by Candace Camp
Kyria and Rafe started up the grand front staircase, but as they climbed a man and woman appeared at the top of the stairs, smiling down at them.
“Kyria! Rafe!” The woman started down the stairs, followed by her companion. She was a small woman with large, expressive, brown eyes and deep brown hair, and her face was wreathed in smiles. She was dressed in a reddish brown velvet gown, and the paisley shawl flung around her shoulders had fallen from one arm, so that it floated out behind her as she walked. She was Kyria’s sister Olivia, whose nuptials were to take place in two days.
“Smeggars told us what happened!” she went on worriedly as she reached them. “Are you all right? Thank you, dear.” This last remark was addressed to Stephen St. Leger, who had picked up the trailing end of her shawl and tucked it solicitously around her shoulders.
“Yes, of course,” Kyria assured her automatically. She had spent her childhood tagging along after her older brothers and sister, and she had grown accustomed long ago to downplaying any danger to herself. “I am sure Smeggars exaggerated.”
“Rafe! I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come,” Olivia’s fiancé said, reaching out to shake his friend’s hand. “I expected you days ago. I thought perhaps you’d decided to put down roots in Ireland.”
“I got delayed purchasing a horse,” Rafe explained, taking his friend’s hand. “I have no timetables on this trip. I am completely committed to operating on my whims.”
“I am well aware of how you operate,” Stephen retorted, and the four of them continued up the stairs.
The formal drawing room was filled with Kyria and Olivia’s large, rather noisy family, and when they first stepped into the room, it seemed a blur of noise and people to Rafe. Then a tall, statuesque woman stepped forward, assuming easy command of the situation.
“How do you do?” she said, smiling and extending her hand to Rafe. “You must be Mr. McIntyre. We have heard how you rescued my daughter this afternoon, for which I am very thankful.”
“Ma’am.” Rafe bowed over the duchess’s hand. He had only to look at this woman, he thought, to see what Kyria would look like in thirty years. The Duchess of Broughton was as tall as her daughter, with equally red hair, save for a strand or two of white woven through it, and much of her former beauty still showed in the strong bones of her face.
“Yes, good show,” a man said, coming up beside the duchess and reaching out to shake Rafe’s hand. “Duke of Broughton. Pleased to meet you. Uncle Bellard speaks highly of you.”
“Thank you, sir. I think very highly of him, too.” Rafe had met the duke’s uncle two months earlier, when he and the scholarly old gentleman had helped Stephen and Olivia find the source of several bizarre incidents that had plagued Stephen’s ancestral home, Blackhope Hall.
“He wants very much to see you,” the duke went on, “but you know Uncle Bellard—he doesn’t much like these large gatherings.”
Rafe could well imagine that the diminutive scholar, a very shy and bookish man, did not feel at ease in a crowd.
Broughton cast a distracted glance around the room and gave a small sigh. “Can’t say as I much like them, either.”
“I know, Papa.” Kyria linked her arm affectionately through her father’s. “You would much rather be outside in your workshop.”
The duke smiled a little, getting a distant look in his eye. “Got a new shipment of potsherds today. You must come down and see them, Kyria. You, too, um…”
“Mr. McIntyre, Papa,” Kyria put in.
“Yes, of course. Mr. McIntyre.” He nodded pleasantly and strolled away, his hands clasped behind his back, his head turned down.
“Please don’t be offended,” Kyria said. “Papa knows who you are. It’s just that trivial things like names tend to slip his mind, especially when there are antiquities to be considered. I’m sure he is thinking about his shipment. Mother will be lucky if she can keep him here until supper.”
Kyria cast a sideways glance at him, saying, “If you are brave enough, I can introduce you to the rest of our family.”
“Lead on,” Rafe responded lightly. “I dare anything.”
She walked with him over to where a black-haired woman sat deep in conversation with an older man. When Kyria said her name, the woman glanced up vaguely. Then her face cleared. “Ah. Kyria. Oh!” She stood up. “Are you all right? Smeggars said—”
“Smeggars fusses too much,” Kyria said firmly. “I am fine. Thisbe, allow me to introduce you to Mr. McIntyre. He is Lord St. Leger’s best man.”
“His what…Oh, yes, of course, the wedding. I had forgotten. Dr. Sommerville and I were having such an interesting discussion concerning the allotropes of carbon. Did you know—”
“I’m certain I do not,” Kyria interjected hastily. She turned toward Rafe and said in explanation, “Thisbe is a scientist.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Thisbe said, reaching out to shake Rafe’s hand. She was tall, like Kyria, but her hair was as black as night and pulled back in a no-nonsense fashion, and her clothes were plain rather than elegant. Not as beautiful in the face as Kyria, there was nevertheless a certain arresting handsomeness in her strong-boned features, and her blue eyes shone with intelligence.
“You are the silver magnate, aren’t you?” she went on in the disconcertingly blunt way that Rafe was beginning to expect from the members of the Moreland family. He had thought Stephen’s Olivia unusual, but he was beginning to see that the entire brood was decidedly different.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” he replied. “Or, rather, I was. We sold our mine.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“I decided to take a tour of Europe, and I started by going to visit St. Leger. Of course, when he told me he was getting married, I had to stay on.”
Thisbe nodded. “I hope it was no problem to delay your travel.”
“None whatsoever. My plans are very flexible,” Rafe said agreeably. “I intend to spend a month or two in France, then go on to Italy.”
“You will be going to the museums?” Thisbe asked, looking interested.
Kyria was somewhat surprised when Rafe smiled and said that he would, going on to ask Thisbe what she would recommend. Kyria would not have thought him the type to visit museums—but then, she reminded herself cynically, no doubt he simply recognized the best way to charm her sister.
“Thisbe is the twin of our eldest brother, Theo,” Kyria told Rafe. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if he is going to be able to make it back for the wedding.”
“He was in Australia when we wrote him,” Thisbe explained. “He’s an explorer, you see.”
“Really? Where has he gone?”
“All over, really—Africa, the Amazon, India, Burma, Ceylon, Arabia,” Kyria replied. “He has been doing it for years.”
She looked at Rafe, waiting for the sort of comments that usually followed when Theo’s peripatetic ways were discussed. Some were intrigued, others baffled, but nearly everyone agreed that it was, in the words of Lord Marcross, “a deuced peculiar thing for the heir to a dukedom to be hanging about in deserts and jungles and such.”
“I’m sorry he’s not here,” Rafe said. “I would like to meet him.”
“He is an extremely interesting man,” Thisbe agreed warmly.
“There are those who would say that seeking adventure all around the globe is scarcely a fitting thing for a future duke,” Kyria pointed out.
Rafe shrugged. “Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” Thisbe smiled at him. “You are exactly right, Mr. McIntyre.”
“I think I am missing something here. What is a future duke supposed to do?” Rafe asked.
“Be stuffy,” Thisbe interjected, and Kyria could not suppress a giggle.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how they would phrase it.”
“No, but it’s what they mean,” Thisbe retorted. “People don’t like it that Theo comes back home brown as a nut and full of the most interesting tales to tell,
instead of spending his time in some boring old men’s club or out shooting grouse.”
“I think they would say he should be getting to know the estate he will inherit,” Kyria said in the interests of fairness.
“Yes, but Reed handles all that. He enjoys that sort of thing.” Thisbe’s voice expressed her obvious puzzlement at her other brother’s peculiar interests. “Numbers and farming and the Exchange and all that. Why should poor Theo have to worry about those things when he hates all that and Reed loves it?”
“Reed loves what?” asked a deep, masculine voice, and Kyria turned to see her other brother, who had come up behind them as they talked.
“Handling all the family business for the rest of us,” Kyria said, smiling fondly at Reed.
He was a quiet man two years older than Kyria, not as tall or as devastatingly handsome as Theo was, but attractive in his own, more subdued way. His hair was dark brown, cut tidily, and his gray eyes under straight black brows were direct and clear. He was, Kyria knew, considered the most normal of all the Moreland clan, for he had not been drawn to any of the interests, deemed peculiar by the rest of the British nobility, that had attracted the other Morelands. Though learned, he was not the scholar that his father and great-uncle were, and he preferred to spend his time managing the business of his father’s estate rather than exploring or engaging in scientific research or championing a political cause.
His was a practical nature, and in the midst of his more flamboyant, even eccentric, relatives, this fact made him something of an oddity. It also made him the person to whom most of the family turned whenever they had a problem.
Kyria introduced Rafe to Reed, and Reed shook his hand warmly. “Ah, I understand I owe you my gratitude for—”
“If another person says ‘rescuing Kyria,’ I think I shall scream,” Kyria put in warningly.
Reed shot her an amused glance and went on mildly, “I was going to say for helping the twins out of their contretemps.”
“Everyone knows about that, too?” Kyria asked.
Reed shrugged. “The squire sent a servant over with a blistering note about the twins’ conduct. Father gave it to me, of course, as he never reads the squire’s notes.”
“What are you going to do?” Kyria asked.
“Why do anything?” Thisbe inquired. “Fox hunting is barbaric.”
“I’d rather avoid a feud with our neighbor, actually,” Reed said. “I fear I’ll have to send him some of that shipment of cognac I received the other day. Good liquor usually serves to soothe the squire’s anger.”
Olivia and Stephen rejoined them at that point, and Stephen suggested that he show Rafe to his room.
As they strolled out, Stephen murmured, “Head spinning yet?”
Rafe chuckled. “It has been an interesting afternoon.”
He paused at the door to the drawing room and looked back, his gaze going to Kyria. Stephen followed Rafe’s gaze.
“Ah,” he said. “Is that the way the wind blows?”
“She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
Stephen nodded. “Her nickname among the fashionable blades is The Goddess. She’s been pursued by earls and dukes—and even one prince. She’s turned them all down.”
“Is that right?” A faint smile began on Rafe’s lips.
“Olivia says she is determined never to marry.”
The smile grew broader. “I always like a woman who knows her own mind.”
Stephen cast a narrow glance at his friend. “Rafe, she is going to be my sister-in-law. I know you like a challenge, but this is one woman you cannot—”
“Honestly, Stephen, I am not quite such a cad,” Rafe retorted.
“I know you are not,” Stephen replied. “It is just that I…well, I am a little protective of Olivia—and of her family, I find. I know you’re not the marrying kind.”
“You’re right about that,” Rafe replied easily. The war had taught him how easily and permanently the ties of love could be snapped. The only way to get through life heartwhole was to keep one’s heart to oneself. “Just a little flirtation to pass the time, my friend.” He smiled. “I think your new sister-in-law is probably well acquainted with the art of flirtation.”
Stephen chuckled. “Yes, I imagine she is. You may have just found your match there. Better watch it, or you may end up the one whose heart is in danger.”
Rafe did not dignify his friend’s comment with a reply. His heart had been out of danger for more than ten years. He was, he told himself, quite safe.
But as he and Stephen left the room, he could not resist casting a last glance at Kyria over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 3
The next two days were filled with preparations for Olivia’s wedding, and Kyria was so busy that she could almost say she did not notice Rafe McIntyre. It was a trifle annoying, she thought, that had he been any of her many suitors, she would not have even thought about him. Unlike some of the other men there, he did not hang about or try to set up a flirtation, yet she was always aware of where he was and what he was doing.
Kyria spent most of the day on the move, arranging the masses of flowers brought in by the gardener from the estate’s greenhouse, solving household crises with the housekeeper or butler, soothing this guest or the other’s ruffled feathers over some imagined slight and trying to see that all the guests were kept entertained in one way or another. She blessed Lady St. Leger, Stephen’s mother, who was tactful, pleasant and willing to be bored for the sake of harmony in the house. Kyria could count on her to keep the shyest or most longwinded guest occupied.
To her surprise, she found that the other person on whom she could rely was Rafe McIntyre. He did not hover, yet it seemed that he was always there when she needed someone to keep the male guests busy playing billiards and cards during a rainy afternoon or to say a few words to a shy spinster or to charm Lady Rochester out of a black mood. Kyria was thankful for his being there, and yet she found it somehow irritating, too, that he was able to so easily charm everyone, man or woman, into doing what he wanted. It confirmed her opinion that he was an inveterate flirt.
The day of the wedding dawned crisp and clear, without any of the rain that she had feared would spoil the ceremony. Kyria and her maid, Joan, helped Olivia dress. They were joined by Thisbe and the duchess, and much to everyone’s surprise, the duchess, usually not a sentimental person, began to cry as Kyria and Joan settled the white dress around Olivia.
“Oh, dear,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I vowed I would not do this.” The duchess leaned over and gave her youngest daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Dearest Olivia, you are such a beautiful bride. I have never believed that any of my daughters must get married in order to have a happy and fulfilled life. You know my views on marriage and a woman’s place in society.”
“Yes, Mother, I know,” Olivia said with a smile.
“We all do,” Kyria added.
“Don’t be impertinent,” the duchess said, though she could not keep a smile from flitting across her face. “Olivia, I am simply filled with happiness to see you today. I think your young man loves you very much. I cannot tell you how proud I am that both you and Thisbe married so well. I think a mother cannot help but feel great happiness, knowing that you will be happy, and yet great sorrow to see her daughter leave her home…” She paused and blinked away her tears again. “Well, I will leave you to your sisters now. I must go or I fear I will be embarrassingly red-eyed at the wedding ceremony.”
She cast a smile around at her three daughters and left the room. Thisbe watched for a few moments as Kyria fastened the long line of tiny pearl buttons that marched up the back of the white-satin wedding dress. Then Thisbe stood up and began to move restlessly about the room, going over to look out the window into the side yard.
“I wonder how Desmond is doing with the twins,” she mused. Her husband, in the absence of their tutor, had taken on the task of keeping an eye on Constantine and Alexander th
roughout the wedding day.
“They promised Mother that they would behave today,” Kyria said, glancing back to where Joan was occupied laying out the long train of Olivia’s dress. “She threatened them with taking away their menagerie if they did not. And Mr. McIntyre promised to give them boxing lessons if they were good. Of course, the problem with the twins is that they don’t really mean to misbehave. It just sort of happens.”
“Boxing lessons,” Thisbe said in disgust. “They are so bloodthirsty sometimes. Yesterday they were telling me all about shooting a gun. It seems your Mr. McIntyre gave them a lesson in physics, using a gun as an example.”
“All boys are bloodthirsty,” Kyria replied offhandedly. “And he’s not my Mr. McIntyre.”
“He always seems to be where you are,” Thisbe replied a little archly. “I think you have made a conquest of St. Leger’s American friend.”
“He would have one think so,” Kyria said coolly. “But I think he is just an inveterate flirt.”
“Kyria! You wrong him,” Olivia protested, twisting around to look at her sister.
Kyria put her hands on Olivia’s shoulders and firmly turned her back around, then finished doing up her buttons. “Do I?”
“Yes. I think he is quite smitten with you. So does Stephen.” Olivia smiled, her large brown eyes lighting up. “I was hoping you might like him, too. I thought the moment I met him that perhaps you would. He is so different from other men.”
“He has that peculiar accent,” Kyria admitted.
“Oh, Kyria! It is more than that. He has done things, seen things that the men we know have not. He fought in a war. His home was burned down. He traveled west to seek his fortune and found it. From what he and Stephen have told me about their mining adventure, it was a great deal of work—and danger, as well.”
“Danger?” Kyria asked. “How was it a danger? You mean, going down into the mine?”
“I don’t think that so much as that the land is so wild. Stephen told me that they were once attacked by a grizzly bear.”
“A what?”