Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  “With us?” Kyria repeated. She glanced at Rafe.

  “I think they’ve been following us,” Rafe told her. “Once or twice I’ve noticed someone in white…”

  “Why?” Kyria asked the man. “Who are you?”

  He appeared to think for a moment before he looked at her, carefully keeping his eyes on her face rather than on her mannishly dressed body. “I am Brother Jozef. I am…we are the Keepers of the Holy Standard.”

  The other three stared at him.

  Finally Kyria said, “Do you mean to tell me…”

  He gave a ponderous nod. “Centuries ago, our order was entrusted with the task of taking the Reliquary of the Holy Standard to a safe place and protecting it with our lives and honor. We retreated deeper and deeper as the years passed and the Ottoman Empire grew, swallowing all that had once been Byzantium. We kept to the true religion and kept safe that which we had sworn to protect with our lives.”

  “But surely you would have died out long ago,” Rafe protested.

  “We are holy men, sworn to chastity and obedience,” Brother Jozef went on. “As the brothers began to die, they realized that they must bring others into their fold. They did so, journeying out every ten years to bring in new novitiates, so that the task was handed down year after year. The brotherhood has dwindled over time, of course, but it never completely died out. We are sworn to protect the sacred reliquary, and so we have done—” his face darkened and he looked away “—until a year ago.”

  “What happened?” Kyria asked gently when he did not speak for a few moments.

  He straightened his shoulders. “One of us was chosen unwisely. He was impure of heart. Corruptible. Evil men, using the snare of a woman, lured him into stealing the reliquary. One morning we woke up, and we could feel that the sacred reliquary was gone. We went to the sanctuary and found that we were right. Our brother was gone, as well. We set out after those evil men, but they moved swiftly. We, as is traditional among our brotherhood, travel by foot. We were unable to catch them, and the Reliquary of the Holy Standard disappeared.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Kyria said, touched by the man’s forlorn expression.

  “I have been entrusted with the task of recovering the reliquary. Without the Holy Standard, all the years, all the sacrifices, will have been for nothing.” He looked straight into Kyria’s eyes, his own blue gaze lit with the flame of fanaticism. “It is ours, my lady. We must bring it back to its rightful place. It is our duty, our desire. Next to it, our lives are worth nothing.”

  Kyria blinked, somewhat taken aback by the man’s passionate statement. What was he saying, that they would take it from her by force?

  The monk paused, drawing a calming breath, and went on, “My brothers and I have followed the trail of the holy reliquary, for wherever such evil men go, murder and mayhem follow. The box has been stolen from the thieves, sold and stolen again, until it wound up in the markets of Constantinople—Istanbul, as the heretics named it. There we learned that a man had bought it from one who did not fully realize what a treasure he had. And this man, this dealer, brought it here to England. To your house. We have followed the reliquary. It calls to us.”

  Kyria decided not to even pursue this last strange statement. She asked, “Why did Mr. Kousoulous bring it to me?”

  “I do not know. No one does. I know only that you now hold our reliquary. That is why we have followed you to this place tonight—to protect you. We cannot allow any harm to come to the Holy Standard while it is in your care.” He leaned forward, gazing earnestly into Kyria’s eyes. “My lady, I beg you to return the reliquary to us. It is our sacred duty to look after the Holy Standard. We must have it. We must return it to its home. Please, return the reliquary to us.”

  There was a long moment of silence in the carriage after he stopped talking. Finally Rafe released a breath and said, “That’s a good story, sir. The only problem is—how do we know that it’s true? Just about anybody could dress up in a white robe and call himself a Keeper of the Holy Standard. You are asking Lady Kyria to just hand over to you a very valuable item.”

  “You accuse me of lying?” The man turned to Rafe, his eyes burning a hole in him. “I am a man of God. I have given my life to Him. I would not sully my name or His with a falsehood. How am I to prove to you that I am who I say? I have with me the order given to me by the head of our order, Brother Teodor, entrusting me with the task of bringing back the sacred relic. But I doubt that will convince a man such as yourself, who sees a liar in a man of God.”

  “Such an order would be pretty easy to write out,” Rafe said.

  Kyria shot him a quelling glance and turned to Brother Jozef, saying soothingly, “Of course, we do not think you are lying. It is just that we have to be very careful. You see, I don’t know you or anything about you except what you have said. There are others who seek the reliquary, too, and all have pressed their claims with me. Some have even been willing to kill a man to try to obtain it. Certainly they would not stop at deceit. So you can see that I must be very careful. We recognize that the reliquary is a very important object, a sacred one, even. And for that reason, I must be even more vigilant about taking care of it.”

  The monk’s burning gaze held Kyria’s for a long moment. “I sense that you are a good woman, my lady, that you understand the powerful responsibility that possessing the Reliquary of the Holy Standard places on one. But you must see that it does not belong to you. It is not yours to keep.”

  “For whatever reason, sir, this box has been entrusted to me. I cannot shirk from that responsibility. I have to think very carefully before I decide what to do with it.”

  “The Reliquary of the Holy Standard is ours,” Brother Jozef insisted. “We must have it back.”

  Rafe straightened, his hand going to the gun inside his jacket. “Are you threatening Lady Kyria?”

  Beside the monk, Tom Quick, too, stiffened, and he turned toward the man, watching him carefully.

  Jozef shot Rafe a disdainful glance. “I do not threaten. I am a man of God. I have told you. But the reliquary is ours, and we will have it.” He turned back to Kyria. “You have seen what has happened to those who have taken the Holy Standard. Death and destruction have followed them. The reliquary belongs at home.”

  “I will think about it,” Kyria assured him. “Very carefully. I promise you.”

  He looked at her for a long time, then gave a brusque nod of his head. “Very well, my lady. We will give you time to think. Then we shall talk again.”

  Having said his piece, the man sank once again into silence. They continued in that way until they reached Broughton House. The carriage pulled up in front and stopped. Brother Jozef jumped nimbly down, and Kyria and the others climbed out of the carriage. By the time they closed the carriage door and turned, Brother Jozef and his companions had melted away into the night.

  Kyria looked all around them, and a shiver took her. She was glad when Rafe curled his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to him.

  “Well,” he said lightly, “this has been quite a night’s work.”

  Tom was still a trifle wobbly on his feet and was glad to accept the offer of a cold compress for his jaw and a bed to sleep in. Kyria sent a maid for bandages and ointments, then propelled Rafe, protesting, up to his room.

  She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it aside. “I must say, there are some things I rather like about this mode of dress.”

  Rafe cast her a look, one eyebrow going up wickedly. “I must say, there are some things I rather admire about it, too. For one thing, I had not realized quite how long your legs are.”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Kyria teased back, feeling a little giddy in the aftermath of all the excitement and danger. For a moment back there, she had thought she was about to die. It was difficult, therefore, not to want to simply fling herself on the bed and shriek out her relief.

  Instead, she undid the cuffs of her shirt and rolled them up, then unbuttoned the collar
and pulled off the constricting tie. “However, I do not understand how you can stand these collars and ties. They are the most ghastly nuisances.”

  Rafe chuckled and started to pull off his own jacket. Kyria noticed the involuntary wince he made as he slipped it off his arm.

  “I can see that you are hurt more than ‘just a scratch,’” she scolded, coming over to him. “Here, let me see.”

  “It’s nothing really.”

  “Don’t be nonsensical. Let me help you.” Kyria unfastened his cuff links and laid them aside. Her hair fell forward around her face and shoulders, and the scent of her teased his nostrils.

  He could not help but think what a delightfully enticing picture she presented in the men’s trousers, her hair tousled and wildly curling, spilling invitingly all around her shoulders. Just the sight of her stirred his senses—admittedly not a difficult task, considering the fact that all of his senses had been exquisitely attuned to her ever since the evening before. Unfulfilled passion had simmered in him all day long, and the excitement of this evening had left him relieved and surging with life, not a state conducive to quelling his desire. What he wanted most to do now was to take Kyria in his arms and kiss her, but he knew exactly where that would lead. It was not the kind of thing a man of honor did.

  But it was damn difficult to retain any sense of honor when she was bending over his arm, unfastening his clothes.

  Rafe stepped back quickly. “It’s all right. I can do it.”

  Kyria raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture and moved away. Having two older brothers, she was well accustomed to the male’s prickly demeanor when wounded.

  She turned and saw the butler, tray in hand, hovering at the opened door. She felt a blush rising in her cheeks, although she told herself it was foolish; she and Rafe had not been doing anything untoward.

  “Come in, Phipps,” she said crisply.

  “My lady.” The butler crossed to where they stood and set his tray on the dresser. “Mr. McIntyre. I took the liberty, sir, of bringing a decanter of brandy, as well as the bandages.”

  “Phipps, you are a man in a million.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He turned to Kyria. “Do you need my help, my lady?”

  “No. I think I can handle it. Mr. McIntyre assures me his wound is nothing but a scratch. You may go on to bed, and tell Joan to retire, as well. I can manage easily enough by myself tonight.”

  “Very good.” Phipps glanced at Kyria’s manner of dress, but made no comment. He had worked in the Morelands’ employ for too long to be disconcerted by anything they did. “Good night, my lady. Sir.”

  He bowed and left the room. Rafe poured a dollop of brandy into each of the small balloon glasses on the tray and handed one of them to Kyria.

  “Here. I think this will help both of us a great deal.”

  Kyria had rarely drunk anything stronger than an occasional glass of wine, but this evening she did not hesitate to take the glass and down a healthy swig of it. She could not suppress a little gasp as it burned its way down her throat, but the burst of warmth in her stomach soothed her still-jittering nerves.

  She took another sip, then let out a sigh and sank into a chair. “Well, it was quite an evening, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Rafe took another swallow of brandy and leaned back against the dresser, his legs stretched out in front of him. “And to think that I always assumed England was dull.”

  “It usually is not quite this lively,” Kyria admitted. She sighed. “I had hoped we would answer some questions tonight. But if anything, it seems we’ve only added more questions.”

  “We still don’t know who was behind Sid and Dixon’s invasion of your house,” Rafe said. “Or why Mr. Kousoulous decided to bring the box to you. However, if this Keeper fellow is to be believed, we at least know where the reliquary has been all these years and how it came into Kousoulous’s hands.”

  “But how did all these people know he had it? And that he was bringing it to me?” Kyria pondered.

  “Well, in the part of the world where it was stolen, rumors have probably been swirling from the moment it disappeared. It is no surprise that Habib had heard about it, and he and other dealers may have written to collectors such as your Russian and French friends, hoping to make a sale if they could manage to get their hands on it.”

  “I suppose so.” Kyria downed the rest of her brandy, grimacing.

  Rafe smiled a little at the face she made, then said soberly, “Unfortunately, Brother Jozef’s tale also gives us another candidate for the person behind Kousoulous’s murder and the invasion of your house.”

  “The Keepers?” Kyria looked at him in shock. “You think the Keepers might have done it? But they saved us tonight.”

  “I am sure it would not help their cause any for us to fall into the hands of someone else who wants the reliquary,” Rafe said. “That would be ample reason to help us out.”

  “That may be. But they belong to a religious order. Surely they would not condone murder and threats!”

  “I hope not. However, I cannot overlook the fact that they are desperate to recover the reliquary. Losing it is a stain on their history, a blot on the good name of their order.”

  “Still, it is hard for me to imagine their doing something wicked in order to recover a holy symbol.”

  “It is more than a symbol to them,” Rafe countered. “It is their very reason for being, the thing to which they and countless others before them devoted their lives. They are zealots, Kyria, and sometimes zealots are willing to sacrifice everything to achieve the goal of their fanaticism.”

  His face darkened, and he levered his body away from the dresser. “Believe me, I have had experience with people with causes, and they usually leave a swath of destruction in their wake.”

  Kyria heard the pain that laced his voice, and she rose from her seat, saying, “Rafe?”

  He turned to face her. “I had a cause. I was certain I was absolutely right, just as all of us were. I went into battle believing I was fighting a holy war.”

  “But you were. Your cause was just!” Kyria exclaimed.

  “Is war ever just?” Rafe countered, and his face was drawn with remembered pain. “You know what I realized after a while? Those men on the other side, the ones I was shooting at, the ones shooting at me…well, the funny thing was that they believed they were right, too.”

  “You were fighting to free men from slavery.”

  “Yeah, and the other side was fighting for their homes. Who wouldn’t fight if an army invaded his land, saying, “You have to do what we tell you’?”

  “But, Rafe—” Kyria frowned, troubled “—are you saying that you don’t believe that you were right? That you were justified?”

  “I was right. Of course I was right to want to end slavery. If I had to choose today, I would do the same thing. But I wouldn’t be so sure of myself and my righteousness that I would charge in, guns blazing. War would be my last recourse, not my first.”

  He turned away, and his voice became low. “A great deal of the war was fought back and forth across Virginia.” He looked at her, and his blue eyes were bitter. “Can you imagine what it was like to have war waged for four long years over the land that was your home? It was devastating. When I went back after the war was over…my uncle’s house, the place where I grew up, was in ruins. My aunt and her daughters were living in what had been the overseer’s cottage. My uncle, the man who took us in, who raised me and sent me to college, had died of pneumonia. My cousins, the boys and girls I grew up with…Annie was left a widow and Tyler had died at Gettysburg. Hank lost an arm and an eye at Chancellorsville. Susannah’s husband survived, but he wasn’t the same man. They moved west to Texas. Our other cousin, James, went with them. There was nothing for them there anymore, just as there was nothing for me. The girl I had loved, the one who gave me back my ring the day I said I was signing up with the Union army, had married someone else and had his baby, and he had died, too. She was only twen
ty-three the last time I saw her, but she looked forty. There was nothing but bitterness in her face.”

  “Oh, Rafe.” Kyria’s eyes filled with tears and she reached out a hand to him. “I am so sorry.”

  “I’m a dead man to them,” Rafe said tightly. “After I started making money, I tried to send them some, and they refused it. My aunt sent a note saying she couldn’t take blood money. I tried going back there this year, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t have a home.”

  Kyria went to him, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head against his chest. Her tears soaked his shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  His arms went around her convulsively, and he bent his head to rest it on hers. She felt his lips brush her hair. She stroked his back soothingly. A quiver of desire ran through her as she touched him, and she felt ashamed that she felt such a thing at such a moment, when he needed comfort.

  “You aren’t to blame for what happened to them,” she murmured, releasing her hold on him and stepping back a little to look up into his face.

  “No,” he agreed hoarsely. His hand cupped her cheek briefly, then fell away and turned aside. “I did what I thought was right. They did what they thought was right. A whole country did that. And everyone was too stubborn, too convinced of their own rectitude, to do anything but go to war over it.”

  He moved to where the brandy sat and poured himself another drink. “It’s over. There’s nothing to be done now.” He took a sip and turned back to her. “But I know one thing—zealots can be very dangerous men. They are far too prone to think that the end justifies the means.”

  “All right.” Kyria wished that she could make him feel better, that she could bring him comfort and peace. But she could tell that he was finished with the subject. In the way of men, he was probably embarrassed that he had revealed as much as he had. So she smiled and said only, “I promise that I shall be suspicious of the Keepers. Still, I can’t help but think that perhaps they have the best right to the reliquary.”