Falconer's Heart Page 4

  That almost buried unease resurfaced again. “Even I know that.”

  A lopsided but decidedly charming smile just touched his lips. “I am far more familiar with the earlier battles and campaigns.” He came toward her, pausing before the table labeled “Torres Vedras, winter 1808-1809”.

  She joined him, and together they examined the painted plaster-of-Paris terrain of Portugal. In loving detail, David had recreated the line of mountains that stretched across the peninsula. Walls were carefully constructed between the peaks, with openings left for the heavy artillery that aimed down into the valley below, discouraging a French siege. Miniature figures, carefully colored to represent the uniforms of the diverse armies, held strategic positions.

  “It’s exactly as I—as I imagined it.” Belmont bent down. “There are even Portuguese cacadores. Lord, they were the surliest—” He broke off. Turning abruptly, he looked about, then crossed to the table bearing the label “Fuentes de Onoro, May 3-5, 1811”. He stood in silence for a very long time.

  Riki remained where she was, frowning. His odd manner bothered her, yet she wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. Whatever he might be, he wasn’t dangerous. Well, not in any violent way at least. His danger for her lay in a very different vein—despite his peculiarities. She’d been alone too much, that was the problem.

  “I’ve kept everything exactly the way David left it,” she said, feeling the need to distract her attention from the muscular back in that tightly stretched rust sweater. And as for the jeans! “He sealed up each ‘should have been’ dome when he managed to get the greatest French advantage.”

  “Have you noticed how similar these two are?” Belmont still stood before Fuentes de Onoro. “Look here. The only difference is on the fifth of May, where Craufurd’s Light Division was forced to withdraw. Your cousin has Massena pressing the advantage and following through, taking the British. In actuality, Massena let them retreat and attacked Fuentes instead and was defeated himself.”

  “Oh?” She regarded him askance. He claimed not to be a war-gamer, but he sure knew what had happened at that battle! There weren’t any labels on anything giving the generals’ names.

  He wandered on, examining the other domes, paying particular attention to the final battles of the war. Riki trailed after him, more interested in his reactions than in the battle scenes, which she had seen any number of times. She had spent a great deal of time in here after David’s death. It had brought him closer to her, somehow.

  At last he turned his attention to the prints on the walls. A British dragoon atop a showy bay caught his attention. He glanced down at his jeans and sweater, shook his head, then moved on. He stopped suddenly before a photograph.

  “My God! That’s a clever likeness. That can’t be a painting!”

  She looked over his shoulder. “Of course not. It’s a photo. You know, camera? Those are some of his gaming friends. David’s in the next one.”

  Belmont turned to it and Riki felt him tense. He remained silent for more than a minute.

  “David Warwick,” he breathed.

  “Yes, I thought you must know him. Is your memory coming back, now?” A wave of relief washed over her. “That must have been a nasty blow you got to your head. I’m so glad you’re better.”

  He spun about to face her, and she took an involuntary step back, bumping into a table. “Your cousin. But he’s my assistant.”

  Apparently he still needed humoring. She managed a nonchalant shrug. “Probably. Which general were you?”

  “I wasn’t a general, damn it, but I was a major before I sold out. I wintered with Wellesley at Torres Vedras.” He pointed at the dome. “And my brother fought at Fuentes de Onoro.” He gestured to the scene, then swung back to face the framed photograph. “And David Warwick is my junior assistant in Whitehall—in the War Office, to be exact. And the date isn’t twenty-whatever-it-is, it’s 1812!”

  “I don’t think that’s funny.”

  The dark eyes he turned on her burned with his raging thoughts but showed no sign of insanity. He paced along the wall, looking at the other photos and prints. At the far end of the room, he stopped.

  “Your cousin isn’t dead. He was very much alive when I left him two days ago—in 1812.”

  “I said that isn’t funny.”

  He strode up to her and Riki backed away until she collided with the wall. The door stood open but several feet to her left. His broad shoulders rose and fell, his chest expanding to the limits of the sweater as he drew one deep breath after another. She watched, mesmerized. Like a rabbit with a snake, the thought drifted through her mind.

  “You said he drowned in a lightning storm two years ago, did you not?”

  She nodded.

  “And David Warwick—he is an American, like you?”

  Again she nodded, not risking speech.

  “Yes, an American. He came to my office in Whitehall and offered his services in late November of 1809. I’d just started there myself, after selling out.” He stared at the prints on the wall behind her, unseeing. “He said he had inside information on French strategy, and Bathurst listened to him, then took him on.”

  “Bathurst?” Her voice almost squeaked but she controlled it.

  “Our Secretary of War. I don’t suppose your cousin disappeared in October or November, by any chance?”

  “He—yes. It was the first week of November.” She gazed up at him, caught up in his growing excitement.

  “My God!” He whispered the words with all due reverence. “You see what happened, do you not? He must have been transported back in time, the same way I have just been brought forward!”

  Chapter Three

  Riki broke away from Belmont, but stopped in the doorway. “Quit playing your games!”

  “Games, is it?” Belmont reached into the incredibly tight jeans pocket and drew out a sealed oilskin packet. He hesitated, then broke it open, yanked out the single sheet it contained and thrust it at her. “Look at the signatures. Don’t bother with the orders, they’re in code. But they’re meant for Wellington in Torres Vedras.”

  Hesitantly, she accepted the paper. It felt odd, like a parchment. The writing was distinctly old-fashioned, spidery thin yet perfectly formed. The words made no sense. She looked down at the signatures. Three looked similar, in that same, old-fashioned spidery style. The fourth stood out like a sore thumb. She’d recognize David’s sloppy hand anywhere.

  “You…you gamers really go in for realism, don’t you?” She handed the sheet back. “Can you buy these things at your supply stores?”

  He almost snatched it from her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “That you and David switched places in time? Of course, I don’t! It’s ridiculous! You’re carrying this joke too far and I don’t like it!”

  He stuffed the sheet into its pouch and restored it to the pocket. “That’s why everything’s so strange—why you’re so strange.” He spoke more to himself than to her, and ignored her indignant gasp. “It’s the only explanation.”

  “Will you quit this pointless pretending?” She spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Madam.” He regarded her with serious eyes. “I would if I could. But this is no game of your cousin’s devising. Somehow I must discover how to return to my own time—and return your cousin to his.”

  Riki turned on her heel and left him. Why did he have to sound so sincere? And why did he have to raise the hope within her that David was still alive? That was even more unforgivable than the rest of his teasing. She had been closer to her cousin than to her own two sisters when they were all children.

  She returned to the living room, threw several more logs onto the fire, then curled up in her favorite chair with her knitting. If she concentrated very hard on the intricate cable and popcorn stitch pattern, she might be able to force her unwanted guest from her thoughts.

  Gilbert Randall, Viscount Belmont, watched the petite figure, rigid with anger, stalk away. He couldn’t blame her.
The whole idea was preposterous.

  He leaned against the doorjamb and closed his eyes. The side of his head still ached. He’d dismiss this whole experience as the dream of an obviously disordered intellect, except that not even in his wildest imaginings could he have created the wonders he had seen in this cottage.

  He looked back at the rows of tables, with their domes that looked so much like glass yet felt different to the touch. Badajoz, he repeated to himself. Salamanca. Waterloo. He’d take notes—copious ones—before he began his search for a way home.

  On impulse, he returned to the kitchen and once more opened the bottom door on that strange contraption she had called a “fridge”. Or had that been “frigid”? How did she get it to stay so cold in there? That was actually ice in those trays! And those white wrapped packages contained meats, already cut into small portions. Just like the mice and gophers in the similar contraption in the aviary.

  A soft whir startled him. It came from this “frigid”. He frowned, closed the door, but the noise continued. He waited, watching, until it stopped. He opened it again and the odd humming began almost at once.

  He turned his attention to the box his reluctant hostess called a “microwave”. He liked the light that came on without candles and the musical bell that sounded when it went out. The fact that it made frozen food warm was merely an additional delight. His brother Hillary would be in alt over it.

  He flipped the overhead light on and off several times, then dragged a chair over and climbed up on it to examine the odd bit of glass that shone. It was hot to the touch. Not a trace of wax or oil or even the slight odor of the coal gas that had begun to fill the streets of London at night. He shook his head, marveling. In future—if he succeeded in getting home—he would attend the lectures at the Royal Academy of Sciences with extreme interest.

  He jumped to the tiled floor and discovered a number of his muscles still protested from his forced swim. Had the others made it to safety? He’d give a great deal to know. When the whirlpool had opened up before the yawl, the officer who’d accompanied him and two of the sailors had dived overboard. The other sailor had followed only moments before lightning struck the mast. Belmont closed his eyes, and a vision of the glowing luminescence that had danced along his body returned to haunt him. It hadn’t touched the others—of that he was certain. They had swum clear—to safety, he was almost sure—before the boat had been drawn down into that whirling vortex of water.

  What he needed right now was a good night’s sleep. He’d probably wake up in his own bed in his house on Half Moon Street. Either that or he’d find himself on the yawl and discover this was naught but a disordered nightmare of mal de mer, caused by the pitching of the boat in the storm that had blown up out of nowhere.

  At any rate, he would not be remiss in his manners. He would say good night to that lovely illusion who was his hostess before seeking his couch. And that, he hoped, would be the end of this whole impossible affair.

  In the doorway to her drawing room—living room, had she called it?—he paused. If this were indeed a dream, he had certainly created the ideal female to populate it. She sat curled in her overstuffed chair, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her delicate frame enveloped in the massive folds of her huge knitted shirt. Her smooth, thick hair glowed with red highlights amidst the dark, satiny brown, reflecting the light from the odd lantern at her side.

  She looked down, studying the knitting that hung from needles held in delicate hands. Her eyes dominated her face, he decided. Lovely eyes, of an appealing gray, he remembered, though he could not see them now. He did notice the slight bump on the bridge of her nose, as if it had been broken at one time, and the sprinkling of freckles across her cheek.

  Freckles. Now, why did the simpering misses of society strive so hard to remove those delightful marks and call them blights? He liked the effect. In fact he would like very much to kiss one of them. The one on the side of her nose, perhaps. And if he were to think of kisses, he could not ignore those lovely, full lips.

  Abruptly he turned away, abandoning his intention of bidding her a correct and formal goodnight. The way his thoughts were taking him, he’d behave with shocking impropriety. He could not so take advantage of a defenseless female, alone in her own home, when she had taken him in to shelter him from a storm.

  Resolutely he made his way upstairs and to the room she had told him to use. His clothes still hung in what she called the “bathroom”. He’d rinsed them out and laid them over the metal bar at the top of the large bathing tub.

  Now, that still fascinated him. When he’d stood under that strange metal thing on the wall she called a shower and started twisting those knobs, he’d been hit by an icy blast that had quickly given way to scalding heat. Judicious—and quick—experimentation had produced a comfortably relaxing temperature in the water that beat down on him. On the whole, an enjoyable invention.

  He turned to the washbasin and watched in amazement as the water gushed out with only the turn of a knob. Wishing he had a toothbrush, he made himself ready for bed as best he could. And while he was at it, he’d give a great deal for Pervis, his valet. Or even his old batman.

  He peeled off the knitted shirt and strange blue breeches, again marveling at the odd fastening device. Those two metal strips that joined together were far more efficient than buttons—once he’d discovered how they worked.

  He sifted once more through the garments Miss van Hamel had provided for him. Apparently Cousin David had not left any nightwear behind. Feeling self-conscious at wearing nothing, he climbed quickly between warm, fuzzy sheets and pulled up the thick, soft coverlet.

  He had nothing to complain about in his accommodations, he decided. He’d suffered far worse at posting houses. The storm raged on outside his window, but he remained warm and dry inside, enveloped by the pleasant aromas of roses and violets that wafted from a bowl of dried petals and leaves on the lace-covered chest of drawers. No damp sheets, no fireplaces that gushed smoke, no inferior tallow candles to add their unpleasant odor to the room. And hot water—and other luxuries—readily at hand. Considering he’d been shipwrecked, he had come through amazingly well.

  He closed his eyes, but this time it wasn’t visions of the whirlpool or lightning that haunted him. Instead he saw Miss Erika van Hamel, knitting quietly in her chair, the picture of peace and serene beauty. So very fragile, yet brave to climb those slippery, sheer rocks for her falcon. Her huge gray eyes kindled and burned, reflecting her every emotion…

  He groaned at the stirrings in his groin, and rolled over. For his peace of mind—for his sense of honor!—he couldn’t allow this. He forced himself to concentrate on the message he carried to Wellington. At the moment he was approximately two hundred years too late to deliver it. That thought drifted off in a dreamy haziness as exhaustion overcame him.

  Slowly he became aware of the steady beating of rain on the paned window. The grayness of an overcast morning hung about the room, and it took him a few minutes to come fully awake. It must be later than dawn, but the storm prevented any brightness from seeping in through the drawn curtains.

  He rose, pulled these back from the window and stared out over the rock-filled Channel toward Jersey. A streak of lightning sliced through the charcoal clouds, followed by the muffled rumble of thunder. He couldn’t remember an electrical storm lasting this long.

  He turned slowly and examined the unfamiliar chamber. Those odd clothes remained on the chair where he had tossed them the night before. Not a dream, then, as part of him had hoped. His head no longer ached, exhaustion no longer dulled his perspective. This was real. Somehow he had been thrown into the future.

  In the bathroom he found his own clothes, still damp and considerably wrinkled. Definitely, he needed Pervis—though a brief examination of his things showed them to be beyond the talents of even his inestimable man. At a rough guess, they must have shrunk beyond the point of his ever being able to get into them again.

  Leaving his rui
ned garments where they were, he donned the tight blue breeches and the warm rust knitted shirt he’d worn the night before. Barring his man, he could use a stiff brush or two—Pervis would never forgive him for the shocking state of his boots. But at least they were wearable—if stiff and salt-encrusted—and he didn’t have to go downstairs with his feet bare this morning.

  As he neared the kitchen, the sound of off-key whistling reached him. A rather nice tune, if somewhat botched in performance. He entered to find his hostess measuring something brown—ground coffee beans, he realized—into that marvelous machine they had used the night before.

  She looked up and a wary expression entered her eyes. “Good morning. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Did I sleep long?”

  “It’s almost nine.” She shuddered as a flash of lightning outside momentarily brightened the room. Thunder rumbled only a moment later.

  He watched, fascinated, as the contraption hissed and water bubbled down, coming out as coffee in the carafe.

  “Do you like eggs? Not falcon, by the way. I keep chickens.”

  “Yes, thank you.” He watched as she removed several from the fridge and carried them to a counter, where she set about cracking them open and scrambling them. It amazed him that she could cook without fire in the stove, but somehow she managed it by merely turning a few knobs.

  Feeling useless, he opened cupboards until he unearthed plates and pottery tankards. He found silverware in a drawer. Not for the first time, he wondered why she didn’t have servants. It was rather satisfying, though, doing everything for themselves. Much like being back on the Peninsula—though there he’d at least had his batman.

  “There’s orange juice in the fridge. Go ahead and pour some.” She didn’t even look up from the fresh herbs she was chopping.

  That meant finding glassware. This he did, then examined the contents of the fridge, not finding the requisite fruit. “Where—” he began to ask.