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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Then Cass looked at her sister. “I don't believe you could do this,” she said very coldly.
Tracey shrugged. “Aunt Catherine has quite the story to tell. Doesn't she, Cass?”
Cass felt the rigid tension in Antonio's hand before he pulled it free. All of her suspicions were founded—Tracey had heard everything. Cass was certain. And she wanted to throttle her sister, for being no different from a spoiled child seeking attention the only way she knew how to get it. But more than that, she had to stop her from revealing anything else. “I wouldn't know,” Cass lied. “I think we should get out of here. Antonio?”
His gaze swung from Tracey to Cass herself. “I suspected they were lovers,” he said slowly, staring at Cass. “I suspected as much once I found out your aunt was here when he died. When I found out how much my mother hated her.”
Cass was still. “I am sorry,” she said again, helplessly.
His gaze was hard. “What is it that you have not told me?”
Cass stiffened. And as she debated a reply, her pulse rioting, she heard the door to the mausoleum slam shut above their heads.
And they were left standing amongst the tombs in the heavy darkness.
“The door!” Tracey cried with panic. “What if we're locked in?”
Cass stood beside Antonio. Knowing her eyes were wide, and registering the same panic that was in Tracey's tone, she turned to him. It was hard to make out his features in the dark. “Was that the door?” Her voice did not sound like her own; its pitch was too high.
“I think so. Be calm. We're not locked in.” His own tone was flat and firm and infinitely reassuring.
He was already moving past them, the way they had come in. Cass was briefly immobilized, thinking,
Someone shut the door.
Just like someone had been lurking about the castle a few hours ago?
“Someone shut the door,” Tracey whispered, suddenly standing beside her while echoing Cass's very own thoughts. “And we're trapped down here with bloody dead people.”
Cass opened her mouth to deny it, to tell her it was the wind. But there was no wind, and they damn well knew it. “Don't curse the dead,” she said.
Cass and Tracey looked at each other. Her sister's face was a paler shadow in the darkness of the crypt, except for her eyes, which were strikingly white. And then they rushed after Antonio.
He was at the top of the steps, pushing the vault's door. Cass almost swooned with relief when she saw it slide open. She and Tracey shared a glance again—then they dashed up the stairs and outside.
Antonio was standing there waiting for them, scanning the surrounding
countryside. He did not smile at them. “Ready to return to the house?” he asked, closing the door. “Tomorrow I will put a new padlock on this.”
Cass realized that her heartbeat was still thundering inside her chest. She was also scanning their surroundings—no one was to be seen. And there was only one vehicle parked in front of the monastery. “Not a soul in sight,” she muttered.
Antonio's gaze swung to her and it was sharp.
Cass realized what her choice of language had been.
“Who shut that door?” Tracey demanded as they hurried down the steps and away from the mausoleum.
Cass glanced at Antonio as they moved rapidly through the cemetery. He did not respond. “Well,” she said, as lightly as possible, “maybe a sudden gust of wind blew up.”
Tracey gaped at her, halting in her tracks. “And you're an intellectual? Not only isn't there a breeze, that door is heavy. Very heavy. It would have to be pushed closed, and you know it.”
Cass didn't know what to say. She didn't even know what to think. But Tracey was right. Someone had closed that door; there was no other explanation. Cass's footsteps slowed and she started glancing around once again.
“Let's not dally,” Tracey muttered, outpacing her. But she was looking back at Cass—and she walked right into a small, knee-high headstone. She cried out.
Cass turned as Antonio helped her to right herself. Tracey stepped back from the smaller gray stone, brushing her hair away from her face. Her hands were trembling, Cass saw.
“Are you all right?” Cass asked, coming over quickly.
“Just a bruised shin. Let's get the hell out of here. This graveyard gives me the shivers.”
“Por Dios,”
Antonio said, shocked.
Cass turned.
He was leaning over the stone. “Cassandra.” Excitement had replaced the shock in his voice.
And Cass knew. “Is it Isabel?” she cried.
“Come.” He did not look away, squatting now.
Cass knelt beside him. The epitaph was engraved in Spanish, but the name Isabel de la Barca and the dates 1535-1555 were eminently visible. “Oh my God!” Cass cried, so excited now that she did not care that she was leaning against Antonio.
He did not appear to notice. And he read, his voice oddly resonant now,
“HERE LIES ISABEL DE LA BARCA
BORN 1535 DIED 1555
THE NIECE OF JOHN DE WARENNE EARL OF SUSSEX
AND WIFE OF ALVARADO DE LA BARCA COUNT OF PEDRAZA
A HERETIC AND WANTON WOMAN GOD SAVE HER SOUL
MAY SHE REST IN PEACE.”
 
Cass could not move.
Antonio also remained motionless.
And then, slowly, their eyes met.
What was she doing? Catherine thought, clutching Celia for support. The two women were in a queue, slowly moving up the aisle of a Boeing 747, looking for their seats. For the first time ever in her life, Catherine was using a cane. She was still so weak.
What was she doing? It wasn't too late to change her mind and turn back.
“Here we are, Lady Belford, here's our seats,” Celia said cheerfully. She had insisted on coming with Catherine. In return, Catherine had insisted that she did not need an escort or a companion. But in the end, she had capitulated, not having either her usual determination or strength of will.
And Celia, of course, was now cheery to no end. She was not the type to remain reproving for very long.
Catherine took the window seat in business class, settling down with relief.
But the sense of relief was only physical. Trepidation filled her. She was overwhelmed by it.
“Are you all right, then, Lady Belford?” Celia asked, having taken her seat beside her.
Catherine's smile felt faint. She nodded. “Thank you, dear.”
Celia smiled back, but worry was reflected in her warm eyes.
I am too old for this
, Catherine thought, sighing.
I am too old to take
on such conflict, I am too old to confront the past. What in God's name has possessed me?
But the moment those thoughts had formed, she knew.
She knew, and it wasn't a “what” but a “who.” She closed her eyes as one of the pilots began speaking over the intercom system. She did not hear a word he said.
Instead, the past became the present, as image after image swept over her, crystal-clear and breathtakingly vivid.
Living memories.
Memories of flesh and blood.
Memories she'd wanted to forget, but they were unforgettable.
And unforgivable.
The plane began to taxi down the runway.
June 6, 1966
 
Guilt fills me to no end.
His wife is not here. She was not here when I arrived. Her jealousy led her to take the two boys to her mother's in Sevilla. She will not answer or return Eduardo's calls.
He is downstairs opening up a bottle of Rioja as I write. How has this happened? How did we become lovers—that very first night I arrived here at the villa? And how is it that even now, filled with shame and guilt, I lie in his bed, thinking of him, tasting him, wanting him?
So terribly that it hurts?
And I love my husband. In spite of his condition, I have never strayed. It never occurred to me to do so. I do not know how I did so now.
And I am not in love. Not with Eduardo, at least. For I love my husband. I do.
The guilt, the shame, the lust, are all there, in my mind, tormenting me, whirling, round and round, like a carousel, spinning, making it almost impossible to think clearly.
Yes. No. Stay. Go.
I am afraid.
I am afraid of myself and my passions. I am afraid because, for the first time in my life, I have no integrity, no ethics, no self-control, no sense of wrong and right. And I am afraid of this house.
Sometimes I think I am beginning to be afraid of her.
For in the past week, as we have delved deeper into the life of Isabel, as we have begun to piece together the events that led her to her fate, I have begun to notice an uncanny resemblance between her and myself. I have not dared mention it, but when I look in the mirror, I no longer see myself. I see her.
And Eduardo sees her too. For last night he awoke in the middle of the night, and he called me Isabel.
The Jeep bounced wildly over the road. Cass sat in the back, hanging on to her seat by gripping the side of the Jeep; Tracey was in the front beside Antonio, her long hair whipping about wildly.
Here lies Isabel de la Barca … heretic and wanton woman … God save her soul.
Cass remained stunned. They had stumbled upon her grave; she had died in 1555, probably at the stake, and she had only been twenty years old.
Antonio hadn't said a word since leaving the cemetery either.
Cass leaned forward, and because the Jeep was open, she had to shout over the roar of its engine. “Can you believe it?”
She did not have to elaborate. “They did not even bury her with her husband,” he said, glancing briefly at her in his rearview mirror.
“She was only twenty when she died,” Cass shouted. “No wonder she is so sad in that portrait.” Cass wondered if Isabel had sensed what her fate was to become. That would also explain the depth of her sorrowful expression.
God. How lonely and scared she must have been.
Twenty was so young.
“The two of you never cease to amaze me,” Tracey shouted, turning briefly to stare at Cass. “We were almost buried alive in that bloody house of the dead, and all you can think about is a woman who died centuries ago?”
Cass sobered, some of her elation fading. Tracey was right. “Antonio, maybe the children really did see someone out by the ruins earlier today,” Cass said, her hand now on the back of his seat. “The castle isn't that far from here, is it? Even on foot?”
“No,” Antonio returned with another rearview glance at her. In the mirror, briefly, their eyes met. “It's not.”
In the bright daylight, maybe because he wore a pale blue polo shirt, his eyes appeared strikingly green.
Way to go, Cass
, she thought with
annoyance that was directed at herself. Now was not the time to think about his eyes. “Are there homeless people around here?” Cass asked as the wrought-iron front gates of the house appeared ahead of them, and beyond, the house and its adjoining chapel silhouetted against the starkly bare, rocky terrain.
“Of course,” Antonio said. “But they do not stray from the village and the towns.”
Cass looked at Tracey's back. “Well, I guess we have our answer. Someone must have strayed.”
Tracey turned to stare at her. And suddenly the oddest light came into her eyes, changing them, lightening them, brightening them. Making them unrecognizable. And she smiled at Cass.
The smile was challenging and superior. It was as unrecognizable as her eyes.
Cass did not understand. Her pulse rioted. And an instant later, when she glanced at her sister again, doing a double take, the strange expression was gone.
Cass's relief was short-lived.
Tracey said, “We've gone and pissed bloody Isabel off, we've raised the dead, that's what I think.”
Cass almost fell off her seat.
 
 
Tracey followed Antonio through the house. “I need to speak with you,” she said.
He did not answer her, entering the library.
Tracey followed him in, wishing she hadn't said what she'd said back at the crypt, desperately. She hadn't wanted to hurt him; she loved him. She had screwed up, hugely. What was wrong with her?
Tracey was close to tears. The entire point in coming to Spain was to revive their flagging relationship. So far, nothing appeared to be going the way it should, or the way she had expected. She had thought that seducing him the day of their arrival would have set things to right, but it hadn't. Not at all.
Tension continued to creep over her.
This is all Cass's fault.
She watched him walk over to the doors that opened onto the front grounds of the house. He just stood there, with his back to her, gazing out at the ugly brownish terrain.
She was losing him, surely but slowly, and it seemed that everything she said and did was pushing him away. She had finally fallen in love,
but she kept saying the wrong things, she kept doing the wrong things—and the result was only to expose herself. She kept exposing the truth—and it was ugly.
Tracey squeezed her eyes shut. She could still flee—she should flee—but somehow, she loved him even more now than she had before, and she did not have the strength to walk away. She was so scared, because she really didn't have the courage to stay, either.
If only she could get rid of her sister.
She blinked. It was all Cass's fault, she thought, stunned by the workings of her mind, but get rid of her? Cass was leaving on Monday. Maybe she should even send Alyssa back with her—since having Cass here with her daughter was only highlighting her own imperfections as a mother. Tracey despaired, wringing her hands. She just did not know what to do. This time there did not seem to be any easy way out of her dilemma.
How had this happened?
“Antonio? I am so sorry for what I said back there in the crypt.” Tracey was contrite.
“Are you?” He turned and stared enigmatically. Suddenly Tracey realized she had no idea what he was really thinking—or feeling.
Tracey wet and bit her lip. She knew she should tell him she had made it up, and lying had never been extremely difficult for her before, but now, oddly, her tongue refused to turn over the words, her mouth refused to part.
“My father loved my mother very much. In fact, he adored her.” Antonio stared at her. “That is the one thing of which I have no doubt.”
Tracey could not seem to speak. She could only think, cursing inwardly.
“But I also knew he was having an affair with your aunt. Although she never admitted it at the time of his death, I read the police reports very carefully, and there were too many clues.” He grimaced.
“I wish I hadn't brought the subject up.” Tracey walked over to him and laid her hands on his arm, leaning against him. “I apologize. I just—”
“You don't stop to think,” he said, pulling away. “You are reckless.”
Tracey froze. Her heart had stopped in midbeat. And when it began again, she felt the hurt beginning, and it was the seed of something huge and unbearable.
No one, no lover at least, had ever stood before her, cataloguing her imperfections, complaining.
Only she herself did that.
He walked away from her.
“No!” Tracey cried, still stunned. Tears suddenly filled her eyes.
“I'm sorry.” He turned and held up a hand, as if to forestall her. “Tracey, I think it best if you leave on Monday as well. You should not have come in the first place.”
She could hardly breathe. She could hardly comprehend what he was saying. She could only stare in disbelief.
“I have work to do, and I have to check on Eduardo.” He was about to leave.
Tracey did not move. Her mind, her heart, everything felt numb. She said, unthinkingly, “Eduardo? Work? I'm trying to talk to you!”
He flinched.
Tracey also flinched, for she could not believe the viciousness in her tone. What was wrong with her? What was happening? She rushed forward. “I'm sorry. Antonio, forgive me. I love you. I don't know what I was just thinking! Just give me a few minutes, please, to prove it to you.” She reached for him.
He gripped her wrists, not allowing her to touch him. “No.”
She reeled, shocked by his adamant tone and his equally adamant expression.
“Please don't send me away,” Tracey heard herself say, reaching for him. “I need you. I need you now more than ever.”
He cut her off. “It's over.” His face hardened. “What happened yesterday was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” She was shocked, and suddenly she was so angry. “You weren't complaining when I was giving you the blow job of a lifetime, Tonio.”
“I have work to do,” he said, dismissing her. And he walked away from her, going to his desk.
She stared at his perfect profile as he flipped through some folders and notes. And then she stormed over. And even while she knew better than to lose her temper, her tongue began—and it would not stop. “I am standing here, barely clothed, in love with you, and you want to stick your nose in a book? What kind of man are you?” she taunted.
He ignored her tirade, actually sat down at the desk, and as he reached for a legal pad, a photograph fell out of it.
The ruby necklace, the one worn, perhaps, by her ancestor Isabel.
And images flooded Tracey, of Antonio and Cass stooped over the
grave together, of them standing shoulder to shoulder in the mausoleum, of them whispering together in the dining room at Belford House as they regarded the necklace on display.
“This is about Cass!” she cried.
The chair was a swivel chair and he spun around, shoulders drawn up hard and tight. “I beg your pardon?”

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