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
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
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