Country of the Falcon

by Anne Mather

Declan was coming back and she rubbed her hands quickly against the turf, erasing the traces of blood. Her face was averted and she hoped he would not notice her confusion. But the last thing she could cope with right now was for him to touch her. She didn’t quite know why she felt so strongly about it, but she knew that the shock of seeing the rattlesnake combined with that jarring fall from her horse had left her feeling hopelessly vulnerable. She didn’t want his kindness, his sympathy! The trouble was, she didn’t know what she did want.

  Declan lowered his weight beside her, looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. ‘I suppose I should apologise,’ he said quietly.

  Alexandra’s head jerked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, if I hadn’t ridden off like that, the whole incident might never have happened.’

  She shook her head, looking away from him. ‘Accidents happen. They’re nobody’s fault. If—if I’d been able to control Rosina …’

  ‘No one can control a horse maddened by fear. It was best to let her have her head. A more experienced rider might have avoided being thrown, that’s all.’

  Alexandra bent her head. ‘And I’m not very experienced.’

  ‘I had gathered that.’ Declan frowned. ‘In fact, I’d say you were not experienced at all.’

  Alexandra shrugged, and then wished she hadn’t as her shoulder protested painfully. ‘I—I—horses used to frighten me.’

  Declan’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Used to?’ he chided. ‘I think they still do.’ He shook his head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were nervous?’

  Alexandra flicked a blade of grass from the leg of her jeans. ‘I manage,’ she replied defensively.

  ‘Umm.’ Declan stretched his length lazily, shading his eyes with his arm. ‘Well, perhaps this little incident has taught you that in circumstances like these, one needs to be able to do a little more than just manage!’

  Alexandra moved so that he should not see the blood which she was sure must have stained the shoulder of her shirt. She stared broodingly towards the pool. The prospect of the journey home appalled her, and she wondered with a sense of dread whether he had any other calls to make.

  Declan had closed his eyes, but now they opened to regard her impatiently. ‘Why are you looking so worried?’ he exclaimed. ‘I promise, I won’t ride off and leave you again—no matter what comments you make!’

  Alexandra held up her head. ‘I—I wasn’t thinking about that.’

  ‘Then what were you thinking?’

  She hesitated. ‘Thoughts.’

  He sighed. ‘What thoughts?’

  Alexandra bit her lip. ‘Oh, well, if you must know, I was wondering—I was wondering—–’ She sought about desperately for something to say. ‘—I wondered where the Indians—buried their dead.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Declan sounded sceptical. He sat up, drawing up one knee to rest his arm upon it. ‘Well, they don’t.’

  Alexandra stared at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say. They don’t bury their dead.’

  Alexandra, to whom this had been just a flash of inspiration, was now totally involved. ‘What do they do, then?’

  Declan shrugged. ‘There are various rituals, but being buried is, to an Indian, a barbarous act. Dead bodies are usually exposed in trees until the bones are picked clean, or burned. The dry bones are crushed afterwards to powder and mixed with something like mashed banana and eaten.’

  Alexandra felt sick. ‘Eaten?’

  ‘Yes, eaten. To an Indian the threat of his bones not being consumed condemns him to an afterlife of restless wandering. A sort of unclean spirit, we might say.’

  ‘But—but that’s cannibalism!’ Alexandra made an impotent gesture. ‘How can they?’

  Declan unfastened the buttons of his shirt and rubbed the rough hair on his chest. ‘I guess they’d find some of the things we do pretty peculiar.’

  Alexandra dragged her eyes away from him. His skin was brown and smooth, slightly moist now from the heat of his body. The hair on the back of his neck was damp, too, and clung to his scalp, thick and straight. He made her wholly aware of herself, of her body and its awakening needs, a thing no one else had ever done. It was a new and disturbing experience.

  ‘Aren’t you going to rest?’ he asked, and she was forced to look round at him.

  ‘Oh, I—I am resting,’ she stammered.

  His eyes darkened suddenly, and his jaw was taut. ‘Stop it, Alexandra,’ he ground out harshly.

  ‘Stop what? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ His eyes dropped meaningfully to the opened vee of her shirt. ‘I don’t think your father would approve.’

  ‘You’re imagining things!’ Alexandra’s cheeks burned. ‘Can’t I even look at you?’

  Declan sighed. ‘Not like that. No.’

  Alexandra hunched her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Declan uttered a harsh imprecation. ‘What is it you want, Alexandra? Experimentation—or experience?’

  She looked down at her knees. ‘I’ve had experiences with men!’ she declared defensively.

  ‘Have you? Like you’ve had experience with horses, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Her eyes were stormy. ‘I’m not a child, you know.’

  ‘Aren’t you? And do you want me to prove that?’

  She trembled. ‘How?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘It seems to me that there is only one way.’ His hand curved over the nape of her neck under her hair. ‘Come here.’

  Alexandra’s throat felt choked. The feel of his fingers against her neck was a tantalising pleasure, and she moved her shoulders to increase the awareness, not really feeling the pain at that moment. He moved closer to her, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her ear as his other hand cupped her throat and slid down over the shirt, his knuckles lingering against her breasts so that she had the irresistible urge to press herself against him. His hands gripped her waist, turning her towards him, and her eyes flickered upward to his, her lips parting invitingly.

  ‘God, no!’

  His abrupt rejection of her was absolute. He sprang to his feet, pushing her away from him so roughly that she fell back against the sleeping bag. Her groan of agony was unmistakable, arresting his attention when he was about to stride away from her. His eyes narrowed, and he turned uncomprehendingly, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he demanded in harsh disbelief.

  Alexandra couldn’t answer him. The stinging pain in her shoulder was causing the tears to well up in her eyes, rolling unheeded down her pale cheeks. She lay there mutely, moving her head slowly from side to side, but he did not believe her. He came down beside her, his eyes dark with anger.

  ‘What in hell is the matter?’ he swore. ‘What did I do?’ He caught her by the shoulders, enraged enough to shake the truth out of her, and she whimpered in anguish.

  A dawning understanding drew his dark brows together. He could feel the sticky dampness beneath his fingers. With his teeth clamped fiercely together he gently rolled her over and saw the darkening stain just above her left shoulder-blade.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he exhorted savagely. ‘My God, haven’t I asked you to tell me if you so much as scratch yourself, and you were going to hide this!’

  ‘I—I wasn’t. I’d have told you—–’

  He turned her on to her side. ‘When?’ He began unbuttoning her shirt, pushing aside her protesting fingers.

  ‘When—when we got back.’

  He drew her shirt off her shoulder, taking care not to pull the torn skin more than was necessary. ‘Why not now?’

  Alexandra made a helpless movement of her hand, overwhelmingly conscious of his nearness. ‘I—I didn’t want you to touch me,’ she admitted, too disturbed to dissemble.

  He tipped his head to look at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you know that, too?’ she asked bitterly.

  Hi
s eyes darkened and without another word he got to his feet and walked across to where his horse was standing beneath the trees. He took his pack from the saddlebag and brought it back to where she was lying, opening it and taking out some salve and a pad of lint. Then he knelt beside her again, cleaning the scrape with spirit before applying the salve. Alexandra flinched only once, when the spirit stung her flesh, but then lay obediently while he applied the salve and fastened the pad of lint in position with strips of plaster. Then he drew her shirt back into position and fastened the buttons.

  Alexandra let him do as he willed. She felt totally incapable of any sensible speech, and there was an awful sense of inadequacy sinking her stomach. What must he be thinking of her? she thought dispiritedly. And what of this would he tell her father when Professor Tempest and his assistant returned to Paradiablo? Declan sat on the sleeping bag beside her, putting the tube of salve, the spirit and the roll of plaster back into his pack. Then he tossed the leather satchel aside and looked down at her.

  ‘Does that feel better?’ he asked.

  Alexandra nodded, pushing herself up. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘I—I suppose I ought to apologise now.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘That’s not necessary.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She looked sideways at him. ‘Will you tell my father?’

  He sighed, running a hand over the hair at the back of his neck. ‘No.’

  She couldn’t leave it. ‘I thought you would.’

  ‘Why?’ He sounded as though she was beginning to annoy him again.

  ‘I—I just thought—as you find me so—so infuriating …’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You didn’t have to say anything.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘You can even—you can even take—take my clothes off without it meaning anything to you!’

  ‘Stop talking such bloody drivel!’ he snapped angrily. ‘What would you have had me do? You’d have been scared out of your wits if I’d so much as touched you!’

  ‘I wouldn’t!’ She was indignant.

  ‘Look, Alexandra, I don’t know if this is some sort of game you play at that school of yours, but I’m warning you I’m no schoolboy, and much more of this and you’ll land yourself in deep trouble.’ He was glaring furiously at her as he spoke but something in her expression tempered his anger. ‘Oh, Alexandra, you’re a beautiful girl. Okay, I know it. In a couple of years your father will have every male in the district beating a path to your door to contend with, but right now—–’

  ‘Right now?’

  He stared into her eyes. ‘Right now—right now—–’ He gave a grimace of self-disgust. ‘Oh, God, Alexandra, I’m only human!’

  He captured one of her hands and raised it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the palm with urgent insistence. She allowed her fingers to move against his cheek, and he drew them down on to his chest. His hand cupped her throat, his thumb tipping back her head. He lowered his mouth to her cheek and she felt a ripple of anticipation slide up her spine. Then his mouth moved across her soft skin until it covered hers, and all previous sexual encounters were as nothing compared to the tumult he aroused in her. His mouth hardened as he felt her response, his lips forcing hers apart as he bore her back against the sleeping bag, the weight of his body both a pleasure and a pain.

  He kissed her many times, long, urgent kisses that weakened her resistance, destroyed any defence she might try to raise against him. Declan was no inexperienced teenager, he was a man, a man moreover committed to showing her exactly how dangerous loveplay could be. His mouth was hard and passionate, his caresses sent her senses spinning, and the evidence of his desire in the hard strength of his thighs was a potent stimulant.

  Lethargy was creeping over her. They were so beautifully isolated here, they might have been in a world of their own. The only sounds were those of the birds and the insects, and occasionally the distant grunt of a forest animal. These forests had been here for a hundred million years, unmarked by the glaciers which had destroyed the northern hemisphere, and no doubt they would be here long after the world as she knew it had passed away. It was like a time out of mind, without past or future …

  Her body yielded beneath his, inviting his possession, but when his fingers touched the button at the waistband of her trousers she couldn’t go through with it. With a little cry, she pushed his hand away, and he rolled on to his back to cover his forehead with his arms.

  His eyes were closed and Alexandra clenched her fists impotently. It was no good. He was right, she was inexperienced, and while some yearning part of her system longed for his possession, that foolish, childish inhibition thrust itself between them.

  She wanted desperately to tell him how she felt, to explain that she was not the prude he must be thinking her, but when she put out a tentative hand and touched his firm midriff he jack-knifed into a sitting position, pushing her hand away. He hunched his shoulders, his legs drawn up, in a position of complete exhaustion. Then, after a minute, he straightened and said: ‘Get up. We’re leaving.’

  Alexandra opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. What was the use? But she had to try. ‘I’m—I’m sorry,’ she ventured.

  He looked at her with cold mockery as he got to his feet. ‘I’m not.’

  She raised dull eyes to his. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I never intended to seduce you, little girl!’ he retorted, and his smile was not pleasant. ‘If I had, you wouldn’t have been able to stop me!’

  ‘But—but—–’ She scrambled to her feet. ‘You—you were—well, you tried to—–’

  He turned away. ‘I just wanted to see how far that veneer of experience would take you,’ he replied scornfully.

  ‘I—I see.’ Alexandra felt totally humiliated. ‘I—I think you’re despicable!’

  He gave her a resigned stare. ‘Put on your hat and get on your horse, and next time you want to play games, find someone of your own weight!’

  The journey back to Paradiablo was conducted almost completely in silence. Alexandra was too absorbed with her own thoughts to speak and Declan seemed wholly remote. They rode back through the shallower slopes of the valley, seldom leaving the shade of the trees until the sun began to slide down the sky. Then they mounted the track out of the valley, crossed the ridge and began the descent down to the ravine where the paths forked.

  It was almost dark when they reached the house, circling it to reach the rear entrance. The dogs were barking excitedly, able to hear their approach long before anyone else, but the stableboy was there to open the gates.

  Declan dismounted with lithe, easy grace, making a fuss of the dogs, his good humour apparently restored. Alexandra climbed down more slowly. The long day had taken its toll of her and she felt as though she ached in every bone. She thought longingly of a bath and bed in that order, and she was quite prepared to suffer Declan’s sarcasm to achieve them. She walked ahead of him along the side of the house, unconsciously inhaling the fragrance of the night-blooming stocks, and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Clare Forman lounging in a chair on the verandah. Oh, no, she thought wearily, not tonight!

  But there was no mistaking the other girl’s flaming hair, and conscious of Declan not far behind her, Alexandra went on with infinite reluctance. Then she saw that Clare was not alone. A thin, fair-haired man was sitting beside her, a pale-faced man with a gentle, almost ascetic manner. Alexandra did not have to be told that this was the Reverend David Forman.

  Clare saw her first and a strange, questioning look crossed her face as her eyes took in Alexandra’s somewhat dishevelled appearance, the tangled disorder of her hair.

  ‘Well, well,’ she remarked mockingly, ‘you’ve had quite a day, haven’t you?’

  Hearing his wife’s voice, David Forman got to his feet and came to the verandah rail. His smile was reassuringly warming. ‘You must be Alexandra,’ he said, holding out his hand to help her up the steps. ‘I’m David Forman, Clare’s husband.�
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  Alexandra allowed him to assist her and came up beside them as Declan appeared round the side of the house. He seemed not at all perturbed to find that he had two unexpected visitors, and it was Clare this time who got out of her seat to welcome him.

  ‘We’ve invited ourselves for supper, darling,’ she informed him, with unconcealed intimacy. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Really, Clare, that’s not true.’ Apparently David Forman was less willing to accept reluctant hospitality, but Declan shook his head amiably.

  ‘That’s all right, Dave, honestly,’ he smiled, shaking the other man’s hand. ‘How are you? It must be over a week since I’ve seen you.’

  David smiled in return. ‘Oh, I’m fine, Declan. And you?’ He glanced round at Alexandra. ‘I’ve been introducing myself to your guest.’

  Declan’s eyes flickered over Alexandra enigmatically. ‘Have you?’ His eyes moved on to David. ‘We’ve just spent the day in the Dariba valley.’

  Clare pouted. ‘But why didn’t you tell me, Declan? I’d have loved to have joined you!’

  Declan shrugged. ‘Now, Clare, you’re not that keen on visiting old Rubez’ village. Besides, I thought you said you and Dave were going over to Maracuja.’

  ‘We did,’ put in David, offering Alexandra his chair which she politely refused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you from there.’

  ‘Really, David, can’t you wait until after we’ve eaten?’ Clare exclaimed impatiently.

  Declan ignored her. ‘Go on,’ he commanded quietly.

  ‘Well—–’ David looked apologetically towards Alexandra. ‘It’s yellow fever, Declan. I don’t know how badly the village is infected, but …’ he shrugged, ‘it’s there.’

  Declan threw down his pack of equipment and felt around in his pockets for his cheroots. Putting one between his teeth, he said: ‘You’re sure?’

  David sighed. ‘It was old Juan Meres, Declan. He must be all of sixty years old. The family were quite prepared for him to die.’ He shook his head. ‘He’d been ill, you see. The usual aches and pains. Nothing to indicate …’ He hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. ‘I was talking with him. He had a fever, but he was quite lucid. Then he vomited.’ He lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘There was blood—–’