The Captain of Her Heart by Anita Stansfield
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Ritcherd had been about to leave the church ruins when he noticed Kyrah approaching, and impulsively he moved into a dark corner and watched her enter. He felt hope in wondering if she had come here looking for him, but it quickly became evident that she was expecting to be alone. His broken heart threatened to crumble as he watched her fall apart in tears. He couldn’t imagine what she had been through in his absence, and he cried silent tears while he allowed her to vent her emotion alone. When she finally quieted and curled up on the bench, he instinctively sensed that she needed him and moved stealthily out of the shadows, praying with everything he had that she wouldn’t turn and run again.
Ritcherd hesitated, wondering what he could possibly say to bridge the chasm between them. He wished they could go back in time to that first day they’d met in this very place. The memory prompted his voice, and he impulsively repeated the first words he’d ever said to her. “This church was built in the fifteenth century.”
Kyrah gasped and sat up straight. A familiar fluttering seized her as she saw Ritcherd silhouetted in the dusky light. The absence of his uniform made it easier to connect him to her childhood friend. His high boots and narrow breeches accentuated his lean, muscular form. The sleeves of his jacket were pushed up casually, and his cravat hung loosely around his neck, leaving the top buttons of his shirt undone and the hair on his chest teasing above it. She wondered briefly how to deal with the realization that she was relieved to see him here. She couldn’t deny that her heart yearned to be close to him, to accept the love and support he was offering. But her head was overflowing with reasons why it wasn’t right. At the moment, her head felt too weary to put up a fight, and her heart raced with anticipation as he approached and sat beside her.
“I just thought you’d like to know,” he added, turning toward her.
Kyrah couldn’t think of anything to say, but she found it impossible to tear her gaze away from him.
“You look frightened,” he said softly. “Have I changed so much that I scare you?”
When Kyrah made no attempt to reply, Ritcherd cleared his throat and approached an idea that had come to him only a while ago. “There’s something I need to clarify,” he said. When she said nothing, he added, “Is that all right?”
“I’m listening,” she said in a gentle voice that gave him hope.
“Well,” he began then hesitated, trying to put the words together carefully. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat again. “You know, Kyrah, from the day I met you, I always felt privileged and blessed to have you as my friend. And you were such a good friend to me. Your acceptance of me and my ideas was never conditional. I often wondered through these years away if I should have made a point to tell you that a long time ago. I spent time with you because it was where I wanted to be. You fulfilled something in me that I never found anywhere else. Perhaps I came to depend on it too much. Perhaps I took it for granted. At the time it didn’t seem so, but living without you has made me appreciate what we shared.”
Ritcherd blew out a long, slow breath, knowing he was approaching the difficult part. “The thing is, Kyrah, it wasn’t until the day I left that . . . our relationship became something more, something deeper. In my heart I believed at the time that you felt for me . . . the way I felt for you. But we didn’t have a chance to adjust to those feelings before I left, and now . . . well, I guess I’m trying to say that maybe I’m being presumptuous to think that you want what I want.” He swallowed hard and got to the point. “Maybe we should go back to being friends, and . . . just let the rest . . . evolve . . . with time . . . depending on what you want.”
Her silence began to unnerve him. He attempted to address some of the vulnerability he was feeling by adding, “Maybe I’m being presumptuous to think that you still want to be friends, but quite frankly, I don’t know who else to turn to. You’re all I’ve got that means anything to me, Kyrah, so please . . . if you . . .” He was surprised at the emotion that crept into his voice, and he quickly pressed a hand over his mouth to cover the quivering of his chin.
Kyrah turned away, suddenly feeling horrible at her lack of sensitivity. Whatever the outcome of their situation might be, she had obviously overlooked how all of this appeared to him. In her determination to sever their relationship, it was apparent that she had hurt him. He’d misunderstood her intentions, although she wasn’t certain how to make him understand without opening up wounds that were too painful for her to even consider.
“Talk to me, Kyrah,” he pleaded, his voice low.
Kyrah turned to look at him, feeling a degree of their comfortable childhood come back to her. She could barely see him as the little remaining light of day trickled out of the church. But his grief was evident. Finally she admitted, “I was wrong not to write and tell you. I can see that now. I apologize for that.”
Ritcherd nodded and looked down. He felt like they were making progress, but he still felt as if a stone wall existed between them. He felt as if his heart and soul—even his very life—were on the line. But he couldn’t think of anything to say.
He was surprised when she said, “You were not being presumptuous.” And it took him a moment to orient his thoughts to her comment. He’d barely begun to make the connection when she added, “I loved you long before the day you left.”
Ritcherd’s sigh of relief came out sounding more like a sob. He hung his head forward and forced a chuckle in an attempt to cover his emotion. Looking at her again, he was overcome with so many emotions that he couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch her face. Grateful that she didn’t recoil, he eased subtly closer and put his arm around her, pressing his face into her hair. “Oh, Kyrah,” he murmured, feeling her soften as she took hold of his shoulders. He eased back to look into her eyes, then meekly pressed a kiss to her cheek. When she didn’t resist, he moved his lips close to hers. “My sweet Kyrah,” he whispered and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her grip tighten at the same moment her mouth softened.
Kyrah’s response brought feelings to the surface in Ritcherd that he’d struggled with through his three years without her. He’d spent countless hours thinking about the kiss they’d shared before he left. It had stirred something deep within him, and given him the hope he’d needed to make it home alive. But the relief of seeing her affection became quickly subdued by the fear and desperation he’d been fighting since the day he’d left her nearly three years earlier. He felt suddenly so afraid of losing her that he feared his emotions were making him overzealous. But Kyrah’s response urged him on, and he kissed her the way he’d dreamed of night and day through their separation.
All the sensibility Kyrah felt pulsing into her mind, telling her that she should not be with this man, was banished by his soft words and gentle touch. She tried to tell herself she was leading him on, she was being unfair, she had no right to be allowing this. But oh, how it soothed her heartache and calmed her grief! She longed for it to go on and on. This was what she had dreamed of while she had yearned for him to come back. Then she felt a desperation seep into his kiss that frightened her. She couldn’t explain the source of her fear, but it seemed to trigger a release of all the thoughts that she’d been trying to subdue. Once they were set free, they found their way to her heart, pushing all of her feelings for him out of the way.
“Please . . . don’t, Ritcherd,” she said, turning her face away.
“But . . .” he protested, “you just told me that you love me, and . . .”
“That was a long time ago. So much has changed, Ritcherd. You can’t possibly expect everything to just pick up where it left off.”
“I love you, Kyrah,” he insisted.
“How can you when you don’t even know me anymore?” she asked. He was ready to insist that he simply did, and he didn’t have to justify his feelings. But she went on before he could speak. “You talk of being friends again, then you kiss me and speak of love as if . . .”
??
“As if I should just fall into your arms and pretend that everything is the way it used to be.”
“A lot has changed, Kyrah, but we’re still the same two people. We still—”
“No, we’re not,” she insisted. “We’re . . . just not right for each other, Ritcherd. You must trust me. It would be better if—”
“How can I trust something that goes against everything I feel and believe in . . . everything I’ve felt for you for so long that I can’t even remember what it’s like not to feel this way?”
“That’s just it,” she said, the coldness returning fully to her voice. “I’m a habit. But it’s just not right.”
“Why?” he demanded angrily. “Just tell me why!”
“Stop wallowing in the past, Ritcherd,” she said with scorn. “And find someone else to share your aristocratic world with.”
Before he could even begin to comprehend what she was implying, she turned and ran. Ritcherd reached out to grab her, but she eluded his grasp like a bird taking flight.
“Wait!” he called, running after her. “Blast you, Kyrah Payne! Don’t you run out on me!”
From the doorway of the church he could barely make out her form as she ran over the moors toward home. He knew he could run after her; he knew he could get on his stallion and catch up to her in no time. But he felt drained and spent, and he figured he’d pushed enough against the wall she’d put up between them.
Ritcherd rode slowly toward home, wondering if it could be true that Kyrah hated him because he was an aristocrat. It wasn’t his fault he had an old name and more money than he knew what to do with. Kyrah knew more than anyone how much he’d always avoided his aristocratic world. But perhaps it was a clue to the problem. Could this really be so simple as their difference in social status? To him it seemed preposterous. And if that was the problem, he didn’t know what to do about it.
Kyrah’s advice had been futile, he thought as he poured himself a drink in the privacy of his sitting room. He would wallow in the past until he found out why his dreams for the future were falling apart.