Falconer's Heart

by Janice Bennett

  Riki yawned, sat up and tried to focus her tired eyes on the ormolu clock on the mantel. It remained a disobliging blur.

  “What time is it?” She yawned again.

  The maid turned, bobbed a quick curtsy, then hurried over to arrange pillows at Riki’s back. “It’s going on nine o’clock, miss.”

  “Nine? Am I late for breakfast?”

  The maid giggled. “No, miss. His lordship and Miss Felicity were down over an hour ago, but her ladyship never rises before ten.”

  “And Mr. Sylvester?” Riki hoped this didn’t constitute gossiping with the servants. She really had to learn how a household of this era—and this one in particular—operated so she would make no glaring gaffes.

  “He never stirs from his chamber before noon, miss. Nor will Master Hillary nor Lord Linton, arriving as late as they did.”

  “Master Hillary?” That brought Riki fully awake and sitting straight up. “When—did anyone else come with him?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice.

  “Only Lord Linton, miss, who is his lordship’s brother-in-law, being married to Miss Clarissa.”

  Riki suppressed her disappointment and climbed out of the raised bed. At that moment she would have given a great deal for a pair of sheepskin slippers. The floor, in spite of the thick carpet, was cold. The maid helped her into a rather pretty muslin wrapper, then pointed out the bedside tray. Dutifully, Riki sipped the rapidly cooling beverage and took a bite of the flaky, buttery roll.

  Today, she decided, she would remove the bandages from her wrists. The cream supplied by Sir Julian’s housekeeper should relieve the itching caused by the healing. Her face still felt too raw to wash, so she simply made generous use of the soothing contents of the jar.

  The maid, apparently having been assigned the temporary duties of an abigail to Riki as well as her other chores, produced a morning gown of pale-green wool cloth from the wardrobe, along with the corset and a fresh chemise. Riki donned these quickly, along with a pair of Felicity’s slippers. She was anxious to see Belmont. After all, Hillary might have told him when David could be expected to arrive. Almost convinced that was her sole reason for rushing, she accepted the soft woolen shawl the abigail held out, and made her way downstairs.

  To her disappointment, the breakfast parlor to which the butler directed her stood empty. She hesitated in the doorway, then retraced her steps. After the roll and chocolate, she wasn’t particularly hungry at the moment, and a far more urgent desire filled her. She went in search of her host.

  After one false start down a long corridor, she found her way to the Great Hall, where she came to an abrupt halt. Last night she’d just been so glad to get out of the freezing carriage and inside a house that she hadn’t taken in any details beyond the pleasant warmth that surrounded her. This morning, she saw the luxury. The vaulted ceiling, which rose two stories, appeared to have been carved from mahogany. Silk banners and Renaissance tapestries from Italy lined the paneled walls. She walked slowly across the dramatic geometric patterned tiles of green, pink and white marble, then stopped uncertainly near the massive oaken front door.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  She spun about, startled, so silently had Newly approached. “Is his lordship in the library? I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”

  “Down the left corridor, miss. But his lordship is in the rookery.” With due ceremony, he escorted her through a maze of short hallways, through a magnificent ballroom and to a set of French windows that looked out onto a tiled terrace now covered in a light dusting of snow.

  “Down those steps, miss, and through the rose garden. The rookery backs up against the stables. If you would wish, one of the footmen will accompany you.”

  “I think I can manage. Left past the shrubbery?”

  He nodded, and she set forth. It was colder out here than she’d expected and she shivered in her shawl as the icy wind cut through her woolen gown. What she really needed was her nylon windbreaker. And the snow wasn’t doing her silly thin slippers the least bit of good either. She missed her pile-lined waterproof boots. But the thought of talking to Belmont—about David’s arrival, of course—sped her onward.

  She easily located the large cobbled stableyard, surrounded by low stone boxed stalls. The carriage house stood on the far side. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, heating both the barns and the grooms’ quarters. Apparently Belmont’s horses lived as well as did the rest of his household.

  She circled to the far side and found a low structure backed up against the carriage house, sharing the warmth of the fires, she supposed. She opened the door and entered the comfortable interior, which was illuminated by a row of lanterns hung from the beamed ceiling. Hawks were everywhere, some in individual cages, others free to fly at their will.

  Belmont stood at the far end of the aviary, one gauntleted hand raised high. As the door closed behind her, he turned his head to look but otherwise didn’t move. The next moment, Riki saw why.

  A large tiercel swooped and landed on Belmont’s protected wrist, digging in with its sharp talons. With a fluttering of wings, it settled onto the living perch, then cocked its head and regarded the man. Belmont murmured something Riki couldn’t hear and the peregrine rustled its feathers and relaxed.

  Riki took a step closer, not wanting to interrupt their rapport yet drawn by a yearning she couldn’t resist. It was as if they had stepped out of her half-remembered dreams, this strong, noble man and his hawk. A lump welled in her throat at the sheer beauty of their harmony.

  “Now you see my rookery.” His soft tone, almost a caress, invited her to come closer.

  Slowly she trod the length of the room, and the birds nearest cocked their feathered heads and sidled or hopped away. For once she had eyes for only the man. His regard, every bit as piercing as that of his birds, never wavered from her face.

  As she neared, he lowered his gaze to rove over every inch of her in a manner that brought prickling heat to her cheeks. Those dark, brooding eyes glowed as they once more rose to her face, his regard lingering over every feature until he looked into her eyes, which she felt certain must reveal the chaos he created in her.

  He lowered his arm and the indignant peregrine flapped the short distance to a more reliable perch. “I see Felicity has provided very well for you. But it is too cold out here for a mere shawl.”

  Reaching out, he lowered the thick woolen folds from about her head so that they fell across her shoulders. He drew off his gauntlet, cast it aside and gently rearranged the soft warmth about her neck. His controlled tenderness proved too much for Riki. She caught his hand and pressed it against her throat.

  His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then down her slender neck until his fingers brushed the exposed skin at her collarbone. Warm breath fanned her cheek and she gazed into eyes that smoldered with a passion too intense to be denied. Her lids fluttered closed as she went into strong arms that opened only enough to enfold her.

  She had been kissed before, but never like this, never so completely that it encompassed her very soul. She clung to him, meeting his desire with a desperate abandon that would have startled her had reasoning thought been possible. Now she only experienced, and savored the delicious sensations that shot through her, that awakened long-buried yearnings.

  It wasn’t reasonable to want a man this badly, not when she had known him only a few short days. It had to be the unreality of the whole situation, the time gap that would always separate them, that made him irresistibly forbidden fruit. And she couldn’t resist.

  His mouth moved over hers, evoking visions of him joining her in that huge bed in her chamber. She moved even closer until she pressed tightly against him, molding her softer curves against his hard, muscular body. She needed him more than she could say—more, even, than she could understand. It was as if here, in his arms, she’d found something for which she had searched in vain all her life.

  A low groan escaped him and he grasped her shoulders, setti
ng her firmly several inches away. His eyes burned into hers and his breath came more quickly.

  “You’re dangerous,” he whispered.

  “I hope so.” With shaking fingers, she touched his smooth-shaven cheek.

  He removed her hand quickly. “You’re making me forget you’re a lady.” The words sounded strained.

  “From a different time. If we were in the future, in my time—”

  He turned away. “We’re not.” He spoke savagely, through clenched teeth. “We’re in my time, and you—you’ll be returning to yours.” He looked back at her over his shoulder, his expression closed except for the blazing light that illuminated his dark, mysterious eyes. “We have obviously been raised under differing rules.”

  She nodded, understanding all too well. She could act on passions, he could not. They were, as she knew well, worlds apart.

  Tears of frustration threatened to fill her eyes. Gathering the shawl more closely about herself, she turned away. Maybe they weren’t that far apart after all. She wasn’t one to indulge in a brief but passionate affair, no matter how overwhelming her desire. For her, only a lasting relationship would do. And that she could not have with a man who would shortly be separated from her by two hundred years.

  A shout of Belmont’s name sounded from outside, and Riki thought she recognized the voice—Hillary must have awakened. That put her in mind of the ostensible reason she had sought out Belmont in the first place, and she forced her thoughts back to David.

  “Belmont!” Hillary came closer, bellowing loudly enough to send the falcons into a rustling flutter that made Riki think of broody hens.

  “As you may have been told, my brother arrived late last night.” Belmont had his voice, if not the lingering embers in his eyes, under control.

  “I came out to ask you why, and if he had a message from David.”

  Together they started for the door, the awkwardness of the preceding minutes heavy between them.

  “He did. Warwick—” He broke off as Hillary gave tongue once more.

  “Bel—” The cry broke off abruptly, followed immediately by the muffled sound of something heavy falling on the cobblestones.

  Belmont pushed past Riki and threw open the heavy door of the rookery. In the yard beyond, next to the white-frosted shrubbery, a greatcoated shape lay crumpled in the snow, blood oozing sluggishly from a swelling gash on the side of his head.

  Chapter Nine

  Belmont reached his brother in six running steps and fell to one knee on the snow-covered ground at his side. The boy groaned, and Belmont heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. His worst fear removed, he set about discovering how badly Hillary was hurt.

  “Is he—” Riki, breathless, ran up behind him.

  “He’s all right.” He checked his brother’s pulse, just to reassure himself. “But how—” He looked about, searching for something that might have struck him hard enough to knock him unconscious and sharp enough to cause that cut. If Aubrey were here, he’d have suspected snowballs. But Aubrey’s humor, as erratic as it was, did not run to including rocks in his frozen weapons. Sylvester, though—

  “Why would your uncle throw a loaded snowball?” Riki demanded.

  He had been speaking aloud, Belmont realized. “He wouldn’t,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “Besides, Sylvester has the aim of a drunken artilleryman. He can’t hit anything he chooses as target.” Yet Hillary had been struck with something, and with evident intent to do harm. Why?

  “Maybe it was an accident,” Riki suggested, “and he was in fact aiming for something else.”

  “He’d have come to help. And you don’t throw a snowball with a rock inside unless you’re planning to do some damage.”

  A second groan sounded from the victim, and Belmont turned his attention to his brother, who showed definite signs of reviving. Riki placed a small handful of snow against the swelling on the side of the boy’s head, and a moment later Hillary raised a shaky hand to bat it aside.

  “What—” He dragged open his eyes.

  Belmont wasn’t about to plant unfounded suspicions in his brother’s mind. “What did you run into, you young idiot?” he asked with true brotherly spirit.

  Riki glanced at him in surprise and he gave his head a slight shake.

  Hillary struggled into a sitting position and touched his throbbing skull. He stared at the blood on his fingers in disbelief. “Someone hit me!”

  “What makes you think so?” Belmont rested his hand on Hillary’s shoulder, preventing the boy from staggering to his feet.

  His brother ran a hand over his face, dislodging the flakes of snow that clung to his cheek. “I heard something. Someone just behind me in the bushes. I started to turn—” He shook his head slowly. “That’s all I remember.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  Hillary shook his head with less caution this time and winced.

  Belmont’s fingers tightened on Hil’s shoulder for a moment, then he strode over and poked among the straggly line of hawthorn shrubs. Holding back several branches, he bent to peer through. The thin layer of snow on the far side, barely discernible between the thick twigs and leaves, showed signs of being kicked about. Someone must have stood there for some minutes. He continued his survey, and a moment later dragged a two-inch-thick branch about three feet long from under cover. At one end, several dark hairs clung to a sticky purplish-red stain.

  “It seems there was a weapon,” he said slowly.

  Someone must have been lying in wait—but there was no reason for that. More likely, Hillary had been struck down to prevent him seeing something—or someone. The questions loomed large in his mind, momentarily unanswerable.

  Hillary came unsteadily to his feet, and Belmont thrust those questions aside in the face of a more pressing concern. He wanted to get the young scapegrace tended to.

  Riki had already slipped an arm about his waist, trying to take part of his greater weight on her slight shoulders. She staggered, and Belmont stepped in to relieve her.

  They started around the corner of the barn with Riki still determinedly helping. As they crossed the yard, a wiry middle-aged groom came into view, putting the final polishing touches on a newly oiled whip stock as he walked. He cast this aside and hurried toward them.

  “Have you seen anyone about, Jem?” Belmont asked.

  Jem shook his head, his wide eyes resting on Hillary’s blood-streaked face. “No, m’lord. Mr. Sylvester came out to check on his horses, which he does every morning he’s with us.” His tone indicated that the grooms did not take kindly to this implied distrust of their abilities. “And Sir Julian Taggart, o’course.”

  “Sir Julian? What the devil is he doing here?” Belmont muttered the last words to himself.

  Jem seemed to think an answer was required of him. “He arrived about twenty minutes ago, m’lord.” He gestured across the stable yard they had entered, to where they could now see the undergroom assisting Sir Julian’s man to push a white-winged, low-slung curricle into the shelter of the carriage barn. The legendary grays were nowhere in sight, probably already rubbed down and snugly housed in warm stalls.

  Belmont glanced at Riki and met her look of startled inquiry. What a ridiculous moment to realize how very appealing and expressive were her huge gray eyes. He thrust the disturbing thought from his mind. Thanking Jem, he nodded dismissal and watched as the groom retrieved the whip and resumed his polishing.

  Shifting his hold on Hillary’s arm, Belmont started once more toward the nearest entrance to the house. Friends one had known practically from one’s cradle—well, dating back to Eton, at least—did not go about tipping one’s brother a rise. Not without good and sufficient cause, at least. His frown lightened briefly. That fastidious dandy might have considered Hillary’s waistcoat to be just that.

  They turned through the shrubbery toward the tiled terrace behind the ballroom, and Hillary began to show signs of reviving more fully. It took more than a crack from a thick
stick to down his intrepid brother, Belmont reflected in relief.

  The boy straightened up, pulled his arm free from Riki’s hold and thanked her. “Pray forgive my lack of manners in not making you an elegant bow.” The words sounded thick and were uttered with exaggerated politeness, but a flash of his usual humor showed through. “Belmont may rake me over the coals for it later, but it would be far more improper to fall on my face, I assure you.”

  “I shall consider the bow made.” A slight smile touched Riki’s full lips.

  Lips definitely worth kissing more than once, Belmont decided. He was sorry he couldn’t try again. He wouldn’t mind trying for those freckles, as well.

  The French window opened and a frail man of medium height came out. He stopped, and his pale-blue eyes widened in his kindly if somewhat drawn countenance. He ran an unsteady hand through thinning sandy-brown hair and regarded the trio uncertainly.

  “Has something happened? What have you done to yourself, Hillary? An accident?”

  “He fell in the snow.” Belmont brushed his questions aside. “I don’t believe you’ve met my mother’s guest, Miss van Hamel. This is Linton, my sister Clarissa’s husband.”

  Lord Linton recovered, took Riki’s hand and made an elegant leg. “Delighted,” he murmured. “Fell, did you say, Belmont?” He shook his head. “Careless of you, my boy, but it’s always the same, isn’t it? You’re forever getting into some scrape or another. But we shouldn’t keep you out here talking. You’re like to catch your death of cold standing in this wind.” He shivered as he opened the door he had just closed, and he ushered them inside.

  “What caused you to brave the elements?” Belmont stood back for Riki to enter but kept a concerned eye on his brother-in-law.

  George Linton waved this aside, though the gesture lacked strength. “I was coming to look for you. I couldn’t imagine what you were doing out of doors on a raw day like this.” He managed a smile.