Country of the Falcon

by Anne Mather

  Enrico rose to his feet, smiling disarmingly. ‘Clare! How good it is to see you again.’ They embraced, kissing one another on either cheek in the continental fashion. ‘And I have not yet had time to do anything, my dear. I arrived only this morning.’

  Clare flicked Alexandra an impatient look. ‘Hello, Alex,’ she observed coolly. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after your guest.’

  Alexandra hid her annoyance. ‘Won’t you join us, Mrs Forman?’ she requested, pushing a chair forward. ‘We were just having coffee. Perhaps you’d like some.’

  ‘I would.’ Clare sat down and crossed her legs elegantly. ‘Well, Enrico, and what brings you to this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Business, naturalmente.’ He gave a mocking smile. ‘Surely you did not imagine I had come for my health.’

  Clare laughed. ‘Who would?’ Then she cast a malicious glance in Alexandra’s direction. ‘Unless one was absolutely desperate for excitement!’

  Alexandra refused to rise to the bait and after a few moments Clare returned her attention to the man. ‘Did you know there’s an outbreak of yellow fever at Maracuja?’

  ‘Yes. Gruvas told me when I landed. Declan must have his hands full.’

  Clare wrinkled her nose. ‘Filthy disease! I don’t know how he can stand it. Those ghastly huts—no sanitation—the smell!’

  ‘Funnily enough, Senhorita Tempest and I were discussing that earlier on, were we not, senhorita?’ Enrico licked his full lips. ‘A man needs dedication, wouldn’t you say?’

  Clare frowned. ‘Declan is dedicated,’ she replied. ‘Why else would he give up the opportunity of a consultancy at the hospital in Sao Paulo?’

  ‘Perhaps he feels more at home here,’ suggested Enrico slyly, but Alexandra could not let him get away with it.

  ‘It’s more likely that he feels that these people need him more than the people of Sao Paulo,’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Doctors are not so thick on the ground in Paradiablo!’

  ‘You could be right.’ For once Clare agreed with her.

  Enrico’s lips drew in. ‘Always the senhoritas defend my so-handsome cousin,’ he remarked dryly. ‘I have heard that women are attracted by the blood of a primitive!’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Enrico,’ advised Clare, accepting the coffee Alexandra offered her. ‘It’s not becoming.’ She took a sip from her cup. ‘Or I’ll begin to think that you’re jealous!’

  Her eyes challenged his, but Alexandra had had enough. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll clear these things,’ she began, and Clare made no demur.

  Consuelo was in the kitchen and looked up in surprise when Alexandra came in with a pile of dishes. ‘Ay, ay, this is not necessary, senhorita!’

  ‘I know that, but I wanted to speak to you, Consuelo. Did you invite Senhor Rubiero to stay until Senhor Declan returns?’

  Consuelo wrung her hands unhappily. ‘Not exactly, senhorita.’

  ‘But you did suggest it?’

  ‘Nao, senhorita. Senhor Enrico suggest it and Consuelo say—perhaps!’

  ‘I see.’ Alexandra sighed. ‘Well, I don’t see how I can refuse. Do we have room? I mean, without using Senhor Declan’s room?’

  ‘Sim, senhorita. Is four bedrooms and Consuelo’s room.’

  ‘All right. You’d better prepare one of those then.’

  ‘Sim, senhorita.’ Consuelo chewed anxiously at her lower lip. ‘The senhorita is not angry with Consuelo?’

  Alexandra smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose not. By the way, Mrs. Forman is here at the moment and I’m going to ask her and her husband to join us for dinner this evening. I’d rather not spend the evening alone with our guest.’

  Consuelo looked worried. ‘You do not like him, senhorita?’

  ‘Let’s say I neither like nor dislike him, shall we?’ Alexandra shrugged. ‘Oh, and by the way, send a note to Maracuja informing Declan of his cousin’s arrival, will you? It—it may bring him home a day or two sooner.’

  Consuelo nodded sympathetically. ‘You worry about Senhor Declan, do you not, senhorita?’

  ‘A little, perhaps.’ Alexandra was abrupt. She had no intention of discussing her personal feelings with Consuelo.

  ‘Is no need.’ Consuelo spread her hands. ‘Senhor Declan is big, strong man! He not get yellow fever.’

  Alexandra forced a smile. ‘I don’t suppose he will. I—I must go back now. You—you won’t forget what I asked.’

  ‘No, senhorita. I send Paulo at once.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alexandra returned to the living room, but that fragmentary reference to Declan had disrupted her confidence and she found it incredibly difficult to behave as though nothing had happened. However, Clare was more than willing to accept her dinner invitation, and the ensuing discussion of the merits of Consuelo’s cooking enabled her to say little and regain her self-possession.

  The evening was, she supposed, a qualified success. Clare obviously found Enrico more engaging than her husband, and Alexandra and David were left to entertain themselves. Not that David seemed to mind. He was a quiet, undemanding sort of man, not at all the kind of man Alexandra would have expected someone like Clare to marry, but he seemed to love his wife and perhaps he was blind to her imperfections.

  All the same, Alexandra was inordinately glad when the evening was over and she could retire to her room. She was curiously restless and tearful, and wondered why she should resent so badly the fact that Enrico Rubiero was sleeping here in comfort while Declan might be exposed to all manner of dangers.

  She lay wakeful, staring towards the glimmer of moonlight that filtered through the shutters. What was Declan doing at this moment? Was he attending to a patient, or was he sleeping? She rolled on to her stomach, pressing her knuckles against her lips. Did he find Indian women attractive? And were there perhaps Portuguese families living in the village? With dark-eyed, olive-skinned Portuguese daughters?

  A sudden sound broke the stillness and she thrust herself up on to her knees, her brows drawn tightly together. What was that? She listened intently. Why weren’t the dogs barking?

  She sighed, relaxing a little. It was probably one of the dogs who had made the noise in the first place. It couldn’t be anything else or they would have soon woken the household. Three nights ago, a roaming mountain lion had passed within hearing distance of the house and its weird screaming roar had sent the dogs almost wild with excitement. Alexandra had been terrified until she was reassured by the knowledge that that must have been one of the reasons why Tom O’Rourke had enclosed the building within a stout wooden barracade.

  She was about to lie down again when the distinct sound of something falling in the living room arrested her. Her nerves tautened. Someone was about. Had an intruder managed to evade being overheard after all? She drew a trembling breath. It was no good—she would have to investigate. If it happened to be Enrico Rubiero looking for something she hoped she would be able to escape without being observed.

  She slid off the bed, pushed her feet into heelless slippers and reached for the silk dressing gown draped over the end of the bed. She fastened the cord tightly around her slim waist and padded to the door. Consuelo always left a lamp burning dimly in the hall, and the shadows it cast were elongated and unreal.

  She went swiftly along the hall before her courage gave out on her. There was a light below the living room door and she halted uncertainly. Surely no intruder would light a lamp, and yet how else could he see what he was doing?

  Her fingers closed round the handle and she turned it slowly. The door gave inwards without a sound, and with trembling fingers she pushed it wide enough to get her head round. But the room was deserted. A lamp was burning on the low table by the hearth where the ashes of the dying logs still glimmered, and Declan’s box of cigars was lying on the rug beneath the table, its contents scattered, evidence of the sound she had heard earlier. She pushed the door wider and entered the room, a puzzled expression on her face. Someone had been in here quite recently, but
where was that someone now? And who was it?

  She moved automatically towards the strewn cigars and bent and began picking them up almost without thinking.

  ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

  The unexpectedly harsh male tones nearly startled her out of her wits. She dropped the cigars and got unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘Declan!’ she breathed. ‘I—so it was you I heard!’

  ‘I imagine so.’ Declan came into the room and kicked the door to behind him. He was carrying a plate in one hand on which reposed a thick, unappetising meat sandwich, and in the other he carried a can of beer. He walked towards the couch and flung himself down wearily. ‘You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t stand on ceremony, but I am rather tired.’

  Now that the lamplight was illuminating his face Alexandra could see exactly how weary he looked. Lines of fatigue etched his eyes and mouth, and a kind of grey pallor had entered his cheeks. His hair was rough and unkempt, and he didn’t look as if he had changed the denim shirt and pants he was wearing since he left almost six days ago.

  She hovered uncertainly at the side of the couch. ‘Is—is there anything I can get you?’ she asked awkwardly. ‘Something else to eat? Another drink?’

  He shook his head, resting it back against the cool leather upholstery. ‘Nothing,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of the beer. ‘Go to bed!’

  Alexandra sighed. ‘Was—was it very bad?’ she ventured.

  He lifted his head and turned exhausted eyes in her direction. ‘What do you think?’

  She shook her head, looking down at her fingers playing with the cord of her dressing gown. ‘Did—did you get my message?’

  ‘Of course.’ He rested his head back again.

  Alexandra still hesitated. She was loath to leave him. She had the feeling that if she did he would simply fall asleep there on the couch and awake feeling stiff and unrested in the morning. She turned back to the cigars and began picking them up again.

  ‘For God’s sake, Alexandra,’ he muttered, turning to look at her, ‘Go to bed! I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but my reflexes are not as alert as they usually are.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she replied, putting the rest of the cigars into the box and standing it down on the table in front of him. ‘I—I was thinking about you, actually.’

  ‘Were you?’ He sounded uninterested.

  ‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on. Is the epidemic under control now?’

  Declan heaved a sigh. ‘Do you mind if we have this conversation in the morning? I’m not really in the mood for small talk.’

  Still she lingered. She watched him finish his sandwich and wash it down with the last of his beer. Then he thrust the plate and can aside and closed his eyes. She guessed he was half asleep already.

  ‘Declan?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Declan, won’t you go to your room? I mean, you can’t sleep here!’

  His eyes flickered open. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because—because you’ll be uncomfortable—–’

  ‘Uncomfortable?’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Alexandra, are you aware that for the past week such sleep as I have had has been in a hammock, strung up like a monkey! This couch is a feather bed compared to that!’

  Alexandra twisted her hands together. ‘Maybe so. But you’re here now, and it seems a pity—–’

  ‘All right!’ He made a gesture as if he was pushing away her unwelcome attentions. ‘All right, I’ll go to my room, if that will persuade you to go to yours!’

  Alexandra stepped back a pace and he got to his feet, reaching for the lamp. But he swayed and the lamp would have overturned had she not caught it in time.

  ‘God, I must be more tired than I thought,’ he muttered grimly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m all right now. Give me the lamp!’

  ‘I’ll put it in your room,’ she said firmly, and walked ahead of him out of the door.

  She put the lamp on the chest of drawers in his room, well away from the bed, just in case he should reach out and knock it over during the night. Declan came unsteadily into the room and dropped down on to his bed wearily, resting his head in his hands. Then, as though becoming conscious of her scrutiny, he lifted bloodshot eyes to her face.

  ‘Well?’ he asked resignedly, ‘what are you waiting for?’

  Alexandra shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then go to your room,’ he adjured impatiently. ‘I’ll be all right. All I need is sleep.’

  He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, and unable to find any reasonable reason for remaining she went back to her room. But not to sleep.

  She paced about restlessly, conscious that he had not even taken off his boots and that his face and body were grimed with sweat. In the normal way he would never have gone to sleep like that.

  Eventually, after about half an hour, she tiptoed back to his room again, going inside quietly and closing the door. He had not moved, as she had expected, and she stood looking at him with a curiously protective pain stirring inside her stomach. In sleep he looked younger, more vulnerable, and infinitely attractive.

  Biting her lip, she approached the bed and lifted one of his feet. His boot came off without difficulty, and he didn’t stir. Emboldened by her success, she pulled off the other boot and his socks as well. Then she paused. He was in a deep slumber, and she doubted that anything would wake him, but sponging his face and chest would require some courage.

  Kneeling down beside him, she unfastened the remaining buttons of his shirt and unbuckled the belt of his trousers. The shirt pulled away quite easily and it wasn’t difficult to slide it off his shoulders by rolling him on to his side. She breathed more freely when the shirt had been tossed aside for washing. Apart from a protesting grunt he had made no sound and she hurried into the bathroom and came back with a warm soapy sponge and a towel.

  She sponged his body first, using firm strokes that did not seem to disturb him. Then she lowered him back against the pillows and went to rinse the sponge before tackling his face. His skin looked clean and infinitely fresher, and she gained confidence from her success. She was drying his face with the towel when his eyes flickered open and he stared at her for a moment without recognition.

  She bumped back against her heels, her hands trembling, hoping against hope that he would close his eyes again. But he didn’t. He ran a questing hand over his bare chest and then, encountering the unfastened belt of his trousers, he jack-knifed into a sitting position.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded roughly.

  Alexandra would have scrambled to her feet and backed away, but his hand shot out and captured her upper arm, wrenching her towards him. ‘I asked what you thought you were doing?’ he said between his teeth.

  ‘Oh, Declan, I was just freshening you up,’ she exclaimed painfully. ‘Will you let go of my arm? You’re hurting me!’

  ‘And was it part of your plan to undress me, too?’ he enquired grimly, snatching the towel out of her hands and throwing it aside.

  ‘No!’ Alexandra was appealing. ‘Declan, I only wanted to help you—–’

  ‘To help me? Oh, God!’ He released her abruptly and fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Alexandra didn’t move away but stared down anxiously at him. ‘Are you ill?’

  His eyes opened. ‘No, Alexandra, I’m not ill. I’m tired, that’s all.’ He groaned wearily. ‘Look—all right, I appreciate your motives were of the best, but I don’t honestly care whether I’m filthy or otherwise. Why don’t you just go away like a good girl and leave me to sleep?’

  Alexandra sniffed miserably. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’ He regarded her through the thickness of his lashes. ‘Oh, Alexandra, stop looking so hurt! I know I’m an ungrateful swine, but honestly, I really am exhausted.’

  ‘I know.’ She half turned away. ‘I—I’ll tell Consuelo not to disturb you in the mornin
g—–’

  ‘Just a minute!’ He propped himself up on one elbow and reached out a hand towards her. After a moment, she put her hand into his and he drew her towards the bed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked gently. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  Alexandra flushed. ‘I was worried about you.’

  He studied her wan face for several seconds and then he nodded. ‘Yes, I believe you were.’ He indicated the lamp on the chest of drawers. ‘Go and turn that out for me, would you?’

  Sighing, she went and did as he had asked, waiting for a moment as her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom before making for the door. As she passed the bed, she was conscious of his eyes upon her, and then he murmured: ‘Don’t go, Alexandra. Stay with me!’

  Her heart was pounding so loudly that she had difficulty in believing what she had heard. ‘I—what did you say?’ she stammered.

  He leant across and caught the folds of her gown. ‘You heard me,’ he replied quietly. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s a purely innocent offer. I’m too tired to be of any danger to you. But you’re welcome to share my bed if it might help you to sleep.’

  Alexandra caught her breath. ‘But—I couldn’t!’

  ‘Why not? We’ve slept together before.’

  ‘I know, but that was different.’

  ‘How was it different?’

  ‘Well—–’ She sought for words. ‘I can’t just sleep with you!’

  ‘Why not?’ He was beginning to sound impatient. ‘Alexandra, where is the harm in two people sharing the same bed? Here, it happens all the time.’

  Alexandra hesitated. She wanted to stay. But her reasons for staying and his for asking her were vastly different things.

  ‘If—if Consuelo—–’

  ‘Leave Consuelo to me,’ he remarked dryly, pulling her towards the bed, and she let him.

  It was marvellously comforting to feel his warm body next to hers, even though he did turn away from her, and when she heard his breathing become slow and regular, she nestled into the small of his back and slipped one arm around his waist.