Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  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 driveway, 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.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rafe 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 servants 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.

  Rafe set the bag down on a table near the door, and Kyria opened the drawstring and reached in, pulling out a hard, squarish object wrapped in
velvet. Carefully, she unwrapped the velvet to reveal a small box. She could not help but let out a small cry of delight.

  The box was ivory, with a curved lid rather like a very small trunk. All around the box were intricately carved patterns and what looked like some sort of figures. Its crowning glory, however, was a huge dark gem, crudely cut and unfaceted, that was set into the center of one side of the box.

  “It’s beautiful!” Kyria exclaimed, picking up the box and looking at it closely. She ran a fingertip over the carvings, then over the almost-black gem, peering closely at it. There was something compelling about the box, a beauty that drew her.

  Rafe moved nearer to see it, coming up so close behind Kyria that he was almost touching her. Kyria swallowed, very aware of his presence. She could smell again the scent of him, feel the warmth of his body, and it seemed as if all her nerve endings were suddenly alive and tingling, as if they could reach across the inch that separated them and touch Rafe.

  “What is that?” he asked. “Is it glass?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Kyria replied, smoothing her fingertip over the jewel. “I think it is a black diamond. It’s very rare.”

  “A diamond?” Rafe asked in amazement. “They come in colors?”

  Kyria nodded. “There are yellow diamonds and brown ones, blue ones, even pink. Black diamonds are unusual, though, and they are often found in areas where one doesn’t normally find diamonds. Primarily they come from Brazil and parts of Africa. This one is huge, which is, of course, extremely rare.”

  Rafe looked at her, intrigued. “You certainly seem to know a lot about diamonds.”

  Kyria gave a self-conscious laugh. “Well, jewelry is an interest of mine. It is a little frivolous, but…” She shrugged. “I love the beauty of gems and precious metals.”

  “Beauty isn’t frivolous,” Rafe replied, his gaze resting on her face. “Beauty is what humans have always strived for. In art, in music, architecture—and jewelry.”