David Warwick gazed at the serenely beautiful face in the portrait. A smile as familiar to him as his own parted the woman’s full lips, though soft white curls replaced the auburn he had known. At age seventy-eight, Erica Randall, Viscountess Belmont, had still been lovely.
His attention moved on to the erect, still-sturdy figure of the man who stood at her side. Gil’s eyes, even in that painted rendition, sparkled with an inner contentment. A falcon perched on his gauntleted wrist. David shook his head. He only hoped he looked as good when he reached his eighties.
Marie Marley tugged at her calf-length skirt as if she wished she might make it longer. Unsuccessful, she abandoned the attempt and turned to the housekeeper, who escorted them on this tour of Falconer’s Court. “You said they had five children?”
“That’s right, miss. Two sons and three daughters. This is a delightful portrait, isn’t it? Not at all stiff, like so many of the Victorian era. One might almost fancy one knew them.”
“They must have been very happy,” Marie murmured.
The housekeeper nodded. “Theirs was a love match—or so I’ve heard tell.”
David, his gaze once more on Riki’s face, nodded. “It was. It must have been,” he corrected hastily. “Just look at them.”
Marie’s hand tightened on his. “They were living the life they wanted—together.”
They continued their tour, then thanked their guide and stepped outside into the fading light of the late afternoon. David slipped his arm about Marie’s shoulders and drew her toward the white BMW they had left parked on the drive. He opened the door.
“So we really didn’t change history,” David mused. “No people popping out of existence, none showing up where they hadn’t been before.”
“But why did that one battle scene change in your recreation?” Marie settled in the passenger seat. “You said the others were exactly as you remembered them.”
David shook his head. “The only thing I can think of is that whirlpool. That…vortex. It was so close to the island. There must have been some ripple effect going on. Nothing else seems to be different at all. History is the way it always has been—because Riki and I had always gone back.” He closed her door, walked around to the other side and climbed in behind the wheel.
“What now, David? Where do we go?” Marie asked as he started the car.
He turned and for a long, silent minute stared back at the stone façade of the old house. “Home,” he said at last. “To California—and my family. They believed my amnesia story and they can’t wait to meet you.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll stay there.” He straightened and his chin rose a fraction with his newfound determination. His arm tightened about Marie and a smile of anticipation lit his eyes. “Riki left me one of the family businesses. This time I’m going to make a success of it.”