A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  “Good evening, Miss Dahl. Mr. Gordon is in the study, sir.”

  In short order, Callie was introduced to Gordon Ransome.

  “H-hello,” she gaped, nerves settling a bit. She looked at Lucius. “You weren’t adopted.”

  In his early-eighties, Gordon’s posture was just beginning to stoop, making him somewhat shorter than Lucius, but not by much. He had the same jewel-bright blue eyes that glittered and assessed with clinical scepticism, a shock of thick silver hair that stood like crisp wire, and that same square jaw and high cheekbones.

  But it was his stance that caught the resemblance most—imperious and ready for action. And his hands, though liver-spotted, were at once artistically beautiful and implied great strength.

  “Callie’s my researcher,” Lucius was identifying her proper status, which instantly made her more comfortable.

  “So you went ahead with the scheme, huh?” Gordon grunted, looking her over thoroughly. “She looks a little . . . inexperienced. Fresh. Think she can handle them?”

  “She did all right today.”

  “She thinks so, too,” Callie put in dryly.

  The men looked at her in surprise. Gordon chuckled.

  “Okay, sparky,” he said, gesturing at the glossy bird’s-eye maple table in front of windows that overlooked a beautiful rose garden. “Sit, and give me a rundown of what you’ve found out.”

  Opening her notebook, she launched a comprehensive overview. Though the notes were unorganised on paper, mentally they had settled quite well, and as Gordon was privy to Lucius’ scheme, she spoke frankly of the plan to formulate a story, citing her favourite subject of the Birds.

  There was much material to cover, and she delivered it as rapidly and concisely as possible. When she was done, no one said anything for several moments.

  Gordon stared hard at her. Then he looked to Lucius, a reluctant smile deepening the heavy grooves around his mouth and eyes.

  “I like her.”

  “I know, right?” Lucius stated, as if it were both obvious and mind-boggling.

  Gordon pushed back his chair and rose, coming around the table to offer her his arm. “I’ll show you through the house. Bring your camera.”

  Bemused and embarrassed, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as she stood. “Do you have any of the Birds?” she asked.

  “Two. Hideous pieces of—” He cleared his throat. “Art.”

  She smiled widely. “Can’t part with them though, can you?”

  “Don’t know why. Tradition, I suppose.” He scanned her face. “You’re a pretty thing when you smile. You look much less sceptical,” he said gruffly, and she thanked him for the odd compliment.

  The tour of the house and documenting Neville’s possessions was rather leisurely as, for all the appearance of being a powerful man, Gordon moved slowly, limping slightly from “an old hockey injury,” he told her. He was quite charming and engaging, keeping her entertained.

  “My parents were very young when they married,” he said. “Shotgun wedding,” making her blush when he punctuated his grin with a significant glance between her and Lucius, who trailed behind them. “My grandmother objected to my father’s choice of girl, and Dad always claimed that he got Mom pregnant deliberately to force the issue.”

  “What did your grandfather—Carlyle—think about it?”

  “Grandpa was very laissez faire, so supportive obliquely. But Grandma was a stuck-up snob,” he said fondly.

  Callie consulted her notebook. “Your parents—Piers and Margaret?” Gordon’s nod confirmed this, and she shifted the subject. “Carlyle died in 1938. Do you remember him?”

  “Want to know if he ever said anything about his father’s treasure? No. But I remember him well. I was his favourite, he always said. Reminded him of his mother.”

  “In looks or personality?”

  “My eyes,” he winked with that ineffable Ransome charm.

  Those fantastic star-sapphire eyes came from Elizabeth Venable? Nice set of genes to pass on.

  And naturally, her glance went to the other set of sapphire eyes in the room. They were looking back at her, though they did not linger on her face, taking in much more territory. It made her very warm, that look of lust.

  Quickly, she turned her attention back to Gordon. “Do you know how the legend of the HRF began? Your father was the first to search for it—I assume Carlyle said something to him that prompted the search?”

  “Hm . . . yes, I suppose that’s possible. The problem was,” he said, leading the way into the library, “that Grandpa was pretty sick in his last years. Was both gassed and wounded in the head during the First War. Suffered early senility. Dementia, I guess we call it now. Told some great tales, as I recall, but you couldn’t always be sure what was reality and what was fantasy. There’s one of the Birds.”

  Callie photographed the gruesome collection of nightingales in sickly grey and brown oils while Gordon rummaged through a delicately enamelled ebon box, done in the long-ago popular chinoiserie-style.

  “This was my grandparents’ house,” he said conversationally. “Grandma didn’t like to garden but Grandpa loved it. Learned it from his mother, who was crazy about flowers and colour—Here!” he declared in triumph. “I knew it was here somewhere.”

  Drawn into his excitement, she donned her glasses and moved to view the letter Gordon spread on the table. Faded, and written in a spidery hand, whole swaths of it were now illegible.

  “October 5th, 1916, Rothergate, Sussex,” she murmured. “Rothergate?”

  “The village near Linchgate Hall,” Lucius said, stepping in beside her, and she sent him a surprised glance that his interest in anything HRF-ish was piqued also—and that he knew specifics. “No salutation,” he added. “Very rude, don’t you think?”

  She grinned. “Very.” She read from the letter: “You may be assured that I am in receipt of your correspondence. Whilst I agree that Salisbury is not far from my home—Salisbury?” she queried, looking to the men.

  “Soldiers were trained on Salisbury Plain,” Gordon explained. “In Wiltshire. Grandpa would have been there during the war.”

  “It’s still a military training ground,” Lucius added. “Keep reading, Cal.”

  “. . . not far from my home for one who has travelled so far already, I contend . . . Something, a something—maybe a world—something not far enough. Whilst I wish every soldier of the Empire well, my wishes in your regard extend only insofar as your wellbeing serves the Empire and the cause of this war. Ouch.”

  “Think they were close?” Lucius chuckled.

  “Not so much.” She continued. “Our father—who was so well known to you but to me, not at all—is dead, and thus any semblance of relationship between us is dead—although the semblance was ever weak, and never acknowledged by me.”

  The writing became more faded, and only few words and little phrases could be discerned.

  “Never . . . mother . . . hurts that still sting, and shocks learned late . . . new country and home—does that say stolen? Something wealth . . . family honour . . . beg you . . . no further attempts . . . all will be burned, unopened . . . unread. Leave . . . little peace . . .” The rest was blurred beyond reading. And then, signed faintly: “Lily, Lady Crawford.”

  “Nice bit of vitriol, eh?” Gordon mused. “Grandpa had wanted to see his sister when he went overseas during the war, and she refused to see him, obviously.”

  “Why?” Callie wondered without sentiment. “Did she think Neville had left Carlyle the lion’s share? Or was there something else?”

  “I don’t know.” Gordon smirked. “Maybe Lily was left out of the HRF.”

  The three conspiring nonbelievers chuckled and, moving the letter into better light, Callie photographed it for posterity before being guided to the last of the Birds in the house; very dark and tormented wrens.

  Back in the study at last, Gordon handed Lucius a set of keys. “Why don’t you show sparky the other place?�
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  “Sure,” he agreed, but he was frowning. “C’mon, doll.”

  He ushered her out the back door through the rose garden, directing her down the path towards the garden wall. Set into the stone, all but buried in briar roses and clematis, was a wooden door. He turned a heavy key in the old lock. The door creaked open and Callie breathed a little hiccup of astonishment.

  A veritable jungle of garden met her eyes, a tangled wealth of trailing vines and sedum and evening primrose and hollyhocks and bachelor’s buttons—too many species of plants to name. Creeping thyme thickly covered the flagstone path, the rich woodsy scent of it wafting up as their feet crushed the tiny leaves.

  The garden reminded her of something. A memory that was not quite a memory. It made her feel safe.

  “Whose garden is this?” she whispered.

  “This was Piers and Margaret’s home.”

  She looked to where he pointed; beyond a screen of birches and above the canopies of two massive oaks, the slate roof and many chimneys of a mansion peeked out.

  “Who lives here?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “My parents used to. I did,” he said finally, his voice thick with memories and a certain sentimentality that seemed foreign to the man. “This is where I grew up.”

  Callie tucked her hand in his.

  They lingered in the garden, Lucius showing her mysterious places where he and his younger siblings had played as children, sometimes laughing as he told her stories—Serena the Serious scolding her brothers for their antics; Olivia the Obscure, silently watching all; Benedict the Brave, slaughtering dragons and rescuing maidens—though when Serena was being particularly self-righteous, it was Ben the Baby, as he was the youngest. But as Serena aged, her Ransome genes kicked in, and she became as live-and-let-live as the rest of them.

  “And what was your alliterative nickname?” she wanted to know. “Lucius the . . .?”

  He grunted, a crooked and almost reckless smile amplifying his natural romantic dash. “I didn’t get alliteration. I’ve always been the Fixer, doll. You know that.”

  “Even then?”

  “Even then. For as long as I can remember, always running repairs. Come on. Let’s go in and see what’s what.”

  “No one lives here?”

  “A couple of house staff. And almost everybody has keys. But hotels are preferred.”

  Callie stared at the solid brick house and the fantastic garden—how could this not be the preferred place?

  He opened a French door off the patio, indicating that she go in first. “Here, in the family room. There’s a Bird painting. And one in the library, too, if I remember correctly.”

  ***

  At last they were back at Gordon’s house, standing outside the study, he and Gordon discussing Falcontor business while Callie reviewed the images of the painted sparrows and doves she had taken at the other house. As unsightly as the others, she had declared . . . followed by the confession that she was becoming as ridiculously fond of the Birds as any Ransome.

  She glanced up at him as Gordon issued an invitation to them to stay for dinner, which Lucius declined. Her gaze slid into the study.

  “Of course we can stay. I’m starving.”

  Gordon looked so pleased that Lucius instantly relented.

  “Bradley!” Gordon snapped. “Take that away. We’ll be three.”

  “Very good, sir.” Bradley, in the study, brought out a tray bearing a cold sandwich and a glass of milk, and headed back to the kitchen to “inform Chef.”

  Lucius caught Callie’s eye; he saw the gloss of tears there before she looked away.

  “We’ll eat alfresco,” Gordon stated. “And we want wine!” he shouted after Bradley before escorting Callie to the rose-garden patio, holding a chair for her at the wrought-iron and glass table there before excusing himself to “Go yell at Bradley.”

  Lucius bent to kiss her cheek. “I was going to take you out for dinner,” he murmured casually, too terribly impressed and touched to express it.

  “That is not very frugal, Lucius,” she rebuked stiffly. “Your family’s rubbing off on you.”

  And since that was so ridiculous, he had to laugh.

  ***

  The interior of the Porsche was sufficiently illuminated by the streetlamp for her to inventory the contents of her satchel, making sure she had everything, pretending she wasn’t delaying saying goodnight.

  “Thanks for today,” she murmured finally. “I had fun.”

  “Me, too,” he agreed softly. “Gramps is pretty fond of you.”

  “He’s very charming.” Was he going to kiss her again? She had lost the cool comfort of knowing her exact role—again. “Well, goodnight.”

  But before she could open the door to exit, he slid a hand under her hair, cupping her nape to pull her close. The kiss he bestowed was gentle, lingering, non-invasive, and so very sexy.

  Was he just being friendly? She stared, wide-eyed, as he retreated a few centimetres, his hand moving to the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw. Sapphire eyes laughed and teased, but she couldn’t deny that no one’s pupils should be that dilated over just a friendly kiss. And she, as the recipient, shouldn’t be panting quite so hard.

  “I thought . . . I thought we weren’t . . . I thought we were pretending nothing happened.”

  “We are. This is part two. Starting fresh and seeing what happens.”

  “That wasn’t seeing. That was doing.”

  “Objecting?”

  “I guess not. And work?”

  He pushed her hand aside as she attempted to chew her nail.

  “Work is work. Whatever happens between us will be between us. Private.”

  That sounded so delicious the way he said it. Private. She could handle private right now.

  “What will happen between us?” Her voice quavered, her arousal getting the better of her.

  “We’ll have to see what happens,” he said, and kissed her in the same manner again, effectively stemming any objection to his cyclical statements.

  But then the teasing, seductive kisses were over, and she managed to get out of the car without tripping over her own feet—quite a triumph considering the buckling status of her knees. Who would have thought that such gentle caresses could be so erotic?

  “Goodnight,” she said, and went up the walk.

  “’Night, doll. See you tomorrow.”

  He waited until she was in, the front door closed firmly behind her. And waited some more, until a subtle glow of light appeared in the attic dormer, all that was cast by the strand of twinkle-lights in the stairwell. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, picturing her in that hot little space. She’d get out of her clothes first; run a shower to wash the day’s stickiness from her body . . .

  What he wanted was to run up those steps and lean on the buzzer until she answered; he would take her back upstairs and ravish that sexy body in that steamy room until dawn.

  Walking into the den to see her playing with the baby, her face relaxed, smiling without a hint of cynicism, he had been struck by the sensation that she had somehow been hiding in plain sight, and the only reason he hadn’t learned of her and noticed her these last months was because he had been too preoccupied with his own problems.

  He was a notoriously observant man. Someone of her abundant gifts shouldn’t have escaped his notice—and that assessment was void of sexual overtones. Why the hell was someone like that being wasted in the ranks of FalTech? Okay, so she held a key position, but still . . .

  He felt blind with her; the moment he thought he had her sorted out, she surprised him with something new.

  But a plan had started to take shape over dinner. His earlier confession that he liked her was true, further bolstered by listening to her rattle on about a startlingly wide variety of subjects, and listen raptly as Gramps told her stories about the old days. There was little artifice about her; she had a direct way of speaking that did not mask what she thought, yet still remai
ned refreshingly unsentimental. But not cold. Her instant recognition of Gramps’ loneliness spoke to her essential compassion, and suggested that she herself had experienced such isolation.

  So she could be the perfect Admirable Companion. Last night, after that torrid little scene on her futon—the contempt in her voice had hurt because, after all, who wants such a perfect companion-candidate to dismiss one? Not he, certainly. And he was not used to being dismissed by anyone, at any rate.

  Aside from the family, when he tried to give them advice.

  Take it slow, make sure she’s not harbouring any residual infatuation, and win her over with a campaign as a decent guy.

  He started the car before he changed his mind about the timetable. Resisting her a little was for a good cause, after all. But being a decent guy was not as easy as decent guys made it look.

  Chapter Seven

  “Cal, do you have that schedule ready?”

  “Sure, Rache,” she murmured, eyes locked to the Ancestry search-results screen, even as she reached accurately on her strictly organised station for the prepared report.

  “Thanks. So?”

  “So?”

  “Saturday night!” Rachel hissed, propping a hip on the edge of the desk and taking a look over the cubicle wall to assess the vicinity of possible eavesdroppers. “What happened?”

  “Mm . . . drove me home. Came in for a while.” She clicked to the next screen.

  Rachel gave a little squeal of excitement. “So? Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you have sex?” she whispered.

  That got her attention. A blush crept over her face. “No. Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean? Not exactly?”

  The blush deepened as she recalled Lucius ‘giving her what she needed.’

  “We argued, actually, but patched things up the next day when we went to see the family.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  “Rachel . . .” she groaned. “Just stop. And may I remind you that he and I just met on Friday, he’s my boss, and sex would have been unadvisable and . . . thoughtless.”