The Captain of Her Heart by Anita Stansfield
Chapter One
FIRST KISS
Cornwall, England
Kyrah came awake suddenly, as if she’d been startled from a nightmare, but she couldn’t recall what she might have been dreaming. Her eyes stung with an unfamiliar dryness, and her every muscle felt strained. She groaned and curled around her pillow, wondering how so much could go wrong in so short a time. Not so many days ago, she had been anticipating her sixteenth birthday and the celebration she would enjoy with her parents. Of course, nothing was ever completely right without Ritcherd, and she missed him dreadfully. Still, life had been good in spite of his absence. But now, her birthday had come and gone, unnoticed amidst the horror of her father’s death and the loss of everything they owned.
If only Ritcherd were here, she thought for the thousandth time this week. But he wasn’t here, and reality had to be faced. Kyrah would have to find a way to support herself and her mother, or they would be out in the streets. Her mother was too absorbed in her grief to face the inevitable. Kyrah knew it was up to her. But how could she face the gravity of their situation when she couldn’t even face the fact that her father was gone?
Needing fresh air to clear her head, Kyrah brushed the wrinkles out of the dress she’d slept in and quietly checked on her mother. Sarah was still sleeping soundly, no doubt aided by a concoction the doctor had given her to keep her calm. Leaving Sarah a note so she wouldn’t worry, Kyrah wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders and ran down the long drive between the two rows of Cornish elms that stood like skeletal sentinels, bared by the winter wind. Kyrah felt oblivious to the cold as she stood at the crossroad where she and Ritcherd had met nearly every day for eight years. Staring up the lane toward Buckley Manor, she could easily imagine how he would look riding toward her against the backdrop of his home. She lost track of the time as she stood with the wind reminding her that Ritcherd was an ocean away, and she could only pray that he might return to her alive and well—not in a wooden box, as her father had returned.
The thought startled Kyrah, and she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her. Desperately needing peace and solace, she headed over the moors toward the one spot on earth that she considered a haven from the harsh realities of life. Sitting among the church ruins, she could almost forget, if only for a few precious moments, that her life had been turned upside down.
As she absorbed the timelessness of her surroundings, the wind rustled past her like an old familiar friend, escorting her back in time to that fateful day when she had first laid eyes on Ritcherd Buchanan. Her memories were complex and seemed far too insightful for a seven-year-old girl. But it was difficult for Kyrah to know if her insight had truly been present that day, or if it had come through the years of analyzing her memories.
Kyrah’s mother had often told her of the beautiful moors of Cornwall, and the church ruins where she had played as a girl. For Kyrah, the highlight of moving from London’s crowded streets to the open countryside was learning that the big house they would live in was very near the cottage where her mother had grown up. It was her mother’s playground that Kyrah first sought out upon their arrival.
She was immediately fascinated by the ruins, and she felt certain that this church was closer to God than any other, since she could stand anywhere inside the structure and see the sky. There was no longer any roof, and the floor was more grass than stone, although the altar as well as many of the stone pews still existed.
Kyrah was just craning her neck to view what had once been a series of stone archways when she first heard Ritcherd’s voice.
“This church was built in the fifteenth century,” he stated as if he were a schoolmaster.
Startled, Kyrah turned abruptly to see a young man standing in the doorway, wearing a casual jacket with the sleeves pushed up and a wool scarf hanging forward around his neck. He moved closer, watching her carefully. She glanced at him, then moved her eyes quickly away from his unyielding gaze.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said in response to her silence. “I just thought you’d like to know.”
Ritcherd told her the history of the old church that day, and pointed out all of the features remaining of its structure. Kyrah followed him about, listening attentively but saying nothing until he announced that he’d told all there was to tell and sat on one of the stone pews, motioning for her to sit beside him.
“My name is Ritcherd,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I’ll be thirteen soon.” He paused and asked, “So, what is your name?”
Kyrah fingered the stone bench beneath her hands, noting its coldness despite the summer sun. “Kyrah,” she said at last.
“That’s very pretty,” he said, watching her closely while he seemed deep in thought. “It sounds like a lady’s name. An elegant lady, with diamonds round her throat. What do you think about that?”
Kyrah smiled. “I’m only seven.”
“Does that mean you can’t think?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Only that I can’t imagine such a thing . . . as being a lady.”
“I believe you will,” he said in a voice that forced her to look at him again. Even in her youth and naivete, Kyrah felt something significant in that moment, an undefinable sensation that had made it cling distinctly to her memory. It was almost as if fate had tapped her on the shoulder, prompting her to take notice. And she somehow knew that Ritcherd had felt it, too.
He surprised her by taking her hand and leading her from the church. “Come on,” he said, almost skipping as he pulled her behind him. “If we go up here we can see the old church from a different perspective.”
They were both breathless when they reached the hilltop. Ritcherd pointed down to the ruins sitting timelessly against an endless stretch of moors, sweeping toward the distant sea like a purple and gold blanket fluttering in the wind, halted only by an occasional stone fence-line. The wind that had rolled gently through the old church now briskly played havoc with their hair and threw the longest part of Ritcherd’s scarf out behind him, almost giving the illusion that he was flying.
“Is it always so windy here?” Kyrah asked, gathering her hair into one hand to keep it from blowing in her face.
“No,” he said intently. Then he grinned. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
Kyrah laughed and turned her eyes again to the view.
“This is a beautiful place,” he said, and Kyrah silently agreed.
“May I walk you home?” he asked. Kyrah wasn’t certain if she should let him, but she was reluctant to part with this new friend, and she nodded her assent. She was surprised when he took her hand as they walked, and she wondered if this was how it might feel to have a big brother. She watched him more bravely now, and thought he was rather handsome. She hoped that he could be her friend forever.
Kyrah expected Ritcherd to take her to the gate and make his departure, but without permission or hesitation he walked to the door with her and asked if he might come in and meet her parents. Although she had no idea how her parents might react to such a visitor, she couldn’t bring herself to make any excuses, and he followed her into the entry hall.
Ritcherd glanced around and clasped his hands behind his back. She wondered if he noticed the long-unused air to the house. But signs of renovation promised to bring the century-old edifice back to life.
“It’s a fine house,” he said. “Nobody’s lived here for years, not since old Mr. Greene died.”
Kyrah led him to the drawing room, only because her mother had said it was meant to entertain guests. They stepped carefully around the partially unpacked crates and oddly placed furniture and sat down together on a small sofa. When minutes passed and nothing was said, she expected the silence to be awkward enough to make him get up and leave. But he smiled comfortably at her, and for the first time in her life, Kyrah found it possible to be with someone besides her parents and not feel uncomfortable.
“There you are, young lady.” A voice startled them both, an
For a moment Kyrah feared she would get a scolding for having a boy as a friend. But Sarah’s expression turned from surprise to genuine pleasure when Ritcherd stood and introduced himself like a perfect gentleman.
“Hello,” he replied, “I’m Ritcherd Buchanan. I met Kyrah this afternoon at the church ruins, and asked if I might walk her home.”
“How very nice.” Sarah turned a chair the appropriate direction and sat down. “I’m Sarah Payne . . . Kyrah’s mother.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Payne,” he said as if he’d been socializing all of his thirteen years.
“You say you’ve been at the old church?” she asked, and he nodded as he sat back down. “I went there often as a girl,” Sarah mused. “It was always one of my favorite places.”
“Did you live here before?” Ritcherd asked.
“Many years ago.” Sarah smiled warmly. “I grew up in the cottage on this estate . . . the one just east of here.”
“I know the one,” he said in response to her expectant expression. “Is your family from here, then?” he asked.
“No, actually,” Sarah said. “I lived with the schoolmistress, Miss Hatch.”
“I remember her,” Ritcherd said, seeming pleased.
“My husband was fortunate enough to acquire the estate so that we could come back,” Sarah said. “It’s like coming home for me.”
“The house has been empty for a long time,” Ritcherd said. “It will be nice to have neighbors.”
“You live close then?” Sarah prodded.
“Yes,” he said, and the bright countenance he’d worn all morning suddenly faded. “Just north of here, at the end of the lane.”
“Buckley Manor?” Sarah nearly gasped. “But of course. Buchanan. I should have figured that out. I remember your parents.”
Kyrah noticed that Ritcherd’s confident aura was briefly dimmed. She was relieved for Ritcherd’s sake when her mother seemed to sense something uncomfortable and picked up the conversation, telling more about her childhood in Cornwall.
Kyrah watched Ritcherd more bravely now that his attention was centered on Sarah’s conversation. She admired the way he looked so comfortable. He acted much older than thirteen, she thought.
Turning her attention to her mother, Kyrah was relieved to see that Sarah liked Ritcherd. She knew her mother was a good judge of character, and if Sarah liked him, she knew he was worth liking.
“Listen to me running on,” Sarah finally said. “I was looking for Kyrah so we could get a bite to eat. It’s already far past noon. But we seem to get rather caught up in the work and forget all about—”
“I should be going then,” Ritcherd said, coming quickly to his feet.
Kyrah couldn’t help feeling disappointed, but it was short-lived as Sarah added warmly, “Would you like to stay and eat with us, Ritcherd? Under the circumstances it’s not very fancy, but you’d be welcome. I’m certain Kyrah’s father would love to meet you and . . . Oh, perhaps your mother would be worried if—”
“I don’t think she’ll notice,” Ritcherd interrupted dryly. “If you’re sure it’s all right . . . I’d like to stay.”
Kyrah beamed with pleasure, and they walked together to the dining room, which was in a similar condition to the rest of the house. But Ritcherd didn’t seem to mind. Stephen Payne was waiting there, and he immediately liked Ritcherd as well. For the first time ever, Kyrah felt that she had found a real friend.
Late in the day, after Ritcherd had helped Stephen tear down some atrocious wallpaper in the library, he finally announced that he should be getting home. He seemed reluctant to go, but Kyrah was relieved when he spoke to Sarah at the door.
“Would it be all right if I come and visit again?” he asked. “I’d be happy to help with the work.”
“You’re welcome here anytime, Ritcherd.” Sarah took his hand, and for a moment Kyrah almost thought he was trying not to cry. But she felt certain she’d imagined it. Surely thirteen-year-old boys didn’t cry. “And we’d appreciate the help, but you certainly don’t need to feel obligated.”
Ritcherd cleared his throat and turned to Kyrah. “Maybe we could go to the church ruins again tomorrow.”
Kyrah nodded firmly, then ran up the stairs so she could watch him from an upstairs window as he walked down the long drive between the rows of huge elms.
The following day, Kyrah began watching from the window right after breakfast and completing her chores. By late afternoon, she began to fear that he had changed his mind about wanting to spend time with a little girl. Surely he had just been kind in order to make her feel welcome as a newcomer. But she couldn’t expect him to be a real friend—not like those she’d heard about in books her mother read to her.
When she saw him from a distance on a horse, trotting casually toward the house, Kyrah ran down the stairs and out past the gate to meet him.
“Hello, Kyrah Payne,” he said with a remarkable smile. She liked the way he said her name.
“Hello, Ritcherd Buchanan,” she replied.
“Would you like to ride with me to the church?” he asked without dismounting.
“I would,” she replied, glancing away.
“Is it all right with your parents?”
“Mother went into town, but she said if you came today, I could go as long as I’m home before dark.”
“Good.” Ritcherd smiled again and dismounted, holding out his hand to her. “What’s the matter?” he asked at her obvious hesitation.
“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” she said quietly.
“Not to worry,” he said and took her hand to help her into the saddle. He mounted in front of her, and she held to him tightly as the horse moved slowly forward.
Ritcherd tied the horse near the church ruins to graze, then he helped Kyrah down. He took her hand to lead her around the perimeter of the church until she saw something in the tall grass and stopped to investigate. Her heart quickened with fascination and compassion as she knelt down and scooped a wounded bird into her hands.
“It’s hurt,” she whispered and couldn’t help crying, even though she wondered if Ritcherd would be annoyed by her tears. The little bird fluttered helplessly, attempting to fly away. Its distressed chirping tore at her heart.
“He has a broken wing,” Ritcherd informed her after closer examination.
They took the little bird back to Kyrah’s home, where Sarah helped them doctor it as much as possible. Ritcherd stayed for supper and helped Stephen into the evening by tearing out a piece of wall in the drawing room that had to be replaced due to water damage. When it was down, Sarah declared that she liked the room better without it. Kyrah kept watch over the little bird.
The following days found Ritcherd common company at the Paynes’ new home. He and Kyrah spent hours feeding and caring for the little bird and watching it gain strength. They helped as much as they could in the house, and gradually it began to show vast improvement.
On the ceremonious day when it was declared that the little bird had healed, Kyrah stood on a pew in the old church and held her hands toward the sky. The bird chirped a moment as if to say something tender, then it flew from her hands, lit briefly in one of the high windows, and disappeared.
Kyrah told Ritcherd how sad she felt to let it go, but she knew its freedom was important, and somehow it would know they loved it. She told him how selfish and unfair it would be for them to expect to keep the little bird from flying just because they wanted it with them.
After the incident with the little bird, Kyrah became fascinated with every bird she saw. She wanted to know what type of bird it was, and speculated about what it was doing and where it had come from. She was delighted when Ritcherd returned from a short trip to London with his parents and brought her a beautiful book contain
Nearly every day found them together. Beyond the necessary time spent at their school lessons, they spent every possible hour enjoying each other’s company. If they were not watching for birds, they were running over the moors or lying back in the heather to watch the clouds. Still, their favorite pastime was to play among the church ruins. For children, it was full of intrigue and endless possibilities for spurring the imagination. Together they shared a castle with daring rescues, or a haunted house with ghosts at every turn. Or sometimes they just played hide-and-seek among the pews. Even in the depths of winter, when the cold wind howled as if it were one of their playmates, Ritcherd and Kyrah hardly missed a day’s visit to the ruins.
They truly became the best of friends, and Kyrah was often surprised that despite their age difference he continued to spend the majority of his time with her. Their friendship existed on a level somewhere between their ages, where her maturity met with something in him that seemed drawn back to childhood, as if he’d never really played or learned to use his imagination prior to Kyrah’s coming into his life. He was completely at ease in her home and with her parents, and eventually he became an inseparable part of the family. Kyrah prayed every day that it would always be that way; in fact, she became so thoroughly dependant upon him that she found it difficult to even imagine being able to live without him.
As the years passed, Kyrah felt certain that she could not have survived without Ritcherd for many reasons, although some stood out stronger in her mind than others. It gradually became evident that Kyrah would always be snubbed by those who considered her father’s profession and lack of social distinction unacceptable. But Ritcherd not only compensated for her absence of friends, he often rescued her from their cruel teasing. And she always found sanctuary in his friendship. Still, she never realized how thoroughly he protected her until a day came when she found the courage to ask him something she had always wondered. “Why have you never taken me to your home?”
He looked so startled that she nearly regretted bringing it up. “You wouldn’t like it,” he stated tersely.
“Are you ashamed of me?” she asked. Through nearly four years of friendship, he’d never once suggested that she meet his parents.
Now Ritcherd looked astonished. “No!” he said adamantly.
“Then why?”
“It’s not like your home, Kyrah. Personally, I don’t find it very appealing.”
“But it’s so beautiful,” she said, glancing toward the magnificent manor situated on the hill. Ritcherd made no comment so she added, “I’d like to go there.”
He seemed tense for several moments while he was obviously working something out in his mind. Finally he conceded. “If you want to see it, I would be honored to show it to you.”
The following morning, Kyrah went by horseback to the crossroad where Ritcherd met her. They rode side by side toward Buckley Manor, and Kyrah was amazed at how far it seemed. The house was so big that it had always appeared closer than it really was. As the distance lessened, the structure became more ominous.
Kyrah was silent as he led her inside. The manor’s beauty and size left her in awe. She considered her own home to be large and elegant, but it seemed a mere cottage compared to the massive, elaborate Buchanan residence. The reality of his home was Kyrah’s first real indication of what she gradually came to learn about Ritcherd’s circumstances. It was difficult to look at him as her friend and comprehend that he was one of the Buchanans of north Cornwall. Not only were they by far the wealthiest family in the area, but she learned as time went by that they were also very powerful—one being a result of the other.
A deep impression was left on Kyrah from that first visit to the manor. The great hallways of black and white checkerboard floors, massive staircases, eloquent pillars, and aspiring archways were all awesome and breathtaking. Each room was beautiful and unique. But Ritcherd didn’t take the pride in his home that she might have expected.
Puzzling over the reasons, her fascination was quickly diverted when Ritcherd completed his tour by taking her to meet his parents. “It’s about time they had the pleasure of knowing you,” he said warmly, but she saw something tense in his eyes.
Kyrah felt immediately uncomfortable when they entered the drawing room together, but Ritcherd held her arm firmly and she was reassured by his presence. He gave formal introductions, but they were answered with little more than a curt nod from Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan. Ritcherd escorted Kyrah to a sofa and sat beside her, holding her hand.
In the minutes that followed, Kyrah became more aware of her circumstances than she ever had been. Jeanette Buchanan’s cold stare was the most demeaning thing she’d ever come up against. “Is it really true, my dear,” the woman finally said with an edge to her plastered smile, “that your father came by his estate as the result of a . . . card game?”
Kyrah felt Ritcherd go tense beside her. “Really, Mother, I don’t think that—”
“Yes, it’s true,” Kyrah interrupted, lifting her chin courageously. The love she felt for her father outweighed her fears, and she defended him with pride. His methods made no difference to her.
At her admission, a slow, hard glance passed between Ritcherd’s parents, then their eyes turned back to Kyrah as if she were a leper. Apparently unable to bear looking at her any longer than necessary, their gaze moved to Ritcherd. Kyrah’s gaze followed, and her breath caught in her throat. If she had met Ritcherd Buchanan at that moment, from his expression she would have believed him to be the most bitter, hateful young man on earth.
“I’d heard,” Jeanette said, breaking a horrible silence, “that you had been traipsing around with this Payne girl all these years, but I really didn’t want to believe it.”
Kyrah felt her chest go tight, and a painful throbbing struck between her eyes. The relief was indescribable when Ritcherd rose to his feet and urged her along. She sensed that he wanted very badly to retort, but he was fighting to maintain control, perhaps due to her presence. They moved toward the door as his father added, “I think you’d do well to stop and think about where you’re headed, son. Oil and water don’t mix. I would have expected more of you than this.”
Ritcherd stopped at the door, drew a deep breath and turned back to face his parents, while Kyrah stood half shielded by his tall frame. “And I would have expected at least a degree of graciousness from my own parents,” he said. “You call yourselves the epitome of social grace. Well, I want nothing to do with it. As far as I can see, your social standard stinks, and your priorities sicken me.”
“How dare you speak to us like that, young man!” Jeanette came to her feet in a reddening rage. “I’ll not stand here and—”
Ritcherd interrupted and pointed a hard finger. “I’ll not stand here and listen to your self-righteous drivel. How dare you treat a guest of mine in such a manner! You and your social graces can rot for all I care!”
Kyrah moved numbly out of the house, propelled by Ritcherd’s hand at her arm, hearing doors slam behind them. In silence they rode to the church ruins, while Kyrah wanted to die inside. She had never felt so humiliated and frightened in her life. And the Ritcherd Buchanan she thought she knew so well was suddenly someone she had never seen before and didn’t understand.
By the time they reached the church, the pounding in her head had become unbearable, and it too
Another whimper escaped, and he turned to look at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Her little remaining self-control crashed around her, and she would have collapsed if Ritcherd hadn’t rushed to catch her. Helplessly she sobbed against his shoulder while he whispered soothing apologies and reassurances. When her outburst finally quieted to a rhythmic sniffle, Ritcherd grasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “It makes no difference to me, Kyrah. Just look at you. You’re a perfect lady. To me, it doesn’t matter.”
Kyrah found comfort in his sincerity, but she would never forget that in his parents’ eyes, her lack of aristocratic background left her totally unsuitable for his companionship.
As time passed, Kyrah was amazed at the way Ritcherd continued to outwardly defy his parents’ wish that he not see her. She knew there was some deep estrangement between them that he had mentioned briefly. But his adamance in avoiding the subject left her mostly ignorant of the reasons. She suspected, however, because of the way Ritcherd was so compelled to be in her home, and the closeness he shared with her parents, that he found little—if anything—of value in his own home.
When Ritcherd’s father died, Kyrah attended the funeral by his side. It was the first time Jeanette didn’t bother to throw a cold glare in her direction. But Ritcherd’s hope that the absence of his father’s stern hand would soften the circumstances was quickly dashed when his mother later ridiculed him for bringing Kyrah to the funeral, saying he should not have done it out of respect for his father. Yet even then, Ritcherd made it clear that he would see Kyrah Payne with or without his mother’s approval.
Following his father’s death, Kyrah noticed that Ritcherd felt a subtle softening toward him. His only explanation was that some papers had been left with the will which helped Ritcherd understand that, in spite of his father’s faults, he’d had a softer side that he’d never allowed his son to see. If only he could have felt the same way about his mother.
Ritcherd continued to protect Kyrah from the harshness of the world, while each day was an adventure to them. Time passed, and their play gradually merged into long conversations and longer walks. Just being together was all that either of them seemed to need. If the moors or the church ruins ever became tiresome, they would walk along the beach with bare feet, or ride to the pier to see the ships, and sit for hours admiring their beauty and speculating over the places they had been. Their conversation often turned to the gulls and curlews flying above them, with their own tales to tell.
Occasionally Ritcherd took it upon himself to dance with Kyrah in the old church, and together they perfected all the moves. They occupied many summer weeks with the minuet and the cotillion, while the wind whistled through the crumbling stones for their accompaniment.
The older Kyrah became, the more her dependence on Ritcherd grew. It became so deep that her greatest fear was the possibility of losing him. As she began to realize that he’d become a man and she was little more than a child, she often feared he would eventually tire of her. She hardly dared voice her fears, if only to keep from giving him the idea. But she often tried to approach the issue through back doors with the hope of gaining reassurance. Inevitably Ritcherd proved to her that any fear was unwarranted. She was continually amazed at his depth of commitment to her, but found that it took little to bring nagging doubts to the surface again and again. One afternoon, however, she was given the chance to overhear a completely candid piece of conversation which gave her a deep peace that helped ease her doubts.
She went to the church ruins to meet Ritcherd, but realized he was not alone and paused outside, not wanting to intrude. Recognizing George Morley’s voice, she knew they wouldn’t talk long. George had been a casual friend of Ritcherd’s from childhood, but he was always on the go.
“You’re sure now,” George was saying. “This is your last chance.”
“Quite sure,” Ritcherd replied firmly.
“I don’t understand it. You’re the only man I know who would pass up a chance like this. Why?”
“I’d rather be here, George. I have what I want.”
George chuckled. “You can’t say I didn’t offer. You may be jealous when I get back and tell you what you missed.”
“Maybe,” Ritcherd murmured. “But we’ll see who’s jealous when Kyrah grows up. She means more to me than anything you could ever offer.” He chuckled. “Nothing personal.”
George’s laugh moved closer, and Kyrah backed away to appear as if she’d just arrived.
“Good afternoon, Miss Payne.” George bowed gallantly, grinning in his typical way. “Your beloved awaits your arrival with great anticipation.”
“Hello, George,” she said, quite accustomed to his teasing.
George quickly left, and she found Ritcherd sitting on one of the pews, his arms stretched out across the back. She watched him a moment, trying to comprehend what he’d just said to George. Although it was vague, she felt somehow secure—a feeling that deepened from an intensity in his eyes that was becoming more familiar.
When Kyrah finally came to the conclusion that one way or another Ritcherd would always be a part of her life, news came only days later that threw everything she’d ever felt for him into a whirlpool of fear and confusion. It was an extremely hot day in late summer when Ritcherd came through the front door of Kyrah’s home with an abrupt, “Where’s your father?”
Stephen quickly appeared, and the two of them were holed up in the library for what seemed hours. Kyrah felt an unspeakable dread, but in no way expected Ritcherd to emerge with the grave announcement, “I have been asked to serve my country.”
Their eyes met with no need to express the horror they were both feeling. He cleared his throat and explained, “The Americans have declared independence, and King George won’t stand for it.”
“How . . . long?” Sarah asked, her emotion evident. He might as well have been her own son.
“There is no way of knowing,” Ritcherd said. “I’ve heard all degrees of speculations, but personally . . . I don’t think it will be over quickly.”
Kyrah wanted to die. It was difficult for her to comprehend that his need to serve stemmed from some unwritten expectation tied to his title and background, and refusing would leave him socially tainted for the rest of his life. She didn’t understand it. She only knew she hated it. Still, she couldn’t deny respecting him for having the honor and courage to do what was expected of him. She only wished that leaving her and putting his life at risk weren’t part of those expectations.
Kyrah’s only comfort was seeing the pain she felt mirrored in Ritcherd’s eyes. But there was nothing to say that would make any difference, and the days leading up to his departure were filled with unspeakable dread. The future had always seemed so hopeful, so easy. Talk of war had been disregarded as a faraway triviality. Then a day came when Kyrah had to face the reality that war had come between them. This would be their last day together.
She was surprised to arrive at the usual meeting place and find it unoccupied. But she waited patiently at the crossroad, staring up the lane to Buckley Manor as she watched Ritcherd approach against the backdrop of his home. As the dread within her deepened, Kyrah pulled her lightweight cloak tightly around her, feeling more chilled than the air of early autumn warranted.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, halting his stallion an arm’s length away to dismount. “I was . . . packing.”
Kyrah managed a smile and looked down to avoid having
Ritcherd gave a forced smile and glanced away. It was evident that he didn’t want to discuss his reasons for wearing it any more than she did, but the tension in the air was undeniable. They knew this was their final time together. Just when Kyrah thought the strain might make her scream, Ritcherd reached for her hand. By way of habit, they strolled aimlessly over the moors and walked hand in hand through the ruins of the old church. Kyrah watched him carefully, trying to memorize every detail of his presence as he leaned in one of the partial archways of the church ruins, his blue eyes penetrating, his hands stoically behind his back. Consciously she absorbed his sculptured features and high forehead into her mind. He had a distinct aristocratic look about him, but could by no means be called delicate. Every movement, even his mannerisms, lent an aura of virility to what otherwise might be called a gentle face. His well-groomed downy blond hair was tied back, as usual, into a fashionable ponytail. His hair looked dark in the shadows, although Kyrah knew it had been lightened by the summer sun.
But summer was over now, and he was leaving. Kyrah met his gaze for a timeless moment and saw something unfamiliar there. She turned away and absently put a hand to her heart, puzzled over what he might be thinking. She wished in that moment that she could see herself through Ritcherd’s eyes and know for certain how he saw her. But she felt certain she would only see a fifteen-year-old girl who was too tall for her age, and therefore too lanky. In her own opinion, her skin was too pale and her hair too unruly. When she observed her full lips and wide, not-so-brilliant blue eyes in the mirror, it was difficult to imagine the lady with diamonds round her throat that Ritcherd often envisioned. Still, he had told her many times that she was pretty, and she knew he would never lie to her.
Attempting to face what this day would bring, Kyrah wanted desperately to know that he felt for her as she did for him. But the thoughts that she ached to share remained unspoken. Words seemed trite, and silence somehow pure. While she tried to be content with lingering glances and a sense of togetherness, the morning passed with only the continuing wind breaking the stillness of the old church.
He sat beside her on one of the cold stone benches, toying idly with her fingers. She met his eyes and smiled, hoping to ease the tension, but he only squeezed her hand too tightly as he leaned back and looked skyward. All the years they’d spent growing together seemed suddenly too brief as she tried to comprehend what the future might bring.
Ritcherd was, in every sense of the word, Kyrah’s dearest friend. But as he turned to look into her eyes, she felt her emotions deepen. She had always found it difficult to comprehend her future without Ritcherd in it, but being so much younger had made her hesitate to ever verbalize how she felt. And for some reason, it had always been avoided. They had always spoken only of the present, as if the world could be this way forever.
Kyrah saw his lips part as if to speak, but he only sighed and stood, clasping his hands behind his back.
“What is it?” she asked, moving beside him.
He turned to meet her eyes, and the intensity of his expression left her breathless as he pulled her, for the first time, into his embrace.
“I will miss you, Kyrah,” he whispered near her face. “There’s hardly been a day in eight years that I’ve not seen you . . . and been able to talk with you. How can I go away and have no idea when I can be with you again?”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she replied quietly. By its own will, her hand went to his face. She thought it strange that with all the time they’d spent together, she had never once touched his face. She could feel the rough shadow of beard that always showed up late in the day, and she recalled how young he’d been when it had first appeared. Even now, barely past his twenty-first birthday, he looked far too mature to be holding a girl so young in his arms.
In silent answer to the gesture, Ritcherd touched her hair with his fingertips, then moved them with determination over every part of her face, as if he was attempting to memorize her features.
Kyrah saw the desperation in his eyes just before he bent to kiss her. When his lips subtly met hers, she felt his emotion pass into her. In the same moment that she became certain she loved him, she realized he was leaving, and tears welled up behind her eyes. She loved him far beyond the way she would care for a brother or a friend. And there was no denying the pain she felt in knowing this was good-bye.
He drew back to look at her, and she knew he’d noticed the mist in her eyes when his brow furrowed. His expression filled with compassion just before he kissed her again. His lips met hers with a tenderness that was characteristic of first kisses, then his mouth softened over hers, as if he could completely draw her into himself and take her with him. Kyrah held to him tightly, feeling as if they were moving together across a bridge with steps that could never be retraced. After eight years of holding hands, they were suddenly holding each other, caught up in a kiss both passionate and desperate, stirring something deep within.
“I must go,” he said, reluctantly pulling away.
“I know,” she replied breathlessly, sensing that he was forcing himself away from her for reasons she didn’t completely understand. Ritcherd Buchanan was a man, likely very aware of matters that Kyrah was only becoming aware of in her youth.
“Kyrah,” he whispered and looked right into her eyes, “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or what condition I’ll return in, but I . . .” He paused and drew back his shoulders. “I want you to wait for me, Kyrah. I have to know that you’ll be here for me when I come back.”
The tears refused to be held back now. To know that Ritcherd wanted her in his future was the best thing she had ever known.
“I will,” she said with fervor, and he sighed with relief at her promise.
“Don’t cry, Kyrah,” he said, forcing a smile as he wiped away her tears. “It always breaks my heart to see you cry.”
“I’m sorry.” She tried to laugh, hoping to push the tears back, but the forced chuckle turned into an irrepressible sob. Ritcherd pulled her close to him, holding her with that same desperation while she cried against his chest. He eased her back to the bench where they sat close together in silence until it became necessary to leave. The seconds ticked by mercilessly as he escorted her back to her home for their final good-byes, while their first precious kisses were still lingering on her lips.
They hesitated just outside the door, dreading the inevitable separation. The silence eventually became unbearable, and Kyrah was relieved when Ritcherd broke it.
“I don’t want to go, Kyrah. If it was not a matter of honor . . .” He didn’t finish, but she nodded to indicate that she understood. Their eyes met and she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. Her emotions began to get the better of her, and she turned her back to him and squeezed her eyes shut. A fresh surge of tears trickled down her face, but before she could lift a hand to wipe them away, Ritcherd took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. He gave her a sad smile and took her face into his hands, absently moving a thumb over her cheek to catch a tear. Then he pressed his lips to the other cheek to pull the tears away with his lips.
“I really must go,” he whispered. “There are things I must see to, and I’ve got to leave at dawn.”
She felt both relieved and terrified when he opened the door and followed her inside. Time was running out, and she knew he felt it as keenly as she did. They paused in the entryway where Ritcherd pulled her close to him again, closing his eyes as his lips came softly against her cheek. Kyrah felt an indescribable fear when he took his arms from around her, but she pushed the feelings away and led him into the drawing room.
“Ritcherd came to say good-bye,” Kyrah said softly. Her parents both stood, looking dismayed.
“You’re really leaving,” Sarah said, moving toward him and taking his hand
“I wish I weren’t,” he replied solemnly.
“Do take care, Ritcherd.” She put her arms around him and went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “We will miss you.”
“And I’ll miss you,” he said, returning the kiss, “more than you can imagine.”
“You keep your head down,” Stephen said, giving Ritcherd a hearty handshake. “I’ve got plans for you when you get back.”
Ritcherd chuckled. “And what might they be?”
Stephen glanced toward his daughter and smiled. “We’ll talk about it when you return.”
Stephen embraced Ritcherd, and Kyrah could see in Ritcherd’s eyes the love he’d never felt for his own father. Then Sarah embraced him again. They followed him to the door as he held Kyrah’s hand. Oblivious to spectators, he pulled Kyrah close to him, touched her chin with his finger and placed a warm kiss on her lips.
“Good-bye,” he said, turning again to Stephen and Sarah. He squeezed Kyrah’s hands and left.
Kyrah ran to the upstairs window and watched him ride toward Buckley Manor until he was out of sight. She rose the following morning before dawn to watch the distant lane until he rode past. She saw him pause at the crossroad and look toward her home. She knew he couldn’t see her there, but somehow she knew he sensed her. Reluctantly he moved the stallion forward and disappeared over the moors.
Chapter Two
TOO LONG A