Falconer's Heart

by Janice Bennett

  Those dark, mesmerizing eyes came to rest on her. “You think I’m an escaped Bedlamite, don’t you?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m beginning to think it myself.” He turned on his heel, scooped up the towel and left the room.

  Chapter Two

  Riki knelt beside the heavy trunk on the floor of the large storage closet and dragged up the lid. Inside, where she’d laid them a scarce two years before, were a number of David’s clothes. Most she’d given to charity, but these she remembered too well to part with—the robe she’d given him one Christmas, the jeans with the patch she’d sewn on the knee, the sweater he’d loved that she’d knitted for his birthday…

  Tears filled her eyes but she fought them back. She missed David, as irresponsible as he might have been. But nothing could bring him back. She might as well let her peculiar guest wear his things. This Viscount Belmont, if that was really his name, would look ridiculous in her robe, and her flannel shirts and knitted sweaters would never stretch across his broad shoulders.

  She selected an armful of likely prospects and carried them down the hall. Opening the door to the spare bedroom next to the bath, she heard the shower running full force. He’d be done in a minute, then she could take her turn with the hot water. She tossed the garments onto the bed, then rapped loudly on the connecting door. The water shut off.

  “I’ve put some things on the bed in here,” she called. “I hope they fit. I’m going for my shower now.”

  “Thank you,” he called after a moment of silence.

  She made her way to her large chamber with its connecting bath and gratefully dragged off her cold, clinging clothes. The efficient little heater had the tiled room warm in minutes, and beckoning steam rose from the shower she turned on. With a sigh of relief, she climbed in.

  Twenty minutes later, her dark-auburn hair still damp from her brisk toweling, she descended the stairs. She wore jeans again, but these were soft, faded and, most importantly, dry. A bulky green cowl-neck sweater hung low over her rounded hips. Sloppy, perhaps, but she liked her comfort.

  She found her guest in the kitchen, pouring coffee into mugs he had unearthed from the cupboard. He looked up at her entry and grinned, and she stopped dead.

  Lord, what eyes the man has! Dark, piercing—like a falcon’s—yet warm with enjoyment. Rugged character marked his face—someone to be depended on and trusted, despite the warped sense of humor he had shown her earlier. Her unease faded. At the moment his features were marked by an unexpected boyish charm.

  Her gaze drifted to the warm rust turtleneck sweater that stretched across his muscular torso. It had looked good on David, but on this man it caused an unexpected reaction in her. She’d always had a thing about broad shoulders, and this man had them in spades. The jeans, she noted with appreciation, could not possibly have been tighter and still allowed him to drag them on. His feet remained bare, and somehow that added the final panache to the homey effect.

  “Is this what you drink?” he asked.

  She looked up to find his eyes resting on her with much the same appreciative light that hers must hold. She managed a smile. “Do you prefer yours black, or would you like cream and sugar? Or something stronger? I’ve got brandy and a few other things.”

  She brushed past him and found she liked the contact. She must have been alone too much these last two years. She could almost get used to sharing her kitchen—and the rest of her house—with someone like him.

  She brought out her bowl of raw sugar and a carton of milk, then turned to her liquor cabinet. This she allowed Belmont to sort through. He came out with a bottle of VSOP, which he opened and sniffed with approval.

  She held out her mug for a dollop, then made her way into the living room. Wood and newspapers lay stacked by the fireplace, in which she’d installed an efficient airtight stove with a see-through door. The van Hamel money came in useful if one wanted to remodel a two-hundred-year-old cottage.

  By the time her guest joined her, she had started the fire. He watched as she struck a match and closed the door.

  “Very practical.” He came up and studied the stove.

  “The room will be warm in just a few minutes.” She remained where she was, curled up on the floor. She reached over and pulled a large pillow into position behind her.

  He glanced at the comfortable chairs placed nearby, then followed her example, sinking down onto the area rug with an unconscious athletic grace. He too used one of the large cushions she kept in an inviting pile by the wall.

  “This is a very pleasant way to be shipwrecked.”

  “All the comforts of home.” She sipped her steaming coffee and regarded him over the rim of her mug. Apparently he had abandoned his earlier game. She was glad. She felt so comfortable with him at the moment, she’d hate to discover he was nothing but an irresponsible gamer who thought everyone should play along. His infectious smile flashed, and she discovered it was dangerous.

  She glanced out the long glass window toward the sheltered cove beyond. “I wonder if they’ve found your friends. I haven’t heard the helicopter for a while.”

  “If they are here, then there is every chance that they have been found,” he said cryptically. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Have you lived here long?”

  He must be worried—and there was nothing he could do as night closed about them. The occasional lightning provided an irregular and erratic illumination. She shuddered as thunder rumbled once more.

  “I came here two years ago, after my cousin drowned. It was in a storm much like this. They…they found pieces of his boat, shattered on the rocks just a little way out into the Channel.”

  “My condolences.”

  She didn’t look up, though she sensed the gentle honesty of his response. “The island was mine—I’d inherited it from a distant cousin on my mother’s side. The rookery was already here, and I guess I told you I’m a sucker for endangered species and worthy causes. David offered to run it for me if I’d provide the funds, and it seemed like a good place for him. He hadn’t liked the family businesses, you see.” She glanced at the man, found those dark eyes resting on her thoughtfully, and she concentrated on her coffee.

  “Were you here when he died?”

  She shook her head. “I hadn’t seen him in nearly six months. Mr. Fipps telephoned me when David’s boat was found. He’s the dearest little old man. He stayed here, keeping an eye on the falcons in the aviary, until I arrived. One look at the place and I decided to stay.”

  Her companion nodded. “I can see why. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so restful.”

  She managed a slight laugh. “And you’ve only seen it during a storm. It’s beautiful here. It might almost have been designed with me in mind. It was built by—” She broke off and stared at him.

  “By?” he prompted.

  “Viscount Belmont. It just clicked. You’re using his name. Why?”

  “I’m using no one’s name but my own. We have a long family history, though.” Here, his lips quirked in an odd smile. “Longer than many would imagine. It could very well have been built by a Viscount Belmont. When was it, by the way?”

  “1815, I think. Right after the Napoleonic wars ended.”

  “The—” He broke off and seemed to struggle with himself. “The wars ended,” he repeated. “Undoubtedly, I—my ancestor—built it in celebration. We have long been falconers, you must know.”

  “Have you been? I thought you handled Guin as if you knew birds. How fitting this place should give you shelter now.”

  A wry smile just touched his lips. “Fitting indeed.” He yawned. “Lord, it’s been a—” He broke off and a somewhat shaky chuckle set his shoulders quaking. “A very long day for me.”

  Riki glanced at her watch. “It’s only just after five. Are you hungry? We could have an early dinner. You’ll probably be better for a good night’s sleep.”

  A slight frown creased his high brow. “If you will show me where you keep your spare blankets
, I’ll make up a bed for myself in the aviary.”

  “In the aviary? What on earth for?”

  To her utter amazement, a dull flush crept under the light tan on his cheeks.

  “It is your reputation I am thinking of.” He sounded embarrassed. “You may live in a highly unconventional manner, but you are undoubtedly a lady. I have no desire to compromise you in recompense for your kindness in giving me shelter from this storm.”

  “Compromise me? Good heavens!” Amusement vied with consternation and won. “I had no idea anyone worried about things like that anymore.”

  He inclined his head, though he did not appear convinced. “Under the circumstances, I must be guided by your judgment.”

  “Then you might as well use the guest room and be comfortable.” She swallowed the last of her coffee and rose. “Let’s fix something to eat.”

  He trailed after her into the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb, watching as she rummaged through the freezer. She emerged with a couple of salmon steaks, put them in a bowl and covered them with hot water to thaw. A second search of the freezer produced a loaf of sourdough French bread she had baked two weeks before. She set it on the counter, waiting to pop it into the microwave until the fish would be almost ready to serve.

  “How are you at making salads?” She looked over at the man, who had once more stuck his hand into the freezer.

  He came out with a tray of ice cubes, which seemed to fascinate him. “Making what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know—lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, whatever other veggies you find in the fridge?”

  He flexed the plastic tray he held, and jumped as one of the cubes popped free. He examined it, then restored the whole works to the freezer. “I can always learn.”

  “Haven’t you ever cooked anything for yourself?” He must be about thirty, she decided. Had he always been pampered and catered to? Somehow that didn’t mesh with the image of capability and command he projected.

  “I served on the—” He broke off. “I was in the army, before I sold out.”

  “Sold out?” That had a dishonest ring to it.

  “Returned to civilian life,” he amended.

  “Oh, a British term.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I think we speak different languages. I still haven’t gotten used to calling sweaters ‘jumpers’.” She found a head of lettuce, tore off a few leaves and washed them. “Here, use that bowl down there and tear these up.” She turned her attention to finding more vegetables.

  By the time she had finished chopping carrots, tomatoes and onions, the salmon had softened. She unwrapped the pieces, laid them on a broiling pan then seasoned them. Another minute with the knife yielded slices of fresh lemon, which she laid over the fish.

  The broiler fascinated the man, and he stood at her side, staring intently through the oven’s glass door. Having money and servants when she grew up hadn’t kept her from learning how to take care of herself. But perhaps, since he had been heir to a title, his parents hadn’t thought it proper for him to hang about the kitchen. She knew an impulse to introduce him to basic survival skills. While he watched the fish cook, she microwaved the bread then cut it into thick slices which she slathered with olive oil and garlic. When the fish was done, she put in the bread, ordered him not to let it burn and turned her attention to finding plates, utensils and a bottle of chilled white wine.

  They ate dinner on trays before the fireplace, which Belmont filled with more wood. Riki leaned back against the base of an overstuffed chair, watching the man as he swirled the wine in his glass. His shadowed expression betrayed his concern. He looked up, caught her gazing at him, and smiled.

  “Why do you choose to live in so isolated a place?”

  “The falcons. I feel I’m doing some good here.”

  “In what way?” He stretched his legs out before him, toward the briskly burning flames, and poured more wine for them both.

  “Protecting the fledglings, caring for the injured. Making sure they have a safe place. When David first came here five years ago, he recorded only six eggs, and only five of those produced hatchlings. Last season I had fourteen, and all of them hatched safely. Plus two in the aviary, which I brought in and incubated when the mother was killed.”

  “That’s a lot of birds, considering you’re alone. Do you hunt them?”

  She nearly spilled her wine. “They’re endangered! We’re preserving them, not using them for games. There are too few left in the world. It’s a lucky thing your ancestor built this rookery.”

  He started to speak, then changed his mind. He gazed out over the Channel, where the lightning flashed in the distance. Only the slightest rumble of thunder sounded.

  “It would be a tragedy if peregrines disappeared,” he said at last. “They’re such beautiful birds.”

  “They are. And each one has such a unique personality. Have you noticed?”

  He smiled suddenly. “I have one—a tiercel—that takes the longest baths. I swear he spends over an hour in his stream. Then he perches on a rock and dozes while he dries.”

  She nodded. “Guin does that too, though not for as long.” His love for the birds seemed to match her own. In subtle ways—in his keen eye, his majestic stance—he reminded her of them. She hurried into speech. “We’ve put in a freshwater stream with an electric pump. That’s one of the things that keeps the birds coming here, I think. A guaranteed safe and reliable bath.”

  He didn’t answer, and she stole a look at him. He still gazed out over the Channel, his expression unreadable. He must be worrying about his companions. The chopper couldn’t search at night. It must be terrible for him, not knowing, not being able to do anything. But they could check.

  She stood. “Let’s try to reach Mr. Fipps and see if there’s been any word on the rescue.” She led the way to her office.

  The radio produced only static. Belmont leaned over her shoulder, fascinated, watching as she adjusted the dials, trying to find just the right frequency. The crackling became unbearable and at last she switched the unit off.

  “I’m sorry. There’s too much interference from the storm.”

  “Thank you for trying. And don’t worry so. I think my companions are safe…back there.”

  “On Jersey? I hope so.”

  “Possibly not on Jersey.”

  He murmured the words, so she might have heard wrong. His solid assurance made her feel secure and she allowed herself to stop worrying. It was pleasant to have a guest for a change—someone to talk to, someone just to be with. She felt oddly at ease with this strange man. The thought disturbed her.

  “Are you tired, or would you like to look around the rookery?” Anything was better than sitting before him, staring up into the darkest, most compelling eyes she had ever seen.

  A slow smile lit their depths. “I should be honored to see your home.”

  She stood, suddenly nervous. “This is my office. I keep the records on the birds over there.” She gestured to an oak filing cabinet. “I’ve computerized almost everything, which makes the recordkeeping easier. The birds are all banded, of course.”

  She moved past him into the hall. Suddenly her little office seemed too small, his large, solid body too close to hers. The not-so-irrelevant thought came to her that she hadn’t shared her bed since that summer five years ago when she’d camped out with the Save the Whales protesters. They’d used a sleeping bag, of course, and an air mattress that wouldn’t stay filled…

  She strode down the hall, trying to shake off the sudden yearnings raised by those memories. She’d dropped Greg when she’d realized he was more interested in the van Hamel money than in her van Hamel body. But she knew what desire was, and the solid male keeping pace with her at the moment wasn’t doing a thing to help her forget.

  She threw open the only other door on the ground floor. “This was David’s gaming room. I kept it the way he left it.”

  “You must have been very fond of him.”

  The deep, und
erstanding voice did little to calm her heightened awareness. “He was like a brother—only a year older than me. We were raised together from the time we were about four or five, when his mother died.”

  She flipped on the light, illuminating the large chamber. Twelve rectangular wooden tables were arranged down the center, each containing large Plexiglas domes encasing battle scenes with hundreds of detailed period reenactments. Colorful prints of Napoleonic military uniforms, weapons and engagements lined the wall.

  Belmont took two steps inside and stopped, slowly turning around to take it all in. The table before him bore the legend “Talavera, July 28, 1809”. The label on one dome read “As it occurred”. The other said “As it should have been”.

  Belmont leaned close, studying first one scene, then the other. The first showed the actual course of the battle, with the British cavalry being routed in the city square, but with the French army of Joseph Bonaparte and Marshal Victor retreating in defeat anyway. The second dome depicted an altered strategy on the part of the French, by which the defeat of the British cavalry brought about a French victory.

  Belmont straightened slowly and turned to regard Riki through narrowed eyes. “‘As it should have been’?” he demanded, his voice like ice.

  She shrugged. “That’s the way the war-gamers play it. Since Napoleon lost the war, they like to replay the battles and see if they can get him to win. If the French won, everyone would want to play Wellington, I suppose.”

  “Napoleon lost,” Belmont repeated. He walked between the lines of tables, glancing at the labels, then stopped before “Salamanca, July 22, 1812”.

  Riki heard his sharp intake of breath. “Is something wrong?” She joined him.

  He shook his head. “He let the British win this, I see.”

  She examined the two domes. “I think the ‘should have beens’ are actual games he played, where he altered the French and British strategy. Apparently at this one,” she gestured to Salamanca, “the French didn’t stand a chance.”

  Belmont continued, stopping at last at Waterloo. He stared at it for a very long while. “This is the last battle?”