Falconer's Heart

by Janice Bennett

  “Where is his tent?” asked the private carrying Belmont’s shoulders.

  “We were using Sir Thomas Picton’s. I-I don’t remember where…” She broke off and looked about helplessly, rather hoping there might be a sign saying “headquarters”.

  The lack of one didn’t bother her helpers. The name of their commander worked like magic on the two men. “This way, sir,” the private addressed Riki, and they worked their way through the bustling camp.

  Sir Thomas’ tent was in use but his batman directed the soldiers to carry Belmont to one next door. Its owner, she gathered, had been an early fatality.

  Ducking inside the canvas flap, Riki took rapid stock. She strode at once to the cot and stripped the dirty bedding from it. No more than a fleeting regret did she spare for not having time to make it up fresh. Belmont, in his present state, wouldn’t care.

  The men laid him down, and Riki slid the pillow beneath his head and tightened his bandage to stop any new onslaught of bleeding caused by moving him. She covered him with the blanket then turned to thank her assistants. They were already gone.

  Satisfied Belmont was as comfortable as possible for the moment, she hurried to Sir Thomas’ tent to ask where she could find a doctor. The man assured her he would send someone as soon as possible, and Riki returned to Belmont’s bedside, wishing there were something—anything!—she could do.

  She passed an anxious morning trying to staunch the flow of blood and praying one minute that he might revive, then contradictorily the next minute that he would remain lost in blissful unconsciousness and not be aware of the pain.

  Not even the magical name of Sir Thomas Picton was able to secure the services of a doctor. So many soldiers had been injured, no one had time to spare for a mere civilian who did not need an arm or a leg ruthlessly hacked off. She was on her own.

  Riki remained at Belmont’s side, changing the pads and keeping them tight until at last the blood slowed to a sluggish flow then stopped almost completely. His forehead burned to the touch. Riki went to the entrance of the tent and waylaid the first person she could stop, a strange little man of uncouth accents but clean appearance whom she suspected to be a dead officer’s personal groom.

  This individual, who gave his name as Menchen, seemed glad to be pressed into service. He brought her water, and together they sponged down the viscount’s fiery skin.

  That drew a low groan from Belmont and his eyelids slowly rose. “Riki?” he murmured, her name barely intelligible.

  She gripped his hand tightly. “Don’t talk.”

  “Safe,” he muttered, and she knew he spoke about her, not himself.

  She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it fervently.

  A slight cough brought her attention to Menchen, who held out a cup to her. While he supported the viscount, Riki held the water to his lips. Belmont managed a sip before his eyes closed once more and he slept.

  Toward the early afternoon, Menchen slipped out of the tent. Probably in search of food, Riki thought, surprised to discover she was hungry. But she wasn’t about to leave Belmont’s side. When Menchen returned, though, he not only brought bread and cheese with him but also a doctor. Riki almost fell upon the man’s neck in gratitude.

  The doctor, obviously exhausted himself, helped Menchen to remove Belmont’s coat. He then unfastened Riki’s makeshift bandage and tore the fine linen cloth of his shirt from the wound. He gave it a cursory exam, then produced a satchel of instruments.

  “If he wakes up, give him a shot of this,” the doctor declared, handing Riki a bottle of brandy.

  She stared at it, horrified.

  “Hold him down,” he ordered Menchen.

  The man complied with a determination that startled Riki, but a moment later she saw the need. Even in his weakened condition, Belmont was a strong man. She was forced to aid Menchen before the doctor finished extracting the bullet, and Belmont’s sharp exclamation and the trembling of his tensed muscles beneath her gripping hands brought a beading sweat to her brow. What it did to Belmont, she didn’t want to think.

  “Give him the brandy,” the doctor directed.

  Riki did, with shaking hands, filling the cup and encouraging Belmont to swallow enough to deaden any pain. By the time he’d drained the cup, the doctor had dusted the wound with a heavy coating of basilicum powder and strapped him up with a new bandage. Menchen eased their patient back onto the pillows.

  “Nothing vital’s been touched,” the doctor remarked as he stuffed his instruments away without washing them.

  Riki bit back her shocked protest. They didn’t know about bacteria and germs yet, she reminded herself. She cast an anxious glance at Belmont. More patients died of infection and shock than of the actual wounds, as she remembered. Dear God, what she wouldn’t give for a good shot of penicillin or even some sulfa powder. If it would do any good, she’d gladly boil water to sterilize something, but the damage had already been done. For that matter, wasn’t alcohol bad for a man in his condition? Something about a fever? Damn, why can’t I remember more about first aid?

  Belmont’s ragged breath reclaimed her attention from frantic longing to the immediate necessities. She smoothed the bed to make him more comfortable—if possible. His skin felt so hot and dry it alarmed her, and she sent Menchen for more water.

  The doctor returned in the early evening, looking even more exhausted than before. He checked the wound, said all was as well as could be expected, then produced a small cup and a knife from his bag.

  “What is that?” Riki asked, alarmed.

  “I’m going to cup him.” He began removing Belmont’s shirt.

  “Cup him? You mean bleed him? No!”

  The doctor eased the shirt off the broad shoulders and down Belmont’s arms. “Best thing for him.” His forced joviality betrayed his weariness.

  “No.” Riki simply placed herself between the man and his intended victim. “He’s lost too much blood already and the brandy has put him in a high fever.”

  “He needs cupping.” The man tried to put Riki aside.

  She held her ground. “No. It…it’s a new medical theory that has been put into practice in America,” she improvised. “They have proved cupping isn’t as good as has been thought.”

  “America, is it?” The doctor’s derisive snort showed what he thought of ex-colonials. “Let me—”

  “I’m sure you have other patients who need you. Let him be for this night. If he is worse by morning, you may cup him then.” She could only pray he’d be better.

  This compromise proved acceptable to the doctor but he still took his leave of her with much the air of one shaking the dust from his sandals. With a shuddering sigh, Riki returned to her chair beside the bed.

  Belmont passed a restless night, tossing on the cot, mumbling in a delirium produced from the cumulative effects of fever, pain and brandy. Riki alternated between mopping his brow with cooling damp cloths and holding him tight, trying to still his thrashings. When he at last became calmer, she began a steady, soothing monologue until he drifted back into an easier sleep. She fell silent and finally nodded off herself, his hand cradled between her own in her lap.

  She awoke stiff to an eerie light she finally identified as dawn. Menchen was no longer in the tent, having returned to his own quarters. The hand she still held felt no more than warm.

  That brought her more fully awake. Belmont’s breathing came steadily and more deeply. She touched his forehead and found it no longer burned. Succumbing to temptation, she ran a finger along his rough, stubbly cheek.

  She had work to do. Going outside, she encountered her neighbor’s batman already astir, with a fire started and water almost at a boil in a kettle. She begged a cupful, then returned to her patient. Drawing back the blanket, she gazed at the bare chest covered in dark curling hair and knew the impulse to bury her face in that tickling mass and breathe the scent that would be so uniquely Belmont. That, she promised herself fervently, she could—and would—do late
r, when he was awake and well enough to share the experience.

  She turned her attention to unfastening the bandage while disturbing him as little as possible. The bullet had caught him as he swung sideways with her, and it had torn a long gash through the skin before lodging itself against a lower rib. He was lucky. It might so easily have struck some vital organ.

  The wound, when she exposed it, looked horrible to her. Steeling her nerve, she probed the edges with a cloth dipped in the still-steaming water.

  He stirred and opened his eyes. “Wha—Riki?”

  “It’s all right, Gil. The wound looks clean.” Tenderly, she brushed the lank pepper-and-salt hair off his forehead and dropped a kiss there instead. “Let me change the bandage.”

  He fell silent, obviously exhausted by the effort of speech. When a fresh pad was in place and tied to her satisfaction, she drew the blanket back over him.

  “What happened?” His eyes remained closed but he reached out to her.

  She took his hand and sank into her chair. “You were shot in the ribs. The doctor has removed the bullet and I refused to let him bleed you.”

  He began a shaky laugh but broke it off. “Good girl.” He said nothing for a long while, but just as she thought he had gone back to sleep, he spoke again. “Warwick?”

  “I don’t know.” She kissed his fingers, simply because they were there. “If you’re all right for a moment, I’ll see about getting you something to eat.”

  He made no protest, which she considered to be a good sign. She emerged once more from the tent, to the welcome sight of Menchen coming toward her with a small earthenware bowl in his hands. His sharp-featured face cracked into an oddly uneven smile.

  “‘Ow’s ‘is lordship this mornin’?”

  “Much better, he’s awake. Is that food? Menchen, you’re a treasure.”

  “Yes miss.” He grinned lopsidedly at her from beneath his shock of graying brown hair. “Gruel.”

  She laughed, and knew it was from relief and exhaustion. “He’ll hate us both for that. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  The little man looked embarrassed. “I’ll be back later if you need me.”

  “Oh yes, please. His lordship will want the services of a man, I’m certain.”

  Menchen nodded in commiseration and hurried about his morning business. He was back before Riki had managed to spoon more than a dozen mouthfuls of what Belmont termed “that foul concoction” into her patient. With him, Menchen brought a wooden box and a tray laden with cheese, bread and coffee.

  Riki didn’t bother to ask where he had found such welcome fare. She retreated outside to have a few mouthfuls herself and felt considerably better for it.

  The doctor, upon his arrival, grudgingly admitted Belmont was no worse for his not having been bled. The wound progressed as well as might be expected, he agreed, and he took his leave to visit patients less recalcitrant about receiving his prescribed treatments.

  Riki returned once more outside while Menchen tended to the viscount. When she at last reentered the tent, Belmont looked considerably more human. The wooden box lay open still, revealing its contents to be shaving tackle and brushes. Belmont’s chin had indeed been scraped, albeit not quite expertly, and his hair, though still lank from fever, had been combed into some semblance of its usual order.

  Belmont greeted Riki with a feeble but definite, “Menchen has joined our service.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. He’s been wonderful.”

  The little man flushed with pleasure and busied himself with putting things away.

  Riki returned to her seat beside the bed. “Are you more comfortable?”

  He nodded, though weakly. “Need to know what happened to Warwick.”

  Riki glanced at the former groom and decided he’d do. Giving him the name of the lieutenant who had served as their escort and guard the morning before, she sent Menchen to discover what he could.

  Once more the man proved his worth. He returned an hour later with the information that both Warwick and one of the French officers had simply disappeared and must have gotten out of the city. No trace of either had been discovered anywhere, and though the soldiers who had plundered the city would not have looked for him, there were enough officers who had inspected the prisoners who had been alerted to the importance of this one traitor. If he had been among them, he would already have been found.

  Belmont received the news with an impassive countenance. Riki eyed his seeming calm with grave misgivings. “You can’t go after David,” she informed him.

  “I have to!” But the weakness of his voice told a different tale.

  Riki looked him over and decided it was time for a little gentle subterfuge. “If you’ll try to sleep for a bit, Menchen will ride to Elvas and retrieve our baggage. I’ll speak to Sir Thomas myself about sending out search parties for David.”

  Belmont nodded, and she guessed he had only half taken in what she said. She left him to rest and Menchen departed on his errand.

  The information she received satisfied her very well. Small scout parties would be sent out immediately, Sir Thomas promised, though he didn’t hold out much hope for results. Neither did Riki but at the moment she didn’t mind. After repeating several times that it was imperative to capture David Warwick alive if at all possible, she returned to the tent to try for a few hours of sleep herself.

  This she managed with surprising success. When she awakened at last, Menchen had not only returned with their luggage but had managed once more to procure a meal for them. Blessing the happy occurrence that had brought the little man to them, Riki fed Belmont a chicken broth with soaked bread, then settled down to her own meal.

  Belmont lapsed back into sleep and Riki took the opportunity of changing out of Hillary’s much-crumpled clothes and into one of her dresses purchased in Lisbon. She could also use a bath. She glanced at Belmont, whose steady breathing assured her he would not readily rouse. She then secured the tent for such privacy as could be arranged and stripped off her soiled garments. A quick sponge-off in tepid water was the best she could manage but it felt like heaven. She dried herself briskly on a towel, then donned her few undergarments and chemise. From her valise, she pulled the light woolen gown, shook it out, then glanced at Belmont.

  He was watching her. Warm color suffused her cheeks. “Y-you’re awake,” she stammered.

  He nodded slowly, his steady gaze not leaving her. “A gentleman should leave at this juncture.” His tone held no trace of apology but more than a little longing.

  She laid the dress over the top of the case and went to him, taking the hands he held out to her. Emotion welled within her, so powerful she could no longer deny it.

  “I love you, Gil,” she whispered. No embarrassment accompanied the words. Only a vast relief filled her that he was alive to hear them.

  His breath caught in his throat and he pulled her down, grasping the back of her neck to bring her mouth against his. It was a gentle kiss at best, and he released her all too soon, his hand dropping weakly back to the bed.

  “What a…a damnable thing to say to a man in my condition.”

  She laughed, albeit shakily, and sank onto the chair at his side. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t suit your convenience, my lord.”

  “It suits me perfectly.” A rueful, boyish smile touched his lips. “I just wish I could do something about it. It feels so mawkish to just lie here like some great, useless lump while I tell you the earth stood still when I first saw you.” He drew another breath, resting from the effort of the words. “You’re the part of me I’ve been searching for all my life.”

  “It doesn’t sound mawkish to me in the least.” Riki kissed his brow, then his lips, which were still dry from the fever.

  The flame that lit his dark eyes belied his weakness. For several blissful moments she forgot everything except the feel of his roughened hands on the bare skin of her shoulders.

  She kissed the hollow at the base of his throat where the dark cu
rls began, and a groan broke from him, though not of pain. His lips sought hers and her hands roamed across that broad, hairy chest, reveling in the firmness of muscle. Then her wandering fingers encountered his bandage, and his murmurings stopped abruptly as his entire body tensed.

  She released him at once, anguish filling her. “I only cause you pain,” she whispered. “Just look at the suffering you’ve gone through because of me!”

  “Riki—”

  She cut him off, tears filling her eyes. “If David and I hadn’t invaded your world… If we’d never come, you wouldn’t have been in such danger!” And she’d never have experienced this hopeless, devastating love. “I don’t belong here,” she cried in agony, knowing it to be the truth. Half blinded, she pulled away and dragged on her dress.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the time Riki had mastered her trembling hands enough to fasten her gown, she had herself somewhat under control. She might not be able to stay with Belmont forever, but she had a little time left at least, and she intended to make the most of it. She turned back to the bed and saw that his eyes were closed, but an expression of such unhappiness lingered on his face that she knew he couldn’t be asleep.

  She kneeled beside him and took his hand tightly in her own. “Gil?”

  He turned his head on the pillow to gaze into her eyes. “I love you, Riki. How can I lose you?”

  It was his weakness, the trauma of his injury, that caused him to speak so freely, she knew, but that didn’t matter. Hearing those words filled her with a deep happiness she would carry with her forever. “We’ll build a few memories as soon as you’re stronger, I promise,” she whispered.

  “Will there be time?”

  “We’ll make the time.”

  “I’ve never longed for fair weather more.” He managed a weak smile.

  That brought the topic back from its emotional peak, and Riki settled herself for a discussion. “It may take us some little while to find David, you know. Did he see us, do you think?”