Country of the Falcon Page 6

  ‘Senhor O’Rourke make this for the guest,’ said Consuelo, with evident pride. ‘Your bathroom. No one else’s.’ She shook her head.

  ‘It’s—marvellous!’ Alexandra made a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Consuelo seemed to find her reaction satisfactory, for she said: ‘The senhorita would like a bath, eh? Consuelo will bring your bags and unpack them for you while you wash, yes?’

  ‘Really, that’s not necessary——’ Alexandra began, feeling slightly dazed, but Consuelo had set down the lamp in the bedroom again and had disappeared out of the door.

  Left alone, Alexandra moved across and closed the bedroom door and then looked about her. This whole affair was assuming the proportions of a rather extravagant dream and she found it hard to assimilate the events of the past twenty-four hours with any coherency. What was it Declan O’Rourke had said? That one could pass through all the seasons here in one day? She felt as if she had passed through the whole gamut of emotions during the past twenty-four hours.

  A long mirror in the heavy wardrobe revealed her worst fears. She looked an absolute mess! Her hair had not been brushed that morning, and hung in rats’-tails about her shoulders, her face was weary and streaked with dirt, her shirt and jeans looked as if she had slept in them, which in fact she had, and her hands were rough and grubby. What must her host have thought of her? In spite of the primitive conditions he had managed to appear clean and reasonably tidy, only the stubble on his chin bearing witness to his lack of shaving.

  With an exclamation of disgust, she thrust off her boots and picking up the lamp marched into the bathroom. The plug was already in the bath, so she turned on the taps and watched the spray of hot water with real pleasure. Huge, soft bath sheets were folded neatly on a cork-topped stool and there was plenty of soap and sponges.

  Without waiting for Consuelo to come back with her own things, Alexandra closed the door and stripped off her clothes eagerly. Climbing into the warm water was a pleasure to be savoured and she sank down luxuriously into the depths, uncaring that her hair was getting wet in the process. It was so good to feel the sweat seeping away from her and to relax completely without fear of intrusion.

  Her new-found freedom from tension was shattered dramatically when the bathroom door opened and Consuelo came uninvited into the room. Alexandra jack-knifed into a sitting position, pressing a huge sponge protectively against her breast, but the old woman took no notice of her embarrassment.

  ‘I have found your toothbrush, senhorita. I thought you would like to use it.’ She smiled down at the girl. ‘Is good, yes?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Alexandra didn’t know what to say.

  Consuelo looked well pleased. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘I will help you.’

  Alexandra gasped. ‘No—really, it’s all right——’

  Consuelo ignored her, shaking her head in that knowing way as though assuming that Alexandra’s protest was a mere formality. She reached for a sponge, soaped it liberally and began rubbing the girl’s back.

  ‘You will feel better after this, senhorita,’ she said determinedly, pushing Alexandra’s hair aside. ‘Ay, ay, this hair is needing the wash, too.’ Without warning, she scooped up a handful of water and soaked the crown of Alexandra’s head. ‘Come, Consuelo will wash hair and then she must go and get supper ready, yes?’

  It was no good protesting, Alexandra had realised that. And in any case, it was quite pleasant feeling the old woman’s hands massaging her scalp, rubbing at her hair until it was squeaky clean. Then she produced an elastic band, secured it on the top of Alexandra’s head and left her to finish alone.

  It was not until Alexandra began soaping her midriff that her fingers encountered the elastic plaster and a wave of remembered horror swept over her. She was glad Consuelo had not noticed that. She might have insisted on examining it for herself.

  By the time she was ready to climb out, Alexandra felt infinitely better. The bath had removed some of the weariness from her limbs, and the knowledge that she could expect a good night’s sleep for once had done wonders for her.

  As she rubbed her hair with the towel, she wondered when she would see her father. She had the suspicion that he was not here at the moment, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that she was going to have the opportunity to meet him on equal terms instead of dirty and dishevelled as she had been when she arrived. She had no doubt now that had he met her on her arrival he would have been absolutely furious.

  Carrying the lamp back into the bedroom, a towel draped sarong-wise about her body, she found that Consuelo had opened her cases but had only unpacked fresh underwear and a nightdress. Alexandra put the nightdress aside and opened up the other case, pulling out a cream caftan which she used about the house at home. It was a simple but expensive garment, long and straight with slits to knee level at either side and a low dipping neckline.

  By the time she had smoothed a moisturising cream into her skin and stroked her lids with eyeshadow her hair was partially dry, sufficiently so to allow her to separate it into two bunches which she secured with thick hair-slides. She looked very young, she thought impatiently, but it couldn’t be helped, and quite honestly she was feeling so hungry she didn’t care much about her appearance right now.

  Consuelo had told her to leave the lamp in the bedroom, so she turned it low before going out of the room and along the dimly lit hall to the living room. Delicious odours of food drifted along the passageway, and her earlier nausea disappeared completely.

  When she entered the living room she thought at first that it was deserted, but as she turned to close the door a tall figure rose from his lounging position on the couch before the crackling fire. It was Declan O’Rourke, bathed and shaved, the water still glistening on his dark hair. He had changed, too, and was now wearing a dark red velvet jacket over close-fitting black suede pants, and although his white shirt was open at the neck it was evidently made of fine silk. He looked totally different from the casually indolent escort she had become used to, and it made the years between them so much more obvious somehow. She felt childish and unsophisticated in her simple gown, and the faintly mocking twist to his mouth did nothing for her confidence. He had a glass between his fingers and he raised it towards her in a sardonic salute before swallowing the remainder of its contents in a single gulp.

  He looked down at the glass for a moment, before saying: ‘Can I offer you an aperitif, Miss Tempest? Some fruit juice, perhaps—iced, of course.’

  Alexandra moved across the room. ‘I’d prefer a Martini, if it’s not too much trouble,’ she declared, refusing to be intimidated by the brooding quality of those pale blue eyes. ‘Iced, of course!’

  He shrugged and walked over to the cabinet containing the bottles and glasses. ‘Sit down,’ he directed over his shoulder. ‘It can be very cold at night here.’

  ‘I had noticed.’ Alexandra was pleased with her rejoinder. It sounded right, just mildly sarcastic.

  He poured her Martini, added ice, and brought it back to her. She had seated herself on the edge of one of the massive leather armchairs and she looked up at him coolly and thanked him politely. His eyebrows raised just a fraction and then he turned back to the cabinet and poured himself another drink. It looked like Scotch that he was taking, and she wondered how many he had had. Then he came to stand before the fire, his back to the flames.

  ‘Salud!’ he remarked, raising his glass, and she made a suitable response. ‘Tell me,’ he want on, ‘Consuelo didn’t scrub your back too hard, did she? She gets a little carried away at times.’

  Alexandra’s lips parted. ‘How——’ she was beginning, and then stopped herself. She had been about to fall into the trap he had set for her by stating something so disconcerting. Instead, she said: ‘Do you speak from experience, Mr. O’Rourke?’ in remarkably controlled tones.

  He smiled, inclining his head in acknowledgement of her small victory. ‘As a matter of fact, I do, Miss Tempest. Alt
hough, as I’ve known Consuelo since I was a very small boy, perhaps that excuses me somewhat.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that anything would deter Consuelo if she set her mind to it.’

  Alexandra found her cheeks turning pink in spite of herself, and she sighed impatiently. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time we started discussing the reason I’m here, Mr. O’Rourke?’

  Declan considered the liquid in his glass. ‘If you like.’

  Alexandra waited for him to go on and when he didn’t she gave an exasperated exclamation. ‘Where is my father, Mr. O’Rourke?’ she demanded. ‘He’s not here, is he?’

  Declan hesitated. Then: ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Alexandra drew a deep breath. ‘But he has been here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then where is he? This was the only address he sent me!’

  Declan swallowed some of his Scotch and looked down at her broodingly. ‘As a matter of fact, your father is in hospital,’ he said, slowly. ‘In Bogota. I flew him there myself four days ago.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ALEXANDRA’S hand shook so much that she almost spilled her Martini into her lap. Declan reached down and removed the glass from her fingers, placing it on the stone mantelshelf beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly, ‘but I thought it best not to burden you with it until we were here.’

  Alexandra swallowed convulsively. ‘But—but why have you brought me here? Why didn’t you simply fly me to Bogota, too?’

  Declan’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘You’d have liked me to do that? In the state you were in?’

  Alexandra hunched her shoulders, looking down at her hands. He was right, of course. She had not been fit to take anywhere, and certainly not to a hospital!

  She looked up. ‘You haven’t told me why my father is in hospital. What’s wrong? Is—is it serious?’

  Declan finished his Scotch and stood his empty glass on the mantelshelf beside hers. ‘That depends,’ he said slowly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your father has contracted a certain kind of blood poisoning from the experiments he’s been conducting.’

  ‘Blood poisoning!’ Alexandra moved her hands helplessly. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you know anything about blood poisoning?’

  Alexandra shrugged. ‘A little. Do you?’

  ‘A little, as you say,’ he commented mildly.

  ‘So how is he? Is he responding to treatment? When can I see him?’

  Declan thrust his hands into the pockets of his velvet jacket. ‘Your father will no doubt recover in time. There is no need for alarm.’

  ‘Then why is he still in hospital? You said you took him to Bogota four days ago.’

  ‘So I did.’ Declan nodded. ‘However, septicaemia isn’t always simple to diagnose, and the kind of work your father has been doing didn’t help matters.’

  ‘Septicaemia?’

  ‘The medical term for blood poisoning.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘In septicaemia, an exact diagnosis of the bacteriological cause is essential. In your father’s case, it was difficult at first to isolate the particular bacillus involved.’

  Alexandra shook her head. ‘Are there many types?’

  ‘Several. The most virulent being the streptococcus organism which can enter the system through a mere scratch of which the victim may be totally unaware. Such was the case with your father, and that happens to be the type of poisoning he developed.’

  Alexandra’s throat felt dry. ‘I see.’ She felt a weak sense of relief that all was apparently to be well. What on earth would she have done if Declan O’Rourke had not appeared on the scene with her father hundreds of miles away in the hospital at Bogota? It was to be hoped that no message had been cabled to Aunt Liz or she would be terribly anxious about her. ‘I—could I have my drink?’ she asked jerkily, and after it was handed to her: ‘I—I suppose I must thank you, for—for rescuing me and bringing me here.’

  Declan gave her a fleeting look. ‘Yes. Well, don’t feel too obliged. I’d have done the same for anyone in the circumstances.’

  ‘Perhaps. But nevertheless, I am grateful.’ She finished the Martini. ‘Do you—do you think I could have that fruit juice now? I am—very thirsty.’

  With a brief inclination of his head he took her glass and turned away and as he did so the door opened and Consuelo came in wheeling a trolley. Alexandra now saw that the polished table at the end of the room had been set with raffia place mats and silver cutlery, and the old woman wheeled the trolley of food towards it and began putting out the dishes.

  ‘You will please come and eat, senhor? Senhorita?’ she asked, and Declan nodded.

  ‘Indeed we will, Consuelo,’ he affirmed lightly. ‘I, for one, am starving!’

  Although Alexandra’s appetite had waned somewhat at the news about her father, the tantalising smell of curry brought her obediently to her feet and Consuelo indicated the chair she wished her to sit in. Declan brought the glass of iced lemon juice he had poured for her to the table and seated himself opposite, putting the glass within her reach.

  The meal was absolutely delicious. Iced pineapple preceded the tangiest of curries, served on a bed of flaky rice, and for dessert there was a concoction of fruit and nuts that was very sticky and very sweet. Declan had a bottle of white wine with the meal, but Alexandra refused to take any of it, preferring the iced lemon juice he had given her. In consequence, he drank most of it himself, and she tried not to watch him refilling his glass. The coffee which Consuelo served on the low table before the fire afterwards was the finishing touch to the first real meal Alexandra had had since leaving Manaus, and she lay back in one of the leather armchairs feeling sleepily replete.

  Declan occupied the couch, lighting a cigar and inhaling with evident enjoyment. He had poured himself a balloon-shaped glass of brandy to drink with his coffee, and cradling the glass between his fingers, he said: ‘Don’t hurry up in the morning. I shall be away for most of the day, and the rest will do you good.’

  His words had the effect of banishing her tiredness. ‘You’ll be away?’ she echoed. ‘Oh, but when will I see my father?’

  Declan lounged back against the soft upholstery. ‘That rather depends,’ he remarked, savouring a mouthful of brandy. ‘As he doesn’t know you’re here, I suggest we don’t tell him. At least, for the time being.’

  Alexandra sat up. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your father is a sick man, Miss Tempest. Would you increase his anxieties by letting him know that you’re here? Do you think that information will please him? Because I don’t.’

  She knew that, as usual, he was right. But she wouldn’t give in that easily. ‘I should have thought that seeing me might speed his recovery,’ she said. ‘After all, he must be feeling very isolated in Bogota, away from everyone he knows. I can book in at a hotel—’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ he interrupted coolly. ‘Your father is not isolated at all. His research assistant from the laboratory in Rio is with him. Naturally, as she was involved, she felt a certain amount of responsibility, and as her family live in Bogota…’

  ‘A woman assistant?’ Alexandra felt blank.

  ‘Yes. Juana de los Vargos. Didn’t you know about her either?’

  Alexandra pressed her lips tightly together. She hated the small smile that was tilting the corners of his firm mouth. She had never even heard of Juana de los Vargos, and he knew it. Why, she hadn’t even known that her father had taken a research assistant with him.

  ‘Even so—’ she began defensively, but again he shook his head.

  ‘Look, Alexandra—’

  ‘I don’t recall giving you permission to use my Christian name!’

  His smile deepened. ‘Look, Alexandra,’ he said again, ‘I may not know your father as well as you think you do, but I’d hazard a guess that your appearance out here won’t exactly endear you to him.’

  ‘What do you mean? How dare you suggest—’

>   ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you. Your place was in school—’

  ‘School has finished for the summer holidays. And in any case, I shall be leaving school at Christmas—’

  ‘Nevertheless, other arrangements had been made, hadn’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘I was to go to Cannes with my aunt.’

  ‘There you are, then. Why didn’t you go? Instead of coming trekking out here, putting yourself within reach of all manner of horrible diseases, tempting fate to set you down far more roughly than I am doing!’

  Alexandra rose to her feet. ‘I don’t think any of this has anything to do with you, Mr. O’Rourke!’

  He looked lazily up at her. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ She coloured suddenly. ‘Just because you’re—you’re providing me with accommodation for the night—’

  ‘Oh, honey, it’ll be much longer than one night!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I have my work to do. I can’t waste time taking you to Bogota for your father to send back again!’ His lips twitched. ‘That is, providing he doesn’t order you straight back to England.’

  Alexandra drew herself up to her full height, and endeavoured to appear composed. ‘Then I shall find some other way of getting there. And until I do I’ll find other lodgings—after tonight!’

  ‘Do you mind telling me where?’ His voice had hardened.

  Alexandra shrugged. ‘I imagine there are other white people about here, aren’t there?’

  ‘Two,’ he agreed, nodding. ‘The missionary and his wife at the village some distance down the track; but as their house has only one room beside the bedroom I hardly think they could accommodate you.’

  Alexandra moved restlessly. ‘I’ll manage somehow.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ He rose to his feet now and although she was a tall girl he was still a great deal taller. ‘You will stay here, as I have said, and if you attempt to disobey me I shall have no compunction about transporting you back to Rio myself! Is that clear?’

  ‘I—I could come back—’ she ventured.