” Smeggars turned to Rafe in astonishment. “Are you certain, sir?”

Rafe nodded. “I guess you’d better send for her, too.”

“But, sir…” The butler glanced askance at the wounded man on the table.

“I know. Not a sight for a lady,” Rafe agreed. “But it may be that she can identify him. And he seemed to want to talk to her, to give her that thing on his belt.” Rafe looked at Smeggars. “I reckon if Lady Kyria knows him, she would want us to send for her.”

“You’re right, of course.” Smeggars released a little sigh and turned to go in search of Kyria.

The doctor appeared soon after Smeggars left. He stopped, staring at the man on the table in some shock. “My God! I thought the footman was drunk!”

He went over to the table, lamenting, “I don’t even have my bag. I never thought…”

Rafe showed him the bandages and supplies that the footman had brought and stepped back to give the doctor room enough to examine the man.

“I think his lung has been punctured,” the doctor finally said. “And he has lost a great deal of blood.”

“I know.” Rafe looked at the doctor. “It doesn’t look good, does it.”

“I fear not.”

The patient moaned and opened his eyes. A stream of words poured from him, and the doctor looked at Rafe. “Do you know what he said?”

Rafe shook his head. “Not a clue. I don’t even recognize the language.”

“Please…Ky…Ky…”

“Kyria?” Rafe asked, stepping closer to the man. “We’ve sent for her. Hold on, and she will be here in a minute.”

The doctor turned away to send one of the servants for needle and thread, then stood over the man again and traded the bloody bandage for a fresh one.

The man gasped with pain, and he coughed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he drew another painful breath. Rafe had seen enough death to read it in the man’s face. He glanced at the doctor and saw there a confirmation of what he already knew. The man was near death, and neither bandages nor a needle and thread were likely to do him much good.

“Please…” The man’s hand moved a little, reaching toward his waist. Then he turned his face to the side, and a little sigh escaped him. He went still.

“He’s gone,” the doctor said quietly.

There was the click of a woman’s heels on the stone floor of the hall, and Kyria hurried into the room, her face creased in a frown. “Rafe! What happened? Smeggars told me…”

Rafe moved quickly toward her, but not before her gaze went to the table. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Her face paled. “Is he…”

Rafe’s arm went around her shoulders, supporting her. “He’s dead.”

Kyria let out a little cry of dismay, and she turned
instinctively, burying her face in Rafe’s shirt. Rafe’s other hand came up to stroke her back soothingly.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to him in time.”

Kyria’s hands curled into Rafe’s jacket, and she hung on for a moment longer, too shocked by the sight of the body on the table to speak or even summon up a coherent thought.

Gradually the shock began to subside, and she realized that she was clinging to Rafe. Even as she thought how good and comforting it felt to lean against him thusly, she knew that she should not be doing it. It was, in fact, a little frightening to realize how good it felt.

She raised her head and stepped back, doing her best to hide the fact that it took some effort to let go of him. “I’m sorry,” she said a little shakily. “I have never seen—”

“Of course not. I’m sorry you had to see him,” Rafe said. “It was just that he asked for you. I thought you might know him.”

“What?” Kyria looked at Rafe, then with a visible effort, turned around and looked again at the man lying motionless on the table. She swallowed, feeling a little sick and faint, but she forced herself to take a step closer and gaze more closely into the man’s face.

She turned back to Rafe, saying, “I have never seen this man before. What happened? Are you sure he asked for me?”

“The first time he said, ‘Kyri…’ and then a moment ago it sounded as if he was trying to say your name again.”

“Yes, my lady,” the doctor agreed. “He definitely seemed to be trying to say your name. And he said, “Please.” That’s all we could understand. He spoke in a foreign language.”

“I don’t understand.” Kyria forced herself to look at the man on the table again, then shook her head. “He is a complete stranger to me. I cannot imagine why he would have asked for me. What happened?”

“Someone attacked him,” Rafe explained. “I was outside smoking a cigar, and I walked around to the front of the house. I saw him coming up the driveway. I thought it was odd, so I kept watching him, and then all of a sudden, this other fellow ran out of the trees at him, and they started to fight. I ran over, but I couldn’t get there in time. The other man stabbed him and took off.”

“I can’t believe it!” Kyria drew in a shaky breath. “You’re saying someone attacked a man right in front of our house! But why? And who could he be? Why did he say my name?”

“I have no idea. But I got the impression he wanted to give you something. He had a small bag tied to his waist. When I got there, he said your name, and then he put his hand on the bag and said, “Please, give…” All I can think is that he wanted to give you whatever was in that bag. I assume that was why he was coming here.”

“But why? I don’t even know him!”

Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know. But maybe you ought to look inside the bag.”

Kyria drew in a sharp breath and took an involuntary step away from the body, shaking her head.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it for you. Here.” Rafe took Kyria’s arm and propelled her from the room and to a bench in the hall outside. “You sit here. Smeggars will get you a glass of water.”

“Yes, of course, my lady.” Smeggars moved off
quickly, obviously relieved to have something useful to do.

“You just rest here for a minute,” Rafe told her. “I’ll get the bag.”

Kyria nodded and leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. It didn’t help much, since she could still see the dead man’s face in her mind’s eye—the open, staring eyes, the unnatural pallor of his dark skin. She pressed her hand against her stomach, which was still roiling. She had never seen a dead person—or, at least, not one who was not prepared for burial and in a casket—and the experience unnerved her.

She thought about the way she had clung to Rafe, letting him hold her in the protection of his arms. It had been a decidedly weak thing to do, she knew, not the sort of thing that Thisbe or her mother or even Olivia would have done. But she could not help but recall how wonderfully warm and safe it had felt for that moment, to be enclosed in his heat, to smell the masculine scent, mingled with the faint, lingering smell of tobacco and cologne, to feel the hard strength of his arms around her and hear the reassuring thud of his heart beneath her head. Something stirred deep inside her as she thought of his holding her, and she realized with a guilty start how far her thoughts were wandering from the scene of death she had just witnessed. It was another sign, she supposed, of how shallow she was.

“My lady.” Kyria looked up to see Smeggars holding a small tray with a glass of water on it. She took the glass and sipped from it, grateful for the distraction.

“Smeggars, don’t tell anyone else about this.”

“Of course, my lady. What would you have me do with, um…”

“Send for the constable, of course. But tell the ser
vants who know about it to keep quiet. I don’t want my family or the guests to hear of it. I am terribly sorry for that poor man, but I refuse to let this sad news disturb my sister’s wedding day.”

Smeggars nodded in understanding. “I shall make sure that not a word is uttered.”

“Thank you.” Kyria took another sip of water, feeling somewhat more in control of herself.

She glanced over to see Rafe standing in the doorway, a small, canvas, drawstring bag in his hand. “Here it is.”

Kyria stood, looking doubtfully at the bag. “And you are sure he meant it for me?”

Rafe shrugged. “All I know is, he said your name and something like ‘give’ or ‘please give,’ and then he started babbling in some foreign tongue.”

“Really? What language?”

“Not one I recognized. So I would say with some certainty not French or Spanish or German.” He glanced around. “Shall we open this?”

“Yes. Let’s…go somewhere else.” Kyria did not like to think about lingering here.

She started down the hall, Rafe beside her, and emerged from the servants’ area into a wide hall. Turning away from the direction of the ballroom, she went into one of the smaller drawing rooms.