Chapter Four
THE ABDUCTION
Ritcherd looked hazily at the empty bottle in front of him, and couldn’t believe the pain was still there. He wondered how one woman could make a man hurt so much. He’d been to hell and back in the last three years, only to come home and find that his world had turned upside down. But even having a ball shot through his arm hadn’t hurt the way this did.
A tangible sickness enveloped him every time he thought about what had happened in his absence. Stephen dead. Sarah crumbling from a broken heart. Kyrah working night and day to make ends meet. If only he had been here! He probably couldn’t have kept Stephen alive, but he could have kept the woman he loved from doing servant’s work.
Ritcherd managed to make it to his bed late that evening, and awoke the following morning with his head pounding to match the lonely ache he felt. An ocean between him and Kyrah hadn’t made him feel as lonely as this.
“You look awful. Have you been drinking?” Jeanette asked with disgust as Ritcherd seated himself at the breakfast table. He made no response and she continued, “That’s not like you, Ritcherd. What did they do to you over there?”
“You wouldn’t want to know,” he stated.
“Whatever might be bothering you,” she said while Ritcherd pushed his food around with a fork, “you’ll get over it. After all, you’re home now and—”
“There is nothing that will make me get over Kyrah,” he said more to himself, still feeling half drunk. But Jeanette obviously overheard.
“Ritcherd! Don’t tell me that you’re acting this way because of her! I can understand your being disconcerted with all that’s happened, but it should be more evident than ever that she’s not the girl for you. Open your eyes and look around. There are plenty of young ladies who would—”
She stopped when Ritcherd’s glare became fierce. Abruptly he stood from his chair and pointed a finger at his mother. “Let me make one thing clear. Nothing has changed the way I feel about Kyrah, and nothing is going to stand in my way. I intend to marry her.”
Jeanette’s shock was apparent, but Ritcherd’s own words gave him the motivation he needed. Following a bath and a shave, he sat idly at the crossroad on a stallion when he knew Kyrah would be walking between the cottage and the big house.
He saw her glance in his direction and knew that she was aware of him. But she deliberately avoided looking at him. Coming to the conclusion that he would get nowhere just sitting there, he impulsively galloped the short distance, pulled up beside her, and dismounted as she neared the cottage.
“Good afternoon,” he said casually.
“Good afternoon,” she replied and continued to walk, but he moved quickly to block her way.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“What is there to say?”
“We could perhaps,” he smiled mischievously, and Kyrah almost melted as his lips spread to show that wide, perfect smile, “pretend that we know each other and I could say, ‘So how’s the weather been the last three years?’ and you could say, ‘Not so good, really. How about you?’”
Kyrah found it difficult not to smile and felt proud of herself when she didn’t. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, pushing her way around him. “I’ve got work to do.”
“When won’t you be working?” he called after her. “I’ll make an appointment if I must.”
“There are no appointments available,” she said dryly, and continued walking toward the cottage.
“Kyrah.” He took hold of her arm to stop her and turned her to face him. She noticed that his right arm was no longer in a sling, but he seemed uncomfortable with it, as if it had little use.
“What?” she asked impatiently, attempting to ignore what his touch did to her.
Ritcherd stood silently gazing at her, absorbing the wisps of dark hair blowing around her face that he’d missed so much. He looked hard into her eyes, wanting to ask so many things, but not knowing where to begin. In that moment he cursed the years away from her that had left him unable to predict her thoughts and feelings.
“Just answer one question,” he said, fearing she would turn and run again if he didn’t tread carefully.
“All right,” she said, forcing herself to look down. She couldn’t bear the eye contact.
“Why didn’t you write and tell me? Or did you? Was the letter lost or—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, as if she couldn’t possibly imagine what he was talking about.
Ritcherd tightened his grip and eased closer. “Then let me clarify myself,” he said, anger tainting his voice. “Did you write me a letter, telling me that your father was dead and you’d lost everything?”
Kyrah’s breathing became sharp as he put a voice to the reality of her heartache—a heartache she’d never allowed herself to fully face.
“Is this problem between us partly due to poor delivery of the mail?” he pressed. “Or did you deliberately keep me ignorant of circumstances that I had every right to know?”
When Kyrah didn’t answer, he pulled her even closer. She felt dizzy and weak from his nearness as much as from the questions he was posing that cut her to the very center.
“You didn’t tell me, did you.” It wasn’t a question. Kyrah’s dizziness increased as the anger in his voice became more defined. “He meant more to me than my own father, and you didn’t even have the decency to let me know that he was dead. After everything we have shared, how could you leave me to discover such a thing through malicious gossip? Do you care so little for me? Are you so callous that you would—”
“You said one question,” Kyrah snapped, unable to bear his tirade another second.
She attempted to squirm out of his grasp, but he held her tightly as he muttered, “I never got an answer.”
Kyrah looked up at him with eyes so soft and genuine that Ritcherd was left momentarily speechless. Her eyes turned moist and her voice quivered with intensity as she stated firmly, “I was trying to protect you.” The hardness returned to her eyes as she added, “I assumed you had enough to worry about without having to worry over something you could do nothing about.”
“But I could have done something about it, Kyrah. It didn’t have to be this way. There is no reason why you have to work like this. Just say the word, and—”
“I don’t want your help, Ritcherd.” She finally managed to jerk her arm free. “Go spend your aristocratic charity on someone who really needs it.”
Once more, Ritcherd was left speechless as he watched her walk away. Confusion and heartache engulfed him all over again as he mounted his stallion and rode aimlessly over the moors. Eventually he found himself at the church ruins, where he sat for hours, pondering the events of the past three years and the way their world had turned upside down.