Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  The rider reined to a halt beneath the tree, standing up in his stirrups and reaching up toward her. “Let go,” he called. “I’ll catch you.”

  For a moment longer Kyria clung, afraid to let go. Then, with a deep breath, she closed her eyes and opened her hands. She fell, and for an instant terror gripped her. Then she crashed into the stranger’s chest and his arms went around her, as her momentum toppled them both off his horse and they hit the ground with a thud.

  Kyria lay stunned. Slowly she opened her eyes. She was lying against the rider’s hard chest, the cloth of his white shirt beneath her cheek; she could hear the pounding of his heart. She moved, carefully noting that everything seemed to be working properly. She had survived. She raised her head from the man’s chest and found herself looking down into the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

  She felt as if she could not breathe, could not look away. He grinned up at her, a dimple popping into his tanned cheek in a way that made her heart stumble. It was a sensation Kyria had never felt before, and it startled and annoyed her.

  “Well, hey, darlin’,” he said, his eyes alight with amusement, his voice deep and softly accented. “If I had known you could just pluck a beautiful woman out of a tree in England, I’d have come over here sooner.”

  The timbre of his voice, the lazy, slow way his words slid out, sent a strange warmth twisting through Kyria’s insides. She felt herself blush, and she realized that she wanted to giggle. The impulse irritated her even more; she had never, even in her first season, behaved like a simpering, giggling schoolgirl. The easy amusement on the handsome stranger’s face told her that he was accustomed to foolish females acting this way when he smiled at them. Kyria scowled.

  “I fail to find the amusement in this,” she retorted, sounding annoyingly prissy even to her own ears.

  “Do you?” His smile did not dim. “Personally, I always enjoy rescuing pretty girls from trees.”

  Kyria looked at him repressively. The man was really quite irritating, she thought. He hadn’t even the decency to pretend that she had not acted in a reckless and foolish way. A gentleman would have allowed everyone present to ignore what had just happened. Worse, he was actually trying to flirt with her!

  “I didn’t need rescuing,” she told him haughtily.

  His grin grew even wider. “Didn’t you, now? My mistake.”

  Kyria grimaced and started to sit up. For an instant, the arm he still had looped around her waist stiffened, holding her against him in their far-too-intimate position. Her eyes flashed and she started to give him a blistering set-down, but before she could speak, he released her and rose lithely to his feet, the insufferable grin still in place.

  He bent and offered Kyria a hand up. Pointedly she ignored his outstretched hand and stood, looking across to where the servants and guests were all gazing at them in astonishment, apparently rooted to the spot in shock. Her getting to her feet seemed to release the others from their paralysis, and they all started toward Kyria, a babble of words rising from them.

  “Oh, my lady!” Smeggars was the first to reach them. “Are you hurt?”

  “I am fine,” Kyria assured the butler, shaking out her tangled skirts. It made her color all over again to think of how much leg she had exposed to her rescuer.

  “Cousin Kyria!” Wilhemina seized the opportunity to burst into sobs, burying her face in her handkerchief.

  “Damned watering pot!” Lord Penhurst commented in the trumpeting sort of voice he considered an undertone.

  “Well, I never…” Cousin Wilhemina’s companion began indignantly, but one stern glare from Lady Rochester stopped the woman’s words.

  Lady Rochester’s maid had apparently come to her mistress’s aid, for the indomitable old woman now had her head covered with an elegant, lace-trimmed black cap. She leaned on her cane, looking at Kyria, and let out a loud harrumph. “You’ll break your neck one day, Kyria, the way you go at things. Mark my words.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Kyria replied meekly, too used to her great-aunt’s strictures to bridle at them.

  “Who the devil are you?” Lady Rochester went on bluntly, pointing at Kyria’s rescuer.

  The stranger turned his charming smile on the old woman and swept her an elegant bow. “Rafe McIntyre, ma’am, at your service.”

  Lady Rochester did her best to look disapproving, but Kyria was sure she saw a glimmer of a smile flicker across her mouth.

  “You’re an American?” Cousin Wilhemina asked, tears forgotten as she stared at McIntyre.

  “Yes, ma’am, I have to confess that I am. I’m a friend of the groom’s.”

  “Oh!” Kyria whirled back to face the man, realizing now who he was. “You are Stephen St. Leger’s partner.” He was also Stephen’s good friend and would act as his best man at the upcoming wedding. She had, she thought with another spurt of embarrassment, been rather rude to the man.

  “Former partner,” he corrected, and turned his brilliant blue gaze back to her.

  He was, Kyria thought, undeniably handsome. The bright eyes and the bone-melting smile would have been enough for any man, she thought, but in addition, he had been blessed with a tall, wide-shouldered frame and well-modeled face framed by thick, light brown hair, just a trifle long and shaggy, and sun-kissed with streaks of gold. Kyria felt sure that half the women in the house would be swooning over him. Any hesitation they might have at his lack of aristocratic background would be more than offset by the fortune he had reputedly made in silver mining when he and Stephen were partners. For some reason, the thought made her feel even more annoyed.

  “I must say,” Lord Marcross put in, walking up to McIntyre and extending his hand. “Deuced good riding there.”

  “The credit belongs to the horse, I’m afraid,” McIntyre said, easily turning the compliment aside, and looking for his mount.

  The bay stood a few feet away, grazing unconcernedly. McIntyre grinned and walked over to take his reins and run a hand down the horse’s neck. “Half the time he looks like he’s about to fall asleep, but he can fly.”

  “Did you buy him in England?” Cousin Albert asked.

  “Ireland,” McIntyre answered, and in the next moment several of the men were clustered around him, talking horses.

  “Oh!” Kyria remembered the parrot. “Wellie! Where is he? Did he fly away?”

  She turned to look up into the tree. Sure enough, there was a flash of red and blue as the parrot flitted from one branch to another, somewhat lower down than previously, and let out a squawk, apparently peeved at being ignored.

  Rafe looked up from his conversation. He glanced at Kyria. “Is that what you were trying to do up there? Catch the parrot?”

  Kyria nodded.

  Rafe put two fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. To Kyria’s vast irritation, the parrot rose from his perch and flew down in a wide circle to alight on McIntyre’s shoulder.

  “Good Wellie,” the bird croaked.

  Kyria glared at the pair of them. Rafe chuckled and ran his finger over the bird’s head.

  “Obnoxious bird,” Lady Rochester said bitterly. “I always said it’s ridiculous to keep a parrot in England. Belongs in Africa.”

  “The Solomon Islands, Aunt,” Kyria corrected. “It is indigenous to the Solomons.”

  “Never heard of them,” Lady Rochester sniffed, dismissing the place. “I can’t think why your brother thought the creature was a proper gift.”

  “I have a cage, my lady,” Jenny, the maidservant, said tentatively, holding up a small cage. “Cooper went up to the nursery and brought down one of the cages.”

  Rafe cast a questioning look toward Kyria, and she nodded. “Yes, please, put him in the thing. Then take him up to the nursery, Jenny, and transfer him to the big cage.”

  At Jenny’s cringing look, she relented. “All right. Just leave him there for the moment. I will have the twins take him up. Where are those two, anyway?”

  Jenny cast a glance behind her, and
Kyria followed her gaze. The twins’ tutor stood at the edge of the crowd, looking grim. Kyria motioned to him, and he came forward rather reluctantly.

  “I don’t know where they are, my lady,” he began, forestalling Kyria’s question. “I left them working on their geography and went back into my room to retrieve my Latin-grammar book. When I returned, they had vanished.” He scowled. “I must tell you, my lady, young Master Alexander and Master Constantine exhibit a lack of decorum that I find unacceptable.”

  “Do you?” Kyria asked in a deceptively silky voice. “Well, Mr. Thorndike, I have to tell you that I find that you exhibit a certain lack of skill in keeping eager and inquisitive minds interested in their subjects. I believe that the duchess explained to you the methods by which she prefers her children to be taught. When I examined their study tablets last week, I—”

  The man bridled. “I teach, my lady, as I was taught.”

  “By rote and repetition?” Kyria queried, one brow raised. “Geography can be a fascinating subject, an exploration of lands and people different from ourselves—rather than a memorization of the names of countries and their capitals. I think it might be wise for my mother to look over some of their recent work and perhaps explain to you again what she requires.”

  “That won’t be necessary, my lady,” the tutor replied icily. “For I am tendering my resignation.” With that he turned on his heel and marched away, back ramrod straight.

  Kyria let out a soft groan. “Oh, dear, that’s the third one this year. Perhaps I spoke too hastily.”

  Beside her Rafe chuckled. “Well, speaking from experience, I imagine the boys will be quite happy to have lost a tutor.” He paused, then added with a grin and a raised eyebrow, “Constantine and Alexander? The emperors?”

  “Yes. They’re twins, you see, and Papa is a classicist. And I am sure that they will be happy.” She sighed.

  At that moment, the butler, who had politely retreated from the guests, returned, one of the housemaids in tow. “My lady…”

  “Yes, Smeggars?”

  “Martha has some knowledge of your brothers’ whereabouts, my lady.” He turned a stern eye on the young maid, who was twisting her apron between her hands nervously. “Tell her, Martha.”

  “Um, well, I’m not for certain, my lady,” the girl began shyly.

  “That’s all right. Tell me what you think.”

  “Well, um, I was cleaning out the grate in the nursery this morning, my lady, and I heard the twins talking to each other like, and, well, it sounded like they were going to the hunt.”

  “The hunt?” Kyria repeated blankly. “Are you sure?”

  “No, miss. I mean, I heard them say something about the squire, and then one of them, Master Con, I think, said, well, they could intercede—no, intercept—them, I think. They were talking about where the hunt would run like.”

  “All right. Thank you, Martha.” Kyria frowned, puzzled.

  “Is there a hunt today?” Rafe asked.

  “Yes. Our neighbor, Squire Winton, is the master of the hunt, and he was having one. Several of our guests went to it this morning, actually, but I cannot imagine why the twins would be talking about going to it. They are far too young. They aren’t quite eleven, and anyway, they have always spoken of the hunt in terms of the greatest loathing. They love animals, you see, and—”

  Kyria stopped short, looking up into the American’s face with a gasp. “Oh, my heavens!”

  “What? What is it?” He straightened at the look of alarm on Kyria’s face.

  “That’s it. They have gone there to do something, I know it. They are going to try to stop the hunt!” Kyria groaned, raising her hands to her head. “The squire will be furious. And right before Olivia’s wedding, too! I must do something. I have to stop them.”

  She turned and started toward the stables.

  But Rafe was beside her in an instant, grabbing her wrist. “Wait. Let me help you.”

  The touch of his fingers, warm and callused, on her arm sent a strange sensation sizzling up Kyria’s arm, and she blinked at him, momentarily distracted. “But I…I have to try to find them. I’m sorry, you must excuse me. But—”

  “No, that’s what I’m saying. I’ll take you.”

  “Riding double? But he must be tired.” Kyria glanced a little doubtfully at McIntyre’s stallion.

  “He barely broke a sweat. I promise you, he’s strong. You needn’t waste the time of having your horse saddled. Just tell me where to go.” McIntyre took her arm unceremoniously and led her to his horse. He tossed her onto the horse’s back, then mounted behind her.

  “Where to?” he asked, his arms going around her as he took the reins firmly in his grip.

  Wordlessly, Kyria pointed. Rafe dug in his heels, and they thundered off.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kyria sat sidesaddle on the horse, her body against Rafe’s chest, and his arms curved around her to hold the reins. She was encircled by his warmth, and she could not help but be aware of how her hip was nestled very intimately between his legs. She had never ridden this way before, and it was rather unnerving—not the least because it produced such strange sensations in her. There was an unaccustomed warmth in her loins, a kind of softening, a stirring that was undeniably exciting. She could not help but be aware of how very close he was to her or of the strength of his arm around her back.

  “I should have taken my horse,” she said, struggling to ignore the tumult within.

  “Why is that?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair.

  “Well, I…” She turned and found herself looking straight into Rafe’s face, only inches away. She was suddenly very hot, her throat constricted. Kyria cleared her throat. “I, uh, I’m sure that in the long run, it probably would have been faster. Your horse is bound to tire.”

  “I told you—he’s strong. And you’re light as a feather.”

  “Hardly,” Kyria replied dryly. “I’m almost five foot ten.”

  “Yep, you’re a tall one, all right.” He grinned, his blue eyes looking at her with clear approval. “I noticed that right off. I like that. Still hardly weigh enough to tire this fella out.” He reached down and patted his horse’s neck. “You just tell me where to go.”

  “Cut across the meadow up there,” Kyria said, pointing, doing her best to ignore the feel of Rafe’s body against hers and finding it somewhat difficult to do. “I know where they set the dogs loose. The squire is very predictable. I am sure that is why Con and Alex thought they would be able to intercept them. If we go up Bedloe Hill, I think we’ll be able to catch sight of them.”

  They galloped across the meadow and jumped the fence at the end, the stallion’s hooves barely scraping the top. Kyria, held securely in the circle of Rafe’s arms, the breeze of their passage ruffling her already-disordered hair, could not help but thrill to the excitement of the ride. Her pulse was up, her breath coming faster in her throat, as he urged the horse forward. Rafe’s masculine scent teased her nostrils, mingling with the smell of horse and the crisp fall air.

  She directed him toward a slope, and they started up it, necessarily slowing as the ground rose before them. As the climb became steeper, they dismounted and walked the rest of the way up the hill, Rafe leading his horse by the reins.

  “I hope we can find them before they stop the hunt,” Kyria said worriedly. “Squire Winton will be furious if they ruin it. He was so looking forward to our guests joining him. He is desperately hoping that Lord Badgerton will approve—he’s a noted huntsman. And if Con and Alex ruin the hunt and make him look foolish…” She sighed. “He hasn’t been happy with the twins, anyway, ever since their boa got out and—”

  “Their what?” Rafe interrupted.

  “Their boa constrictor. They love animals. They have a veritable menagerie up there in the nursery.”

  “Mmm.” McIntyre looked at her in some fascination. “And what, ah, happened exactly when the boa constrictor got out?”

  “Oh. He ate the squire’s pe
acock.”

  Rafe let out a choked noise, and Kyria glared at him.

  “Oh, yes, laugh all you want, but I can tell you, Squire Winton found it less than amusing. The twins were lucky he was too agitated to put ammunition in his gun or that would have been the end of Augustus.”

  “Augustus would be the boa constrictor, I presume.”

  “Yes. It took all Reed’s diplomacy—and a nice sum of money in compensation, too, I might add—to placate Squire Winton. He was inordinately proud of that bird. Personally, I thought it wasn’t much of a loss. I have always found peacocks strutting across one’s lawn rather too grandiose. Besides, they make a dreadful noise.”

  “I quite agree.” Rafe’s blue eyes danced with laughter.

  Kyria cast him a quelling glance, repressing the smile that threatened to twitch up her lips. “It’s all very well for you. You don’t have to have the man as a neighbor.”

  “No, and thank heavens,” Rafe put in earnestly, “what with peacocks crowing at all hours—or whatever it is peacocks do.”

  “They screech like someone is killing them,” Kyria informed him disgustedly.

  “I reckon, then, they didn’t notice right off when Augustus got him.”

  Kyria gave a bark of laughter and clapped her hand over her mouth. “You dreadful man! That’s not at all funny.”

  He grinned at her. “I know. That’s why you didn’t laugh.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have.”

  They reached the crest of the hill and gazed out at the vista spread below them. “There!” Kyria cried, pointing. “I can see a scarlet coat. Blast! They’re stopped. Oh, dear, it must be the twins.”

  “Then let’s go.” Rafe swung her up into the saddle and followed suit, then started off down the hill.

  They soon could no longer see the distant figures and had to rely on their memory as they moved quickly down the hill and cut through a stand of trees beyond. They emerged onto a narrow trail, and there Rafe gave the horse his head. Pounding along the track, they curved around another copse of trees and emerged on the other side onto a run of grass lying between the wooded areas.