by Nora Roberts
“Bean, ma’am.”
“Bean?”
The little waif shot her a beguiling smile. “My real name’s Beatrice Nim. Bea Nim, you see. But everybody calls me Bean.”
Felicity couldn’t help but grin. “Hello, Bean. I’m sorry you had to miss your sleep.”
“No matter, ma’am. With all the chores I do here at Falcon’s Lair, I’ll be asleep again quick as a fox.”
Felicity rubbed her stiff neck and watched as the maid placed a tray on the table before crossing the room to pile more logs on the fire. That finished, she bowed her way from the room and hurried away, presumably to her bed.
It was simple fare. Simple but satisfying. Several thick slices of hard-crusted bread. Slabs of cold roast beef. A hunk of cheese. A mug of tea. And a tankard of ale.
Felicity ate the first slice of bread smothered with meat and cheese quickly and washed it down with ale. At once her spirits improved. Feeling warmer now, she removed her cloak and spread it before the fire to dry. Then she ate the rest of the meal slowly, while she removed her shoes and stockings and wiggled her toes in contentment.
As the ale and food slowly built a layer of warmth in her stomach, she felt her fears evaporating. A good night’s sleep was what she needed. She sipped her tea. By morning the worst would be behind her, and she could begin to enjoy this adventure for what it was. A chance to meet her father’s old friend. An opportunity to see England. A glimpse of her father’s past and perhaps her own future.
She rummaged through her valise and withdrew a nightshift, then undressed quickly and pulled the simple gown over her head. As she crossed to the dressing table, she removed the pins from her hair. Freed of the restraint, it tumbled in wild disarray to below her waist. She sat down and picked up a brush. But as she began to smooth the tangles, she caught sight of something in the mirror that stopped her hand in midair.
“Sweet heaven!” She covered her mouth with her palm to keep from crying out.
A man stood in front of the window, his hands on his hips, his legs apart, in a menacing pose. He was dressed all in black, from his highly polished boots to the cloak tossed rakishly over his shoulders. He would have been fashionably dressed several centuries ago. But it was his scowling face that almost stilled her heart and caused her breath to catch in her throat. It was the face she had seen outside the window of the coach. The face of the horseman who had mysteriously disappeared.
“You!” She dropped the brush with a clatter and whirled to face him. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”
“Yours, is it?” His voice was a low, deep growl of anger. “You arrive a nameless stranger on these shores, and already you’re laying claim to Falcon’s Lair?”
“No. I didn’t mean…” She caught herself before she could apologize. Her tone sharpened. “How did you get in here without being seen?”
“I’ll ask the questions, wench. Who are you, and what are you doing at Falcon’s Lair?”
“You don’t think I’d bother to answer a madman, a…lecher.” While she spoke she darted a look around for an escape route.
Reading her intentions, he moved so quickly that it seemed no more than a blink of the eye. One moment he was at the window, the next he stood barring the door.
Now her panic deepened, constricting her throat until she could barely speak. What sort of evil monster was this? She stared around the room in search of a weapon with which to defend herself. “Are you telling me you’ve been here since I arrived? That you stood there and watched me undress?”
Seeing her fear, he gave a dangerous, chilling smile. “Aye. A most charming sight it was, too. Though I’m sorry you managed the feat so quickly. I would have enjoyed it more if you had taken a bit of time. The sight of all that flesh was most erotic.”
“How dare—“Suddenly she’d had enough. It was the final straw in a crushing day. Racing across the room, she lifted a hand to the bellpull. She would have this madman taken away to an infirmary or an asylum where he belonged.
Before she could summon a servant, he stood beside her. Though he didn’t physically touch her, she found she could not lift her hand.
“Don’t be a fool. That would do you no good. The others can’t see me.”
At the nearness of him she felt a wave of heat, stronger and more intense than any fire.
“Where is this heat coming from?”
“Heat?” He went very still. “It is cold you should be feeling.”
She tried to free herself, but his strength was too great. With only the power of his mind, he was able to restrain her. All she could do was stare at him in stunned silence.
She was not the only one shocked. Standing so near, it was obvious that he had experienced something as well. Something that caused him to take a step back as though he’d been burned.
“What in the name of…?” He stared at her as if really seeing her for the first time. His gaze skimmed the small oval face, the full lips pursed in a little pout. She was breathtaking. Lips made for kissing. Skin like porcelain. Eyes more green than blue. And a mass of tangled curls the color of autumn foliage. An altogether appealing picture. But it was more than her beauty that attracted him. There was something else. Someinner strength that he found utterly fascinating.
The scent of her filled his lungs, and he breathed her in, feeling almost intoxicated. It was a soft, subtle fragrance, like a meadow of wildflowers after a spring rain. He would not soon forget the scent of this woman or the look in those eyes. Fear shimmered in them, but there was an underlying edge of anger. Though she was frightened, she didn’t faint, as many of her gender would have. Instead—to her credit—she stood her ground.
What a rare, magnificent creature. He knew in that moment that despite the cost to him, he would one day touch her.
When she found her voice she managed to say, “Are you asking me to believe that I am the only person who can see you?”
“Oh, there are a few others.” He saw the fear begin to dissolve and a trace of defiance take over Aye, he thought. Magnificent. What he would give to have her. Almost at once he rejected that idea as nothing more than an impossible dream. Still, the thought tantalized, softening his rough tone. “It’s up to me to decide who’ll see me and who won’t.”
Her voice frosted over. He was, indeed, a madman. “How was I chosen for this dubious honor?”
A grin touched his lips, quick and easy, causing a hitch in her heart. When he smiled he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Handsome and arrogant, a potent combination. And extremely dangerous.
For a moment he lifted a hand and tempted himself with the thought of touching her. His fingers actually tingled at the suggestion. Not yet, he cautioned himself. Not just yet. He closed his hand into a fist and lowered it to his side. “Because I wanted it.”
“Do you get everything you want?”
“It’s my right as lord of the manor.”
“Lord of…” Disgusted, she turned away and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She was shocked to see that she was alone.
Turning back, she saw a falcon perched on the windowsill. As she watched, it spread its wings in flight. Over the whisper of wings, she could have sworn she heard a low, deep moan.
Or was it the keening of the wind?
2
Felicity was up before the servants. Her sleep had been disturbed by dreams and visions, though now that she was awake she couldn’t recall them. She knew only that she’d been unsettled by the images that flitted through her mind.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the strange events of the previous night. The only explanation she could accept was the fact that she had been completely exhausted.
Ghosts, indeed! She was an educated, intelligent woman and, as her father had often said, too sensible for her own good. Hardly the type to indulge in flights of fancy.
A good strong cup of tea, she thought, would clear her head and put a shine on the day. Still, she glanced carefully around the room be
fore removing her nightshift. Annoyed at her thoughts, she buttoned the simple white blouse and dark skirt that skimmed the tops of her kid boots, then ran a brush through her hair and secured it with combs.
She crossed the room and drew open the draperies, allowing shimmering morning sunbeams to filter into the room. For long minutes she stood at the window, transfixed by her first glimpse of Falcon’s Lair by daylight. The land below seemed to roll and fold into itself like a well-kept secret. Heavily wooded valleys opened unexpectedly into gorse-covered stretches of moor that climbed steeply toward the clouds. Perhaps a mile away to the east lay a village, with a row of shops and houses, and a church steeple catching the first rays of morning sunlight.
Her heartbeat quickened. How she would love to paint the scene in just this light. Tomorrow, if she awakened early enough, she would carry her sketchbook to the moors and try to capture it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
At the deep voice she whirled. “You again. But how—What—“
He was standing directly behind her, and though he didn’t touch her, she felt the tingling warmth radiate through her veins.
“I thought…” She moistened her lips and forced herself to go on. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”
It was she who looked like a dream. So fresh, so lovely in the light of morning, she nearly took his breath away. “Oh, I’m real enough,” he said. “To those who believe.”
She took a step back until she felt the cold window at her back. “Last night I thought you were a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Besides, this was no ghostly specter. This was a man. Tall, menacing, and very much alive. He was toying with her. Trying to make her believe the impossible. She would not be coerced into playing his game.
“How did you do that trick?”
“Trick?”
“Appearing. Disappearing. Is it a parlor game?”
He didn’t want to answer. Not yet. So he simply changed the subject. “You never told me your name.”
“Felicity Andrews.”
“Andrews. But you were supposed to be…” He paused, unwilling to reveal more. Changing tactics, he muttered, “Felicity. That is Latin for happiness. It suits you. You have a happy face.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Gareth, First Lord of Falcon’s Lair.”
“Gareth. My father never mentioned you.” She searched her mind but could not recall having heard the name before. “You’re not one of Lord Falcon’s sons.”
“Nay.” He studied her lips, pursed into a little pout. The desire to crush those lips with his own was so tempting that he had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from pulling her to him. He cautioned himself to tread carefully with this prim little American. Instead of touching her, he pressed a hand to the window casing above her head and leaned close to her, inhaling the delicate woman scent. “There are things you should know about Falcon’s Lair.”
“What things?”
He shook his head. “It is not in my power to reveal them. You must learn these things on your own. But be warned. You will be in grave peril while you are here.”
“From you?”
“I will not bring you harm.”
There was absolutely no reason to believe this madman. And yet, for some unknown reason, she did. Another lapse of intelligence. With a sigh she muttered, “I just don’t understand.”
If he couldn’t touch her, he would at least allow himself to skim her hair. He caught a strand and watched it sift through his fingers. The heat surrounding him grew until it was an inferno. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Understand this, little happy face. Since you have been sent to us, you must hold the key.”
“The key to what?”
When he didn’t respond, she turned away and pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, eager to escape the heat that seemed to envelop her whenever he was near. “Why must you speak in riddles?”
Again he didn’t reply, and she turned. The room was empty. The heat had died as quickly as it had begun.
For long minutes she stood at the window, her mind brimming with all the questions she needed answered. Who was this Gareth? Why had he singled her out? What had he meant by the key? She shrugged and touched a hand to her throbbing temple. Perhaps she wasn’t nearly as rested as she’d thought. Her mind, which had always been so keen, now betrayed her. She was seeing people who weren’t here and hearing words that made no sense.
Needing to escape, she slipped out the door and hurried down the stairs in search of the kitchen.
The hallways were steeped in gloom, the candles having long ago burned out. A few still sputtered in pools of melted wax, but their light was barely enough to show the way. Felicity took her time, peering into darkened rooms, hearing the echo of her footsteps along the stone floors.
Like all castles, this one was cold and drafty, with large, cheerless rooms that begged for fires to be stoked and people to fill the empty spaces. Instead there was only darkness and a chill dampness that added to its somber atmosphere.
There was no mistaking the kitchen. Though the rest of the household lay abed, a roaring fire already burned on the hearth. A pig roasted on a spit. The air was perfumed with the fragrance of freshly baked biscuits.
At a long trestle table sat a row of servants spooning gruel into their mouths while struggling to dispel the last vestiges of sleep. They looked up, curious at the presence of this stranger, and began a low murmur among themselves. Most of them could never recall having seen a family member or a guest of Lord Falcon set foot in this room. At a furious command from the cook, they lowered their heads and continued to eat. All except young Bean, who shot a quick smile at Felicity before returning her attention to her meal.
Across the room Maud Atherton was engaged in a whispered conversation with a tall man in a spotless dark suit. Seeing Felicity, they fell silent. The man set something on a silver tray and hurried forward.
“Miss Felicity.” He bowed stiffly. “I am Simmons, butler to Lord Falcon. I bid you welcome.”
“Thank you, Simmons. Does Lord Falcon know I’m here?”
At her eager question he shook his head. “I shall deliver the news at once.” He gave a glance toward the staff, who were studying her with keen interest. “It is rare for anyone except the servants to be about this early. Mrs. Atherton assures me that a morning meal can be prepared for you in short order and will be served in the dining room. Perhaps, in the meantime, you would like a walk in the gardens. Though they are not yet in bloom, there are some lovely fountains and stone benches for your comfort.”
“Will Lord Falcon be joining me?”
The butler shook his head. “These days the old lord rarely leaves his bed.”
“Then perhaps I could join Lord Falcon in his room for a morning meal.”
Though his expression never altered, Simmons stood even straighter. His tone was stern, revealing his outrage. “I’m afraid that would be highly improper. Lord Falcon does not entertain guests in his private chambers.”
Felicity blushed clear to her toes, knowing that she must appear bold indeed. “There was a time when Lord Falcon was my father’s oldest and dearest friend. Though I’ve never met him, I feel as though I’ve known him for a lifetime. I’m eager to see if the impressions I have of him are correct.”
Simmons seemed to consider for a moment, his frown deepening. “It is an unusual request, one I feel certain Lord Falcon will deny. But I shall ask him at once. If he gives his approval, what shall I fetch you to eat, Miss Felicity?”
“Tea and a biscuit will be fine.”
If he was surprised at the simplicity of her needs, he gave no indication. He strode away and returned a few minutes later carrying a silver tray covered with a linen cloth. “Follow me,” he said as he led the way from the kitchen.
Felicity followed him up the wide, curving staircase and along the upper hallway to a set of double doors. Except for a few candles in sconces, the sitting room was in darkness. They crossed the room, an
d he signaled her to wait in the doorway as he entered an even larger room, where a fire blazed on the hearth. By the light of the fire Felicity could make out the figure in the bed.
“Good morning, my lord,” the butler said softly.
“Simmons.” The voice was rough and scratchy but still carried the roar of an old lion. “Who is that in the shadows?”
“Miss Felicity Andrews, from America.” The butler set the tray on a table and hurried toward the bed. “She wishes to take her morning meal with you here in your room.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the figure struggled to a sitting position. At once Simmons was beside him, propping mounds of pillows around him, smoothing the coverlet until not a wrinkle remained.
“Open the drapes,” the old lord commanded.
Simmons moved around the room, pulling open the heavy draperies. Morning sunlight streamed in, filling the room with light and warmth. It was a large room, comfortably furnished, with a huge bed hung with linens. Over the bed were crossed swords, their jeweled hilts and finely honed blades glinting in the sun’s rays.
“Come closer,” the old man commanded imperiously.
Felicity strode to the foot of the bed, and she and Lord Falcon had their first look at one another.
“So.” It seemed more a sigh than a word. A sigh that welled up from deep within the old man’s soul. Lord Falcon cleared his throat and tried again. “You have the look of your father. About the eyes mostly. And the hair, though his was more red, as I recall.”
Felicity smiled. She had heard such comments all her life.
“Where is Rob?”
“I buried him almost a month ago.” The pain was so unexpected she nearly swayed. But pride and propriety would not allow it. She merely clasped her hands together until the knuckles were white.
“Dead.” Lord Falcon looked stricken. “This cannot be,” he said more to himself than to her. “I needed him. Was counting on him to…” He looked up. “Why have you come?”
“When Father received your letter, he was already too weak to leave his bed. But it cheered him to hear from his old friend. He spent hours afterward, whenever he was strong enough, talking about you and the adventures the two of you shared in your youth. I thought…I thought I might find a friend in you as well.”