Falconer's Heart

by Janice Bennett

  She had learned to curtsy in ballroom dancing class, but to do so while wearing wet jeans and a soaked fisherman knit seemed absurd. Instead she held out her hand. “Erika van Hamel. I’m David’s cousin.”

  He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips. “Am I acquainted with ‘David’?”

  She drew back, suddenly perplexed. “But…aren’t you? Your clothes—”

  He looked down at himself. “They are certainly wet. Under normal circumstances I would never present myself to a lady in such a state.”

  “You’re dressed like the pictures in his room. Weren’t you one of his war-gamers?”

  The tiny lines in his brow deepened. “I hardly consider war a game, Miss van Hamel. It’s a very deadly business.”

  “Especially the way they fought in Napoleonic times. If you weren’t one of David’s group, then why are you dressed like that?”

  He ignored her question. “What do you mean, ‘in Napoleonic times’?”

  “Don’t I have that right? I thought that was what David called it. Or should I say the ‘Peninsular Campaign’? That was his favorite period—or era, or whatever you call it.”

  “Favorite? Good God, how could anyone enjoy that?”

  She moved a step farther away, unsettled by the sudden anger that glinted in his dark eyes. “We seem to be talking at cross purposes. Look, you said your name as if you thought I should know you. If you aren’t a friend of my cousin’s, then who are you?”

  “Gilbert Randall, Viscount Belmont.”

  “Oh, it’s your title!” Her frown cleared. “I’m sorry, I should have realized. But I’m an American, you see. I’ve only lived over here for two years and I seldom get off my island. I don’t meet many people.”

  “Except your Mr. Fipps? Did he create that…that thing over there?” He gestured to the microwave.

  “The oven? No, of course not. But he’s a marvel with engines. I don’t think that generator would still be working if it weren’t for him, and I rely on it for everything. Even my computer and shortwave, though I have battery backup, of course.”

  “Of course.” He stared at her once more as if she spoke a foreign language. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am, precisely?”

  “Only about a half mile from Jersey. This is Falconer’s Folly—hardly large enough to be called an island, but we try. You’re lucky you landed here. There’s a fisherman’s hut on one of the other piles of rock, but no one’s there in January. Was your boat badly damaged or do you think we can repair it?”

  He shook his head, and the grimness returned to his expression. “It sank.”

  “It—how awful! But you’re all right? I’m sorry, here I’ve been going on about poor Guinivere, and you’ve been through a boat wreck!” She led the way to the stairs as she talked. “No wonder you’re so wet. Let’s go over to the house and dry off.”

  They reached the entry hall below and he paused once more to stare at her generator. She couldn’t blame him. It looked more like a pile of junk than her preserver. Mr. Fipps had built it primarily from salvaged engine parts left on the tiny island after the German occupation of Jersey during World War II.

  A jagged flash of lightning eerily lit the charcoal sky as she opened the door. She cringed as the dreaded thunder boomed overhead with gusto, and she drew back into the aviary. A strong hand closed on her shoulder and she turned toward Belmont, instinctively seeking shelter from her unreasoned fear.

  “It’s only thunder.” He spoke gently, as if to a child.

  For one long moment she knew the temptation to bury her face in the smooth wet wool of his coat, to seek that secure haven. But safe-seeming harbors, in her experience, invariably hid dangerous shoals. She pulled free and, still trembling, strode out into the storm. The deafening rumble faded, leaving the late afternoon silent except for the steady pelting of the rain.

  “Were…were you driven into rocks, or did you just take on water?” She focused her attention on her companion’s plight rather than on his broad shoulders.

  He shook his head as she closed the aviary door behind them and they started for the cottage. “We were pitching about quite a bit but we could have survived that. If it hadn’t been for the whirlpool—” He broke off. “We didn’t stand a chance, even if the lightning hadn’t struck our mast.”

  “My God!” she whispered. “You said ‘we’. Were there others?”

  He nodded, and the strained lines that marked his face deepened. “There were five of us. I thought they jumped free of the boat before we were fully into the whirlpool.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  His mouth tightened. “I was knocked out. I didn’t come around until I was lying on a rock with no trace of either the boat or my companions anywhere.”

  Riki drew an unsteady breath. “You searched?”

  “Of course! Then I saw the outline of your cottage and swam for it—and hoped they’d made it here. I’d just finished circling the island when I spotted you on that cliff.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me at once? Come on, let’s call a rescue team.”

  “You said there weren’t any men!”

  “Not here, but we can get some people from Jersey.”

  Hope eased the tension from his features, replacing it with determination. “How do we do it?” He quickened his pace.

  “Radio, of course. There’s never been a landline here and my cell phone won’t have any bars in this weather.” They reached the cottage, she threw open the front door and hurried inside the spacious, tiled entry hall. Belmont followed but stopped just over the threshold, looking about. Riki tossed her dripping windbreaker over the brass arm of an antique coat tree.

  “Go into the kitchen and dry off. I’ll see if I can raise anyone.” She hurried down the hall to her small office, the old study that looked out over a sharp drop to the churning Channel below. There’d be interference, but with this storm the ham operators would be standing by for emergencies.

  To her dismay, all she got was static. Damn electrical storms! There’d been so much thunder and lightning in the past two years, but this storm was creating even worse problems than usual.

  She returned to the hall and found her unconventional guest standing where she had left him. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, both of which now hung on her hall tree. He stood before her in what she supposed must be breeches, a drenched, clinging shirt of equally old-fashioned design and salt-encrusted boots.

  “Forgive me for removing my coat, but—”

  She cut off his rather stiff apology. “It’s better than freezing in those things. I couldn’t get anything but static.”

  “The searchers?”

  “I told you. Just static—interference. I’ll try again in a bit and if I still can’t get through, we’ll take brandy and blankets and go ourselves as soon as it’s safer.”

  “Is there any way I can go now?”

  She shook her head. “The motor’s down on the outboard, so I’ve only got the ketch—and there’s too much wind for a sail. We’d be driven straight into the rocks. I’m sorry, we’ll have to wait.”

  She led the way into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light with the switch near the door. “Let me get some coffee started, then I’ll show you to a bathroom. If we can find you something to wear, we can throw your clothes in the dryer.”

  “The what?”

  The light went off, then back on and off again, and she turned to see him flipping the switch as if he’d never seen one before. “A dryer. Believe it or not, I’ve got all the modern conveniences. And thanks to Mr. Fipps, they even work most of the time.”

  “Your Mr. Fipps must be a miracle worker!” He returned the light to the “on” position. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  Riki stiffened. Was he teasing? Or had that blow he said he’d received to his head affected him? Resolutely, she shoved a filter paper into the coffeemaker and began measuring out coffee grounds. He’d
feel better after he’d gotten a cup, stiffly laced with brandy, inside him.

  The humming of her kitchen microwave reached her, followed by a ding. Firmly, she banished the niggling suspicion she might be alone on the island with a lunatic. There had been calm sanity in those dark eyes. Perhaps if he had been part of some playacting or war-gaming group, a severe blow might have left him temporarily confused. A good night’s sleep should restore him to health. If he showed any signs of concussion, she could handle it.

  Running water sounded just behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to see him playing with the tap in the sink. This continual fiddling with gadgets as if he’d never seen them before left her uneasy. He moved on to open the door of the oven, then turned a dial on the stove.

  “It’s hot!” He turned to stare at her. “Is this more of your Mr. Fipps’ inventions?”

  “You might say that.” She poured the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and turned it on. He appeared confused but sane. Perhaps it was a form of shell shock after what he’d been through. Or was he playing a game with her? David’s miniature enthusiast crowd had warped senses of humor, she knew from bitter experience. The one who’d given the eulogy at David’s memorial service…

  She turned abruptly away. It had been just over two years ago, in a storm just like this, that David had disappeared. Only his sailboat had been found, dashed to pieces on the rocks.

  The water began to perk and bubble and coffee dripped into the carafe. On the other side of the kitchen, her guest poked a finger into her freezer and watched the wave of cold air that floated out.

  “The coffee will take a few minutes. Let’s get dried off. There are two bathrooms upstairs. Are your clothes wash-and-wear? We should get the salt out of them.”

  He looked down at his sodden shirt sleeve. “My man usually takes care of everything.”

  “Well, here we’re on our own.” She returned to the hall and started up the mahogany staircase. She had forgotten she was dealing with a member of the British upper class. He probably never entered his own kitchen. Useless and pampered, that was what he was. No wonder he was in shock. His companions had probably been servants, crewing for him.

  But he had been very capable climbing that rock and rescuing the injured Guinivere. She decided to reserve judgment.

  At the top of the stairs, she flipped on the hall switch. White stucco walls decorated with bright prints were interspaced with arching mullioned windows that reflected the fluorescent lights. Outside, all was darkness. She would try radioing Mr. Fipps again the minute she got her guest settled. The sooner they got a helicopter out looking for his companions, the better—it would be night all too soon.

  The sky lit with another crackling flash and she turned away as the rumbling thunder followed hard on its heels.

  “In here.” She preceded Belmont into the blue-tiled bath and opened a cupboard. “Heater’s down there, towels in here. If you want a shower, we have plenty of hot water. In there,” she added, pointing to the tiled tub as he looked about in curiosity.

  She eyed him, measuring. From the low vantage point of her own five-foot-and-a-hair, he seemed tall. Probably under six feet, though, but his shoulders were very broad. He seemed solid—like a brick wall. “David was taller and lighter than you, but I may be able to find you something to wear.”

  “Thank you.” Already he had flipped the heater off and on twice and now stood warming his hands, an expression of fascination on his rugged face.

  Riki backed out, closed the door and hurried down­stairs.

  This time she raised Mr. Fipps on her third try. His cheerful voice sounded shaky, more crackly than usual, but it was better than she’d hoped for after her earlier failure.

  “Riki, my love? Trouble with old Mortimer? Over.”

  “No, the generator’s fine. There’s been a boat wreck. One man—a Viscount Belmont, he said—is safe with me. Four others are missing. Over.”

  Static filled the air, then cleared enough for her to make out the words, “—call the emergency people.” More static followed, then, “—find them before dark. Over.”

  “Thank you. Over.”

  More crackling disturbed the air. “—eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Got that, Riki, my girl? Eight o’clock. Over.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Just get the helicopters out. Bye for now. Over.”

  She switched off the set and stood, smiling. Mr. Fipps was the sweetest old man.

  “Who the devil were you talking to?” Belmont’s deep, bewildered voice sounded just behind her.

  “Mr. Fipps.” She turned and saw he had not yet availed himself of the shower. He remained fully dressed, though he held a towel.

  “How? I thought you said he was on Jersey.”

  “Radio. There’s interference from the storm but I got the message to him about your friends.”

  He came forward, staring at the box of dials, switches and lights that rested on the table. “You actually mean to tell me you were talking to someone who is more than a half mile away?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing—or seeing.

  “I told you, the interference isn’t as bad as it was. I don’t think I could reach London, though, if that’s what you had in mind. But if there’s someone you want to let know you’re all right, I’ll get Mr. Fipps again for you. He can telephone.”

  “Tele— This is impossible! A communication system over great distances!” He shook his head, marveling, and an arrested gleam lit his eyes. “Can you see its potential? Its use for the war? Why doesn’t your Mr. Fipps tell the government? Don’t you realize what this could mean to us? We could get information—accurate information—and in minutes rather than days!”

  She’d had enough. Riki hugged herself, but close contact with her sodden sweater only made her colder. “Look, I’m not in the mood for your games. I’ve sent out word to look for your friends. If there’s anyone you want to call, fine. Otherwise, I just want to get out of these clothes and get warmed up.”

  “Are these things common in America?” he demanded, refusing to be diverted from her radio.

  “Not so much anymore, except in remote areas or for emergencies.” She glared at him. “Now look, if you’re going to keep playing like this, I’ll throw you back out in the storm. And I mean it. It’s not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny.” He slammed the towel down to the tiled floor, strode up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her skin and the pungent odor of wet wool surrounded them. “What is going on here? I’ve never seen so many queer things as you have on this island!”

  She tried to pull free but couldn’t. She hadn’t expected violence, and fear at this abrupt turn flooded through her.

  “Are you in the middle of a game?” She tried to keep her voice calm, to humor him. “Is this one of the rules, pretending to live in the period?” She managed a false but bright smile. “You’re welcome to use my cousin’s equipment if you’ve lost yours.”

  If she could get him out of the room, she could lock the door and radio for help. She could try it now, for he seemed interested, but she didn’t want to excite him any further.

  As if sensing her panic, he released her and backed off a step. He still remained between her and the door, though. She couldn’t escape.

  “How long ago did he invent these things?” Belmont demanded, a queer, tight note in his voice.

  “He didn’t invent them.” She picked her words with care. “David set up the radio when he took over the island and the rookery five years ago. Mr. Fipps did build the generator but I bought everything else in London.”

  He stared at her in silence. Slowly, his head swiveled, the muscles in his neck taut, and he found the light switch on the wall. With his eyes on the ceiling fixture, he flipped the switch and the room darkened. When the bulb came back on the next moment, he was still watching.

  A steady, rhythmic hum began, growing louder and closer. Riki’s spirits soared. Re
scue! If she could just get outside, she could signal the helicopter. There was nowhere they could land, but maybe if she waved wildly enough they’d let down the rescue sling. She might be able to escape this lunatic.

  “What’s that?” Belmont’s voice sharpened and his head jerked toward the window.

  “The helicopter. I told you I’d get someone out to look for your friends.”

  “A what?” He strode over and peered out the window, looking up into the sky. The small two-seater rescue chopper came into view, hovering, dipping close, then moving on.

  “My God, what in Heaven’s name—” He reached out, clasping her arm.

  This time she felt no menace from him. Only confusion, complete and utter bewilderment. Sympathy replaced her panic.

  Still wary, she spoke gently, soothingly. “Everything will be all right now. You’re safe. I’ll go outside and signal them and they’ll let someone down in that sling you see hanging below it. They’ll take you to hospital. Everything’s all right now,” she repeated.

  The helicopter swooped out of sight from the window. The man turned back to Riki, saw he was clutching her arm and released her. “Have I gone mad?” he breathed.

  “You said something hit you on the head. You’ll be all right.”

  “Just tell me this is the eighteenth of January, 1812, and I’ll be fine.” He looked back to where the helicopter could now be seen dipping around a nearby pile of rocks.

  “Well, it’s the eighteenth of January, but you’ve been war-gaming too long. You’re about two hundred years too early.”

  “Two—” He broke off and every trace of color drained from his face. “That’s impossible. It’s—”

  “Look, let me signal the ‘copter before they get out of range.”

  But it was too late. The chopper lifted and moved away, heading toward the next group of rocks some distance off. Riki fought her returning fear. She wasn’t alone. She still had the radio—and the man hadn’t shown any real sign of intending to hurt her.

  “Why don’t you take a nice hot bath?” she suggested.