Riki dug her fingers into the loose shale of the rocky ledge, slipped, then captured a grip. Rain bombarded her, plastering her dark-auburn hair against her neck as the wind whipped wet strands into her eyes. She had enough trouble seeing in the darkness of the storm without that. She shook her head, but it didn’t do much to clear her vision. Determined, she inched farther, found another fingerhold on the barren face, another toehold for her hiking boots.
Lightning flashed, jagged and long, far too close, to the accompanying crash of thunder that would have done credit to the entire percussion section of the London Philharmonic. A shudder ran through her and she clung to the ledge, trembling. Panic and nausea vied within her, only to be fought down. Dear God, how she hated electrical storms!
She forced open eyes she’d closed tight and sought her goal. There, still a good six feet above her and a yard or so to the right, she could make out the dim shape of the peregrine falcon, huddled against the fierce weather, one wing hanging limp and broken at its side. Only an idiot would risk her life to climb a slippery rock in the middle of the worst downpour of the year to save one stupid bird. One stupid, rare, endangered species of a bird. All right, she was an idiot.
Riki slid her foot along the sheer rock face, dislodging pebbles and debris, but the questing toe of her boot encountered no solid haven. She tried again, higher, gripping tightly with her fingers to keep her balance. Lightning flashed, directly overhead now, accompanied once more by that resounding thunder, like a timpani player gone mad. The shale broke loose, crumbled in her hand, and her foot slipped. Painfully, she slid down the three jagged, rocky feet to the last solid ledge.
“Are you all right?” a man’s deep voice shouted from below.
She started, then turned carefully to look down. Twelve feet beneath her, the churning waves of the English Channel beat among the rocky outcroppings of Falconer’s Folly, her tiny island. A stranger stood on one of these, his oddly old-fashioned clothes dripping wet. Dark hair hung damply over his eyes, which he shielded from the rain with a hand as he gazed up at her.
“I…I’m fine.” But even as she spoke, a shattering flash illuminated the afternoon sky and the rumbling thunder reverberated through her. She clung to her ledge, trembling, hating herself for her weakness.
“Can you get down?”
She forced her eyes open and her anxious glance sought the bird, which seemed oblivious to both the storm and her aborted attempt to save her. “I can’t. I have to—”
“You have to come down!” He shouted to be heard over the surf that crashed behind him, washing about his booted feet.
Torn, Riki bit her lip. Afraid of heights and terrified of lightning, she made a pretty rotten rescuer. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t!—ask anyone else to do this for her.
“Better hurry, this is only getting worse. If you don’t—”
His words vanished in the resonant drumming that beat through her as the sky lit up once more. Tears brimmed in Riki’s eyes, mostly at the frustration of once more giving way to this disabling panic. As the thunder faded, the man’s voice took its place, calm but authoritative, filling her mind. He ordered her movements, directing her to inch her way down the rock’s face, and not quite certain why, she complied.
As she neared the bottom, strong hands grasped her slender waist and she felt herself lifted free of the giant rock. A moment later, the man set her gently on her feet. She turned to face him and her shaky words of thanks died on her lips as she stared up into eyes as dark as coal.
“You’re a female! Good God, what the devil did you think you were doing?” His gaze moved across her tightly clinging navy windbreaker, which had afforded her scant protection against the elements, then came to rest on her drenched jeans.
She dragged her gaze from his hawklike features. “A ‘female’?” An unsteady laugh escaped her as her fears found relief in humor. “I suppose you call yourself a ‘male’. Is this some new version of ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’?”
He stared blankly at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Riki stepped back a pace and wiped the rain from her eyes, regarding him askance. Maybe he didn’t have a sense of humor—but those gleaming, falconlike eyes set in that tense face were meant to twinkle with merriment. And as for the rest of him! He might not be handsome, but his face held more character and strength than she had ever previously encountered.
“Are there any men on this island?” he demanded.
“No. I—”
He swore. “Have you a boat I could use?”
She shook her head. “Not in this weather. You’d never be able to control it.”
He drew a deep breath, then nodded as if he unwillingly accepted an unpleasant but inescapable reality. For a long minute his worried gaze scanned the churning waters of the Channel, then rose to the rock where she had been clinging not long before. “What were you doing up there?”
She cast a measuring glance over his broad shoulders and the peculiar garments he wore. She had seen their like in the sketches her cousin David had plastered about his war-gaming room—civilian clothes of the Napoleonic era. He must have been a gaming acquaintance of David’s. That might make him strange, perhaps, but not dangerous.
“There’s a falcon with a bad wing perched in the rocks. Just before the storm, I heard someone shooting—probably tourists.” She spoke the word with loathing. “I’ve had boys with BB guns out here before. Anyway, I’ve got to get her safe. She’s quite young—this will be her first nesting season.”
His frown deepened. “A pet, I take it?”
“Not really. I try not to tame any of them. It can prove dangerous if they trust people too much—as you can see.” She bit her lip. “I’ve got to get her down.”
He nodded and determination intensified the grim lines about his mouth. “Why don’t I give it a try? I climbed a bit when I was a boy. I might as well save something.” The last words, spoken to himself, were barely audible over the howling wind. Without waiting for her response, he strode forward and reached up, feeling along the steep incline for a fingerhold.
“Here!” She stripped off her windbreaker and handed it to him. “You’ll have to wrap her in something to bring her down. I’d planned to tuck her inside.”
He took it and started to shove a corner of the thin nylon into the top of his pants, then stopped and stared at it, running his hand over the slick fabric. With a puzzled shake of his head, he stuffed the jacket securely into place, found his grip and started up.
Thunder rumbled and lightning struck again, and Riki huddled in her cream fisherman-knit sweater. Another flash followed almost at once, and she didn’t open her eyes until the last rumble rolled away. Craning her neck and shielding her face from the driving rain, she peered up and saw the man was making excellent progress. He wasn’t hampered by any irrational fear of electrical storms.
He moved carefully, though with an athletic ease that drew her envy. He was far better at this rescue business than was she. In only a very few minutes, he attained her previous position—which had taken her half an hour to reach—found the footing that had eluded her and crept higher and closer to his quarry.
He eased himself up until he was kneeling on the ledge at the falcon’s side. The bird struck at him with its sharp beak. The man shielded himself with his leather boot, then swooped down, grasped the bird by the legs and effectively bagged it within the confines of Riki’s windbreaker. He secured his furious bundle by tying it up with one sleeve, then knotted the other about his arm and started down.
Very efficient. Riki nodded in approval. The injured wing should hold securely in that makeshift sack. She found her appreciation of the man growing. She was darned lucky he’d appeared when he had—even if it did go against her instincts to accept aid from anyone.
With another resounding crash of thunder, lightning flashed through the darkened sky. She turned her face into the shoulder of her dripping wool sweater as a shudder ran through her. Dear God, she only wanted to get inside, close the shutters, insulate herself against this storm.
“What are you going to do with her?”
Riki looked up as the man jumped the last three feet and landed on the rocky outcropping at her side. He held the bagged falcon with care, for her windbreaker jerked about with the bird’s frenzied struggles.
“That’s not going to do her any good, poor thing. Come on, let’s hurry. I’ve got supplies in the aviary.” She shivered as the lightning flashed once more, and closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to block out the dreaded rumbling that seemed to shake the very ground beneath her feet.
“It’s only electricity in the sky,” he said. “It won’t harm you.”
“I-I know. It’s just…there have been so many of these storms of late. Let’s get under shelter.” She hurried across the slippery rocks until she reached the solid footing of the ground. There she broke into a run, as if she might dodge the pelting rain. Heavy footsteps followed, keeping pace easily.
She ducked through a gate set in an arbor entwined with the thorny, bare branches of climbing roses. A rambling two-story stone cottage faced them across the courtyard. Riki ran to a long building on the left side of this, threw the door wide and stood back for the man to enter with his precious burden.
She led the way past the generator, which hummed and chugged, and ran lightly up the stairs to the next floor. The man, after staring at the machine, followed more slowly. In here, the thunder sounded muted and the lightning remained unthreateningly outside.
The upper chamber formed a long, spacious rectangle. Numerous perches stuck out along the window-lined walls and three large cages stood at the back. To the right of the door stood a long row of cabinets, a refrigerator and a microwave. Riki stopped at a table, above which were a number of cupboards. She opened one, drew out wooden splints and bandages, then turned to the man.
“Is she all right?”
“The way she’s fighting, she must be.” He set the thrashing sack of nylon onto the table and carefully unfastened the sleeve that knotted it together. “Did you really plan to just stuff her into this thing while you were wearing it?”
A rueful smile touched her lips. “I’m not sure.”
The furious falcon broke free of the confining fabric, spread her one good wing and hopped away. The other wing hung limp. The bird, no stranger to humans, cocked its head and shrieked, as if protesting the rough treatment.
“The poor dear. I had to raise this one, you see, so she’s not as afraid of people as she should be—which at the moment is lucky. Easy now, Guinivere.” Riki reached out toward the falcon. She struck at her with her beak.
“Watch out!” The man caught Riki’s wrist and jerked her hand back.
Riki looked at him, surprised. “I know how to work with peregrines. But I want to get that wing strapped up before she does any more damage to it. Don’t I, Guin? Yes, I know we treated you terribly, but I’ve got to look at your wing.”
This time Guinivere submitted to the gentle voice and touch. Carefully, Riki stroked the reddish-brown feathered neck, then eased around to the cream-colored throat, sliding her fingers ever nearer to the injured wing. Dark, piercing eyes regarded her balefully. Forcing herself to ignore the ominous rumbling and flashes without, Riki kept up a soft, almost crooning conversation.
“She’s a beautiful falcon, isn’t she?” Only in part did she address the man who stood at her side. “She’s almost twenty inches long. I weighed her in the fall and she was already just over two pounds. She’s going to be a marvelous bird. It would be terrible if she didn’t reproduce.”
She found the injury without actually touching it. Feathers were torn away, revealing a clean break of the wing’s bone. If it were kept immobile, it would heal nicely. Deftly, with the man holding the protesting bird, she taped a splint into position.
“What now?” He stroked Guin’s neck while the falcon watched him warily.
“Now she gets some rest. And hopefully eats something. There, would you open that one on the end?” Riki picked up the bird, carried her to the waiting cage and placed her gently inside. The man closed the door as soon as she pulled her hands out.
“How are you going to feed her?”
“Oh, I’m prepared for emergencies.” She went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer and drew out three white paper-wrapped packages of varying sizes. She stuck the smallest into the oven and set it for two minutes.
The man stared over her shoulder. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“A microwave. Oh, you mean the package. It’s a mouse. And no, I couldn’t kill it myself. There’s a falconer on Jersey who catches and cleans them for me. Then I just freeze them so they’re ready for whenever I have a sick bird. I look at them as little as possible. And no, I don’t watch the falcons feed.”
The oven dinged and the man jumped and stared. Riki opened the door, withdrew the package and unwrapped it gingerly. She wrinkled her nose.
“Do you think it’s defrosted?”
He took it from her. “It’s cold!”
“Put it back in for thirty seconds, then.”
The man stared from her to the oven, then back again. “How?”
“Don’t worry, this model’s really easy. It’s not one of the fancy ones with endless combinations. Only a timer. You just set it like this.” She did, and thirty seconds later it dinged once more and the man jumped and stared again.
“How does it do that?”
“Damned if I know. I was never any good with electronics. Doesn’t yours make a noise?” Riki shrugged. “I thought they all did. There,” she added as she took out the package once more. “Would you mind giving this to Guin? I’d rather not look at it if I don’t have to.”
He carried the loosely wrapped offering down the long room to where the falcon sat on a mock rock ledge only inches off the floor of the cage. Riki defrosted the other two packages, then followed with a bottle of water, which she poured into the waiting dish. The falcon prodded her dinner, accepted the offerings, and Riki turned hurriedly away.
“Well, if she’s eating, she can’t be in too bad shape. That’s always a good sign. Thank you. For all your help.”
A slight smile just touched his lips, and some of the strain seemed to ease from his face. It was a shame he appeared so solemn most of the time, she decided. Even as faint as it was, his was a smile to be shared.
“You said there were no men on the island. Are your servants away at present?”
“My what?” She raised amused eyebrows.
His frown returned. “The people who look after you?”
“I look after myself.”
He blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “You can’t mean you live here alone?”
“Why not?”
“That’s hardly proper. Have you not even some female to bear you company?”
“Of course not! Why on earth should I?” She laughed, more at his disapproving expression than at his antiquated notions of propriety. “I’m fine on my own.”
He shook his head as if unable to accept her words. “There must be someone. A scrubbing woman or a…a cook?”
She considered for a moment. “Well, there is Mr. Fipps, of course. He’s the falconer I mentioned. He comes over once a week with supplies and checks the generator.” Her tone took on an edge. “Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m helpless.”
“I didn’t intend to imply that you were. Only that you are a most unusual female to live in such a manner. Does your family not object?”
“My family objects to everything I do,” came her dry response. “My mother feels I should ‘adorn society’ the way my older sister does.” She broke off. And the way her younger sister was about to. That defection on the part of Susie still hurt.
The man inclined his head. “It is society’s loss that you do not.”
That brought her smile back. “It would be mine if I did. I’m hopelessly addicted to worthy—and usually lost—causes. Quite a trial to my family, I’m afraid.”
“I find you charmingly original.”
She tilted her head, regarding him with a mixture of fascination and uncertainty. She liked his rather courtly manners—probably carefully cultivated to go along with the clothes and the Napoleonic era of his war-gaming. “I’ve never encountered anyone like you before,” she said before she could stop herself.
That brought an unexpected touch of amusement to his piercing, hawklike eyes. “I can certainly say the same about you. Since there is no one to perform the introduction, I fear we must take it upon ourselves.” He stepped back and bowed with an elegance in keeping with that bygone age. “I’m Belmont, and completely at your service.”
She had learned to curtsy in ballroom dancing class, but to do so while wearing wet jeans and a soaked fisherman knit seemed absurd. Instead she held out her hand. “Erika van Hamel. I’m David’s cousin.”
He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips. “Am I acquainted with ‘David’?”
She drew back, suddenly perplexed. “But…aren’t you? Your clothes—”
He looked down at himself. “They are certainly wet. Under normal circumstances I would never present myself to a lady in such a state.”
“You’re dressed like the pictures in his room. Weren’t you one of his war-gamers?”
The tiny lines in his brow deepened. “I hardly consider war a game, Miss van Hamel. It’s a very deadly business.”
“Especially the way they fought in Napoleonic times. If you weren’t one of David’s group, then why are you dressed like that?”
He ignored her question. “What do you mean, ‘in Napoleonic times’?”
“Don’t I have that right? I thought that was what David called it. Or should I say the ‘Peninsular Campaign’? That was his favorite period—or era, or whatever you call it.”
“Favorite? Good God, how could anyone enjoy that?”
She moved a step farther away, unsettled by the sudden anger that glinted in his dark eyes. “We seem to be talking at cross purposes. Look, you said your name as if you thought I should know you. If you aren’t a friend of my cousin’s, then who are you?”
“Gilbert Randall, Viscount Belmont.”
“Oh, it’s your title!” Her frown cleared. “I’m sorry, I should have realized. But I’m an American, you see. I’ve only lived over here for two years and I seldom get off my island. I don’t meet many people.”
“Except your Mr. Fipps? Did he create that…that thing over there?” He gestured to the microwave.
“The oven? No, of course not. But he’s a marvel with engines. I don’t think that generator would still be working if it weren’t for him, and I rely on it for everything. Even my computer and shortwave, though I have battery backup, of course.”
“Of course.” He stared at her once more as if she spoke a foreign language. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am, precisely?”
“Only about a half mile from Jersey. This is Falconer’s Folly—hardly large enough to be called an island, but we try. You’re lucky you landed here. There’s a fisherman’s hut on one of the other piles of rock, but no one’s there in January. Was your boat badly damaged or do you think we can repair it?”
He shook his head, and the grimness returned to his expression. “It sank.”
“It—how awful! But you’re all right? I’m sorry, here I’ve been going on about poor Guinivere, and you’ve been through a boat wreck!” She led the way to the stairs as she talked. “No wonder you’re so wet. Let’s go over to the house and dry off.”
They reached the entry hall below and he paused once more to stare at her generator. She couldn’t blame him. It looked more like a pile of junk than her preserver. Mr. Fipps had built it primarily from salvaged engine parts left on the tiny island after the German occupation of Jersey during World War II.
A jagged flash of lightning eerily lit the charcoal sky as she opened the door. She cringed as the dreaded thunder boomed overhead with gusto, and she drew back into the aviary. A strong hand closed on her shoulder and she turned toward Belmont, instinctively seeking shelter from her unreasoned fear.
“It’s only thunder.” He spoke gently, as if to a child.
For one long moment she knew the temptation to bury her face in the smooth wet wool of his coat, to seek that secure haven. But safe-seeming harbors, in her experience, invariably hid dangerous shoals. She pulled free and, still trembling, strode out into the storm. The deafening rumble faded, leaving the late afternoon silent except for the steady pelting of the rain.
“Were…were you driven into rocks, or did you just take on water?” She focused her attention on her companion’s plight rather than on his broad shoulders.
He shook his head as she closed the aviary door behind them and they started for the cottage. “We were pitching about quite a bit but we could have survived that. If it hadn’t been for the whirlpool—” He broke off. “We didn’t stand a chance, even if the lightning hadn’t struck our mast.”
“My God!” she whispered. “You said ‘we’. Were there others?”
He nodded, and the strained lines that marked his face deepened. “There were five of us. I thought they jumped free of the boat before we were fully into the whirlpool.”
“You’re not sure?”
His mouth tightened. “I was knocked out. I didn’t come around until I was lying on a rock with no trace of either the boat or my companions anywhere.”
Riki drew an unsteady breath. “You searched?”
“Of course! Then I saw the outline of your cottage and swam for it—and hoped they’d made it here. I’d just finished circling the island when I spotted you on that cliff.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at once? Come on, let’s call a rescue team.”
“You said there weren’t any men!”
“Not here, but we can get some people from Jersey.”
Hope eased the tension from his features, replacing it with determination. “How do we do it?” He quickened his pace.
“Radio, of course. There’s never been a landline here and my cell phone won’t have any bars in this weather.” They reached the cottage, she threw open the front door and hurried inside the spacious, tiled entry hall. Belmont followed but stopped just over the threshold, looking about. Riki tossed her dripping windbreaker over the brass arm of an antique coat tree.
“Go into the kitchen and dry off. I’ll see if I can raise anyone.” She hurried down the hall to her small office, the old study that looked out over a sharp drop to the churning Channel below. There’d be interference, but with this storm the ham operators would be standing by for emergencies.
To her dismay, all she got was static. Damn electrical storms! There’d been so much thunder and lightning in the past two years, but this storm was creating even worse problems than usual.
She returned to the hall and found her unconventional guest standing where she had left him. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, both of which now hung on her hall tree. He stood before her in what she supposed must be breeches, a drenched, clinging shirt of equally old-fashioned design and salt-encrusted boots.
“Forgive me for removing my coat, but—”
She cut off his rather stiff apology. “It’s better than freezing in those things. I couldn’t get anything but static.”
“The searchers?”
“I told you. Just static—interference. I’ll try again in a bit and if I still can’t get through, we’ll take brandy and blankets and go ourselves as soon as it’s safer.”
“Is there any way I can go now?”
She shook her head. “The motor’s down on the outboard, so I’ve only got the ketch—and there’s too much wind for a sail. We’d be driven straight into the rocks. I’m sorry, we’ll have to wait.”
She led the way into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light with the switch near the door. “Let me get some coffee started, then I’ll show you to a bathroom. If we can find you something to wear, we can throw your clothes in the dryer.”
“The what?”
The light went off, then back on and off again, and she turned to see him flipping the switch as if he’d never seen one before. “A dryer. Believe it or not, I’ve got all the modern conveniences. And thanks to Mr. Fipps, they even work most of the time.”
“Your Mr. Fipps must be a miracle worker!” He returned the light to the “on” position. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Riki stiffened. Was he teasing? Or had that blow he said he’d received to his head affected him? Resolutely, she shoved a filter paper into the coffeemaker and began measuring out coffee grounds. He’d feel better after he’d gotten a cup, stiffly laced with brandy, inside him.
The humming of her kitchen microwave reached her, followed by a ding. Firmly, she banished the niggling suspicion she might be alone on the island with a lunatic. There had been calm sanity in those dark eyes. Perhaps if he had been part of some playacting or war-gaming group, a severe blow might have left him temporarily confused. A good night’s sleep should restore him to health. If he showed any signs of concussion, she could handle it.
Running water sounded just behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to see him playing with the tap in the sink. This continual fiddling with gadgets as if he’d never seen them before left her uneasy. He moved on to open the door of the oven, then turned a dial on the stove.
“It’s hot!” He turned to stare at her. “Is this more of your Mr. Fipps’ inventions?”
“You might say that.” She poured the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and turned it on. He appeared confused but sane. Perhaps it was a form of shell shock after what he’d been through. Or was he playing a game with her? David’s miniature enthusiast crowd had warped senses of humor, she knew from bitter experience. The one who’d given the eulogy at David’s memorial service…
She turned abruptly away. It had been just over two years ago, in a storm just like this, that David had disappeared. Only his sailboat had been found, dashed to pieces on the rocks.
The water began to perk and bubble and coffee dripped into the carafe. On the other side of the kitchen, her guest poked a finger into her freezer and watched the wave of cold air that floated out.
“The coffee will take a few minutes. Let’s get dried off. There are two bathrooms upstairs. Are your clothes wash-and-wear? We should get the salt out of them.”
He looked down at his sodden shirt sleeve. “My man usually takes care of everything.”
“Well, here we’re on our own.” She returned to the hall and started up the mahogany staircase. She had forgotten she was dealing with a member of the British upper class. He probably never entered his own kitchen. Useless and pampered, that was what he was. No wonder he was in shock. His companions had probably been servants, crewing for him.
But he had been very capable climbing that rock and rescuing the injured Guinivere. She decided to reserve judgment.
At the top of the stairs, she flipped on the hall switch. White stucco walls decorated with bright prints were interspaced with arching mullioned windows that reflected the fluorescent lights. Outside, all was darkness. She would try radioing Mr. Fipps again the minute she got her guest settled. The sooner they got a helicopter out looking for his companions, the better—it would be night all too soon.
The sky lit with another crackling flash and she turned away as the rumbling thunder followed hard on its heels.
“In here.” She preceded Belmont into the blue-tiled bath and opened a cupboard. “Heater’s down there, towels in here. If you want a shower, we have plenty of hot water. In there,” she added, pointing to the tiled tub as he looked about in curiosity.
She eyed him, measuring. From the low vantage point of her own five-foot-and-a-hair, he seemed tall. Probably under six feet, though, but his shoulders were very broad. He seemed solid—like a brick wall. “David was taller and lighter than you, but I may be able to find you something to wear.”
“Thank you.” Already he had flipped the heater off and on twice and now stood warming his hands, an expression of fascination on his rugged face.
Riki backed out, closed the door and hurried downstairs.
This time she raised Mr. Fipps on her third try. His cheerful voice sounded shaky, more crackly than usual, but it was better than she’d hoped for after her earlier failure.
“Riki, my love? Trouble with old Mortimer? Over.”
“No, the generator’s fine. There’s been a boat wreck. One man—a Viscount Belmont, he said—is safe with me. Four others are missing. Over.”
Static filled the air, then cleared enough for her to make out the words, “—call the emergency people.” More static followed, then, “—find them before dark. Over.”
“Thank you. Over.”
More crackling disturbed the air. “—eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Got that, Riki, my girl? Eight o’clock. Over.”
“I’ll be waiting. Just get the helicopters out. Bye for now. Over.”
She switched off the set and stood, smiling. Mr. Fipps was the sweetest old man.
“Who the devil were you talking to?” Belmont’s deep, bewildered voice sounded just behind her.
“Mr. Fipps.” She turned and saw he had not yet availed himself of the shower. He remained fully dressed, though he held a towel.
“How? I thought you said he was on Jersey.”
“Radio. There’s interference from the storm but I got the message to him about your friends.”
He came forward, staring at the box of dials, switches and lights that rested on the table. “You actually mean to tell me you were talking to someone who is more than a half mile away?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing—or seeing.
“I told you, the interference isn’t as bad as it was. I don’t think I could reach London, though, if that’s what you had in mind. But if there’s someone you want to let know you’re all right, I’ll get Mr. Fipps again for you. He can telephone.”
“Tele— This is impossible! A communication system over great distances!” He shook his head, marveling, and an arrested gleam lit his eyes. “Can you see its potential? Its use for the war? Why doesn’t your Mr. Fipps tell the government? Don’t you realize what this could mean to us? We could get information—accurate information—and in minutes rather than days!”
She’d had enough. Riki hugged herself, but close contact with her sodden sweater only made her colder. “Look, I’m not in the mood for your games. I’ve sent out word to look for your friends. If there’s anyone you want to call, fine. Otherwise, I just want to get out of these clothes and get warmed up.”
“Are these things common in America?” he demanded, refusing to be diverted from her radio.
“Not so much anymore, except in remote areas or for emergencies.” She glared at him. “Now look, if you’re going to keep playing like this, I’ll throw you back out in the storm. And I mean it. It’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.” He slammed the towel down to the tiled floor, strode up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her skin and the pungent odor of wet wool surrounded them. “What is going on here? I’ve never seen so many queer things as you have on this island!”
She tried to pull free but couldn’t. She hadn’t expected violence, and fear at this abrupt turn flooded through her.
“Are you in the middle of a game?” She tried to keep her voice calm, to humor him. “Is this one of the rules, pretending to live in the period?” She managed a false but bright smile. “You’re welcome to use my cousin’s equipment if you’ve lost yours.”
If she could get him out of the room, she could lock the door and radio for help. She could try it now, for he seemed interested, but she didn’t want to excite him any further.
As if sensing her panic, he released her and backed off a step. He still remained between her and the door, though. She couldn’t escape.
“How long ago did he invent these things?” Belmont demanded, a queer, tight note in his voice.
“He didn’t invent them.” She picked her words with care. “David set up the radio when he took over the island and the rookery five years ago. Mr. Fipps did build the generator but I bought everything else in London.”
He stared at her in silence. Slowly, his head swiveled, the muscles in his neck taut, and he found the light switch on the wall. With his eyes on the ceiling fixture, he flipped the switch and the room darkened. When the bulb came back on the next moment, he was still watching.
A steady, rhythmic hum began, growing louder and closer. Riki’s spirits soared. Rescue! If she could just get outside, she could signal the helicopter. There was nowhere they could land, but maybe if she waved wildly enough they’d let down the rescue sling. She might be able to escape this lunatic.
“What’s that?” Belmont’s voice sharpened and his head jerked toward the window.
“The helicopter. I told you I’d get someone out to look for your friends.”
“A what?” He strode over and peered out the window, looking up into the sky. The small two-seater rescue chopper came into view, hovering, dipping close, then moving on.
“My God, what in Heaven’s name—” He reached out, clasping her arm.
This time she felt no menace from him. Only confusion, complete and utter bewilderment. Sympathy replaced her panic.
Still wary, she spoke gently, soothingly. “Everything will be all right now. You’re safe. I’ll go outside and signal them and they’ll let someone down in that sling you see hanging below it. They’ll take you to hospital. Everything’s all right now,” she repeated.
The helicopter swooped out of sight from the window. The man turned back to Riki, saw he was clutching her arm and released her. “Have I gone mad?” he breathed.
“You said something hit you on the head. You’ll be all right.”
“Just tell me this is the eighteenth of January, 1812, and I’ll be fine.” He looked back to where the helicopter could now be seen dipping around a nearby pile of rocks.
“Well, it’s the eighteenth of January, but you’ve been war-gaming too long. You’re about two hundred years too early.”
“Two—” He broke off and every trace of color drained from his face. “That’s impossible. It’s—”
“Look, let me signal the ‘copter before they get out of range.”
But it was too late. The chopper lifted and moved away, heading toward the next group of rocks some distance off. Riki fought her returning fear. She wasn’t alone. She still had the radio—and the man hadn’t shown any real sign of intending to hurt her.
“Why don’t you take a nice hot bath?” she suggested.
Those dark, mesmerizing eyes came to rest on her. “You think I’m an escaped Bedlamite, don’t you?” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m beginning to think it myself.” He turned on his heel, scooped up the towel and left the room.