FAR IN THE WILDS
New York Times bestselling author
Deanna Raybourn
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
New York Times bestselling author Deanna Raybourn takes readers into Africa during the height of British colonialism, to meet a man as wild as the land he loves in this prequel novella….
Kenya, 1918
Ryder White is Canadian by birth but African by choice. He is more at home in the wilds of the savannah, shooting and sleeping his way across the continent, than amongst the hedonistic colonists of Kenyan society.
In a landscape where one false move can cost a man his life, Ryder’s skill as a guide is unparalleled, but only the rich or royal can afford his services. When a European prince hires Ryder to help him hunt an elusive jaguar Ryder thinks it’s just another well-paying job with yet another spoiled voyeur. But this perilous journey is full of dangers that may change Ryder forever….
Ryder returns in A Spear of Summer Grass by Deanna Raybourn, where he encounters a woman from a very different world, to explore beauty and darkness and what is truly worth fighting for.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Excerpt
Chapter One
Kenya, 1918
“It will be a cold day in hell before I put on an evening suit and prance around at the club like some sort of performing monkey,” Ryder White growled, tossing back a measure of neat gin in one go. “I don’t care if it is the first Christmas after armistice.”
His hostess gave him a disapproving scowl. “Just because you’re in a foul mood doesn’t mean you can drink all of my gin. Hand over the bottle.”
Ryder did as he was told and Sybil Balfour, known to friends and enemies alike as Tusker, emptied the rest of the liquor into her glass. “Besides, I wasn’t thinking of you. It would do Jude some good to get away from the farm. She’s been brooding too much.”
Ryder smiled in spite of himself. “Then why don’t you take her into Nairobi? You could both find some entertaining company.”
Sybil rolled her eyes. “Ass.” But the word was said affectionately. “I’ve no need of that sort of entertainment anymore, although I do have one or two pleasant memories tucked away against a rainy day.”
Her eyes were misty with unseemly recollections. Ryder held up a callused hand. “I beg you not to elaborate.”
Sybil snorted. “I am affronted. When have I ever kissed and told? Although I could share stories about Rex Farraday that would curl your hair, boy.”
Ryder lifted his brows. “The man who would be king? You don’t say.”
Sybil took a deep draught of gin. “Oh, his wife has him on a short lead, but he likes to sniff the grass in other pastures. Of course, if we’re keeping score, I’d say Helen has Rex trumped by about two dozen. The way she carries on—”
“Helen’s bored. At least Rex has politics to keep him busy,” Ryder remarked, studying the worn toes of his boots. Like everything of Ryder’s they were expensive and had seen better days.
“And you kill things to keep busy,” Sybil finished brightly.
“And I kill things,” he agreed.
“I would have thought you’d lost your taste for that in the war.” Sybil drank off another deep swallow of gin, but her gaze was shrewd. Anyone watching less intently would have missed the flicker of pain that stirred in his eyes.
He shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “You forget I was a flyer. I didn’t kill too many up close.”
“It still takes a toll,” she countered. “And then there are those on your own side who didn’t come back.”
His hand tightened on the glass. “Don’t remind me, will you?”
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t remember them anyway? Every day?”
“And we’re back to Jude,” he said softly.
“She hasn’t been the same since Stephen went missing. It’s as if a part of her walked out into the bush along with him and never came back.”
“She was his wife. She has a right to count her losses.”
“Not if he isn’t really lost.”
Ryder’s voice was gentle. “He was missing in action and presumed dead, Tusker. You can’t keep thinking he’s going to come walking out of the bush one day like nothing happened.”
“What if he did? He wouldn’t recognize her anymore. She’s fretting herself to skin and bones. God knows, I don’t want her to forget him, but she can’t waste away to dust either.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, taut and expectant. “You’re right,” Ryder said finally. “He would have hated to see her like this. She deserves better.”
Sybil, ruthless as any predator, smelled her advantage and seized it. “And don’t you think as Stephen’s best friend, as her best friend, you owe it to her to see she gets it?”
A slow smile spread across Ryder’s sun-warmed features. He looked out over the savannah. Far in the distance, a giraffe stretched out to wrap a nimble tongue around a branch of acacia.
“You win. What do I have to do?”
“Take her into Nairobi for the Christmas party at the club,” Sybil replied promptly. “I’ve taken your evening suit out of mothballs and sponged it. It smells frightful, but at least you will look presentable enough. I’ve also arranged for rooms at the Norfolk for you both.”
“What about leaving you at Christmas? Won’t you be lonesome?”
“I will not,” she replied roundly. “I have a mare in foal and I have no intention of being gone when she drops. You and Jude are free to go off and play. And you ought to think about getting a haircut. I don’t mind it that long, but you might make the civilized folk nervous.”
Ryder grinned. “Is that all?”
“I’ve signed you both up for the decorating committee at the club. Mind you don’t catch anyone unsuitable under the mistletoe.”
Ryder propped one booted foot on the toe of the other. “I should think you’d know by now—I specialize in unsuitable.”
* * *
Ryder was not surprised that Jude resisted; he was even less surprised when Sybil prevailed.
“What did she bribe you with?” Jude asked as she chucked her hold-all into the back of Ryder’s truck. “I know you wouldn’t do this willingly.”
Ryder slammed the door and set off with a crash of gears. “I had a little business in Nairobi. Two birds with one stone,” he said lightly.
Jude laughed, an oddly creaky sound, as if she hadn’t done it for a very long time. “Idiot,” she said affectionately. “She’s worried about you. That last bout of blackwater fever was nearly fatal. She wants you to have some fun before you’re six feet under,” she finished on a teasing note.
Ryder said nothing. He had learned long ago that most women wanted more than anything else a man who could listen. And Ryder could listen with the best of them.
“We’re both idiots,” Jude said finally. “She worries about your health and she worries that I think too much about Stephen. I must be losing my touch if I didn’t see through her right off.”
“She still thinks Stephen is coming home,” Ryder told her.
“So did I,” Jude admitted. “It’s just that I always believed he would turn up when the war was over. So long as the fighting was still going on, I could pretend he was lost somewhere, that he couldn’t find his way home to me. But now the war’s done, I can’t pretend anymore. I have to accept he’s gone.”
“Tusker hasn’t. Can you?”
Jude reached into her pocket and took out a cigarette, lighting it slowly. She blew the smoke out i
n a single gust of regret. “I don’t know.” She was silent a minute, then turned to his profile. “It’s frightful to think of how happy we all were when we got married. And now look at us. You and I are all that’s left of the shipwreck, survivors clinging to the mast.”
Ryder’s hands tightened on the wheel, thin lines of white crossing his knuckles.
“Do you think about her? About Eliza?” Jude asked.
“I sleep better when I don’t.”
She laughed again. “Can you accept she’s gone? Have you made your peace with it?”
He flicked her a glance. “What do you think?”
“I think Eliza is the reason you’re shooting and sleeping your way across Africa.”
Ryder stomped hard on the brakes, sending up a shower of dark red dust. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Jude. We’re not kids anymore, but I will still haul you out by your hair and leave you tied to a thorn bush.”
Jude lit a second cigarette and handed it over. “Peace offering?”
Ryder took a deep pull of smoke and jammed the vehicle into gear.
“Why is it that you are the one person who can always get under my skin?” he asked, half to himself.
“Because we’re the same,” she replied. “We couldn’t be more alike if we’d hatched from the same egg.”
“I think Tusker regrets the fact that we won’t just make a match of it. That we can’t.” He chose the words carefully, wrapping them softly in a tone so casual she couldn’t feel the sting of his finality.
“Ryder, dear, if that’s your subtle way of telling me it’s just not on, relax. I have never once thought of you as anything other than a brother.”
“Not even the time we went skinny-dipping in Lake Wanyama?” he teased.
“Especially the time we went skinny-dipping in Lake Wanyama, skinny being the operative word. You were a pole bean.”
“I was fifteen! I have matured a bit,” he protested.
“You have. You are as fine a specimen of manhood as I have ever seen,” she admitted. “But the one time you kissed me it was like being kissed by my dog. In fact, I’d rather be kissed by the dog. His hair is shorter.”
“Tusker has already had a go at me. But I’m not cutting it,” he warned. “It’s too much trouble to keep it short when I’m in the bush. You may have noticed the lack of barbers.”
Jude snorted. “I think it’s more likely that you enjoy looking like a pirate.” She touched a finger to the slender gold hoop threaded through his earlobe. “That’s new.”
He shrugged. “Too much gin one night and Gideon thought he would make a man of me. He told me he hadn’t so much as flinched during his circumcision and he wanted to see if white men were as tough as Masai.”
“And are you?”
“I bled like a pig, but I didn’t move,” he told her with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.
“And what about the rest of it?” she asked, flicking a significant glance at his trousers.
“Off limits,” he said firmly. “To you and anybody with a knife.”
Jude’s laughter, full and genuine this time, rolled out over the savannah.
* * *
Helen Farraday, head of the Colony Club social committee, looked over her list and sucked the end of her pen. It was not a coincidence that she was keeping half an eye on Ryder White as she did so.
“Helen? I’ve finished the place cards.” Jude came up behind her, eyes bright with malice as she startled Helen.
“Oh! How nice of you, dear. And what original penmanship. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, scrutinizing the cards. “I suppose people can just sit where they like. They always end up doing that at these affairs. I must tell you, Jude, I’m so very happy your Aunt Sybil suggested you and Ryder join us this year. I can’t think of the last time we saw either of you at the club.”
“There’s been a war on,” Jude said helpfully.
A rosy flush touched Helen’s cheeks. “Well, of course. We all did our part, I hope. I myself volunteered three afternoons a week at the hospital here in Nairobi. And Rex and I had several of the young officers to our farm to convalesce.”
“Really?” Jude tried to lift a brow as she’d seen other, more sophisticated types do. But sophistication was not in her repertoire. “I can’t imagine what you would think to do with a houseful of bored young soldiers.”
Helen’s mouth went slack, but before she could reply, Ryder appeared, holding masses of evergreen garlands in his arms. “I’ve finished the banisters and there’s just enough left to hang over the mirror above the bar. Does that suit you, Helen?”
She shifted her hips, smoothing her dress over them as she turned to him. “It suits me marvelously,” she breathed.
“Fine.” The syllable was clipped but it did not deter Helen. She watched as he moved to the bar, put one hand lightly on the long polished surface, and vaulted behind it.
“He is quite an athletic animal, isn’t he?” Helen observed.
Jude sighed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Helen, he’s staying at the Norfolk. Room 414. Just have yourself sent up with a bottle of champagne. He’s not terribly particular.”
Helen arched her brow, perfecting the gesture Jude had missed. “I can’t imagine where you get such ideas, Jude. I was merely admiring Ryder’s abilities, as one might admire the long lines of a giraffe’s neck or the grace of a cheetah. It is purely an aesthetic reaction.”
“Yes, well, your aesthetic reaction was very nearly drooling on my shoes.”
Helen sniffed and turned on her heel. Just then she caught sight of Ryder, straddling the top of the ladder, shoulders flexed as he tied the garland into place. She turned back to Jude.
“Room 414, you said?”
“Don’t forget the champagne.”
* * *
That evening, Ryder thrust a glass of champagne at Jude and fixed her with a menacing stare. “The next time you sic Helen Farraday on me, I will stake you out for the hyenas.”
Jude snickered. “I was bored. It seemed fun at the time.”
“Fun? The woman practically has tentacles. She let herself into my room when I was in the bath. You don’t even want to know what I had to do to get rid of her.”
Jude laughed aloud, and Ryder smiled in return, suddenly not caring about Helen Farraday and her forceful embraces. It was good to see Jude enjoying herself.
“So, is your dance card full? I thought you might save me one.”
Jude was just about to reply when Helen appeared, towing behind her a tall blond gentleman. He had a soft mouth and large blue eyes that were fixed on Jude. Helen swiftly introduced him as Anthony Wickenden, then slipped her arm through Ryder’s, towing him a discreet distance away.
“Helen, I thought I made it clear—” he began.
She flapped a jeweled hand. “Oh, I heard you before! You consider Rex a friend, would never betray him, blah blah. This isn’t about me getting my hands on you, although the invitation stands,” she added, dropping her lashes seductively.
“But Helen, dearest, if I were to take you to bed, I’m not sure I could ever bring myself to get out again,” he replied, his eyes wide and innocent.
She burst out laughing. “You are a maddening creature. I can’t even take your rejection seriously.”
“And that is why we are much better off as friends,” he said firmly.
“Perhaps.” The word was a purr. “But this isn’t about us, dear boy. Anthony Wickenden was practically begging me to introduce him to Jude. She is frightfully pretty if one can get past the appalling clothes.”
Ryder opened his mouth to disagree then thought better of it. Jude wasn’t pretty. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, the more so for never noticing how striking she was. She wore her beauty naturally, with no powder or paint to heighten it, no elegant coiffeur to enhance it. It was bone-deep, her beauty, with a promise to last a lifetime. She would be lovely at eighty, lovely in death, he had often thought. And she didn’t need good
clothes or jewels to clutter it. All she needed was someone with the vision to see past her heavy bundle of hair and her shapeless sack of a dress.
And for the moment, Anthony Wickenden seemed like that man. Ryder felt a rush of affection for Helen. She had taken his rejection with better humor than he’d expected, and although he had used the friends line on almost every woman he’d refused, he was rather surprised to find he actually meant it with Helen.
He dropped a kiss to her startled cheek.
“Whatever was that for?”
“You might just be a good egg, Helen. Would you like to dance?”
She threw back her head in a theatrical gesture. “Would I? Just try and stop me.”
Chapter Two
After a lavish buffet supper, the dancing resumed. It was hectic and unbridled as any found in a Parisian nightclub, the dancing of people determined to enjoy themselves after the rigors of war. They drank and danced and fondled one another with deliberation, exchanging news and kisses as they found neighbors they had not seen for months and groped towards new friendships in the soft glow of the lowered lights.
Ryder had just returned his last partner—a besotted girl of eighteen he had no intention of partnering again—to her friends when Helen appeared at his side, towing with her a pair of newcomers.
“Ryder, I don’t believe you know the prince. Your Highness, may I present Julian Ryder White, one of our most distinguished settlers. Mademoiselle Gautier, Mr. White. Ryder, His Highness, Prince Frederick-Christian, seventeenth in the Danish line of succession, and his companion, Mademoiselle Liane Gautier of Paris.”
If not for the introduction, Ryder would have though Mademoiselle was the Dane and her friend French. He was small and dark and wiry, with a cruelly thin moustache and evening clothes so rigidly tailored he might have been wearing armor. She was a tall blonde, wearing a cool, Nordic sort of detachment that told him she thought she was above this sort of provincial entertainment. Then Ryder saw the assessment in her eyes as she flicked them over his body. She was French alright.
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