House of Dreams (29 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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“This I well understand. After all, the both if us are but pawns in the grander scheme of things as designed by God and my uncle the earl.” She struggled not to cry. Before last night, being married off for a political alliance was what she had hoped for and dreamed of. Now it was the kiss of her heart's death.
“Hush,” Robert said. His gaze commanded hers. “Listen to me well.”
Isabel heard the urgency in his tone, and slowly she nodded.
“If I can, I will stop here on my way to Chiswick.”
The hope rose up inside her breast so swiftly she felt astonished. “I do not want you to fall from Sussex's grace. I have heard he is a dangerous man when crossed.”
“I will not fall from his grace, for I will serve him with all of my heart, as always,” Robert said flatly.
Isabel stared, recalling the look she had glimpsed in his eyes in the hall, a frightening and hard look, still wondering what it had meant, yet hoping against hope. “Very well.”
“Do not fret, Isabel,” he whispered, gripping her hands more tightly. He took a deep breath. “I need two or three years, at least. Two or three years in which to advance myself well beyond the rank of knight. Can you give me those few years, my love?
Will you wait for me, Isabel?”
Their gazes had locked. She began to understand. She began to nod. “Yes. Yes. Of course I will wait for you, Rob.” And full realization struck her then. He wanted her to wait for him! Because he loved her … “Of course I will wait for you,” she repeated more firmly. “I will not become another man's bride. This I vow to you, Rob. I would rather die.”
He stared at her searchingly, and then they kissed.
And within minutes, he was on his nag. Crossing the courtyard. Leaving. It would be at least two years before she saw him again—unless he could detour to Stonehill on his return to Chiswick. “Godspeed,” Isabel whispered, the tears salty on her lips.
He looked her way one last time as he rode out of the gate.
And it wasn't two years before she saw him again, it was almost five. By then, it was too late.
Gregory was growing worried. He hadn't lied when he had told Cass that he had last seen Tracey around midnight. After that one moment of insane lovemaking—if it could even be called that—she had gotten up abruptly, smiled strangely, and left without saying another word. He had been filled with guilt all day.
Gregory felt as if he had betrayed his brother, and it was a feeling he had never had before. Worse, he had the urge to tell Antonio what had happened and to beg for his forgiveness. He would resist that urge, out of fear. Even if Antonio had no feelings left for Tracey, what they had done was terribly wrong.
His brother and Cass had just returned with the authorities; Catherine's corpse had been taken to a hospital in the town of Segovia. In their absence, Gregory had been left in charge of the children and Alfonso—Celia had taken to her bed in a state of grief and shock. Antonio was now downstairs somewhere; Cass had disappeared into her bedroom. Gregory felt so sorry for her.
Now Gregory paused on the threshold of the upstairs corridor, the sounds of the children's voices wafting up to him from the kitchen below, where they were having a late lunch of sandwiches and gooey, melted ice cream. The children hadn't yet been told about Catherine Belford. And the power in the house remained out.
He could not help himself. He walked to the door and pushed it open. He was so oddly compelled. He did not even recall this bedroom
from his childhood. And the light inside the large room was dim; it took his eyes a moment to adjust.
Then he saw her—the demon of his childhood dreams.
Sweat poured down his body in streams.
And Gregory was almost in disbelief, staring at the portrait of the woman in the red dress and ruby necklace, the woman who stared back at him as if she were real—as if she were alive. He could hardly think. He only knew that it was her, his childhood tormentor; there was no mistake.
And her eyes, her eyes were so damn vicious …
As abruptly as his feet had led him to that room without conscious volition, he backed out, slamming the door, and as he did so, he could have sworn that he heard his name, softly, mockingly, being called him from inside the room.
The urge was to flee downstairs like a coward. Instead, he did not move, furious with himself.
He wasn't a coward—he had jumped out of airplanes, for God's sake. He raced cars. He helicopter-skied. He had even bungee-jumped. And last year he had gone on safari in a politically unstable part of Africa.
His mind began to work, as furiously. Undoubtedly, as a boy, he had seen that portrait, and for whatever reason, it had remained engraved on his mind. And minds were a funny thing. His mind had used that image, coming up with a frightening tormentor instead of an imaginary playmate. He'd leave it to a new shrink to figure out why.
And he had not just heard his name. Of that he had not a doubt.
“Papá! Papá!”
At the sound of Eduardo's alarmed voice, Gregory came to life, straining to hear that Antonio was responding to his son. Instead, Eduardo was calling out again. Quickly Gregory traversed the corridor, hurrying back downstairs. “Eduardo!
Qué tal?”
Eduardo and Alyssa were sitting at the kitchen table with Alfonso, looking at photographs. Antonio appeared behind him. “What has happened?” he asked. He seemed drawn and tired.
Everyone at the table, both the two small children and the elderly man, looked pale and pinched with shock.
“What is wrong?” Gregory asked, a frisson of unease filtering through him.
Eduardo looked at them both, his gaze wide.
“Dios mío,”
he
whispered. “Alyssa's aunt took these photographs, and something is very strange!”
Gregory did not want to know what that was. He did not move as Antonio stepped forward—with obvious reluctance. Gregory watched his brother ruffle his son's hair with a smile. But then his smile died, because Eduardo was shoving a photograph at him.
Antonio was frozen.
Gregory did not want to ask, he did not want to know. “What is it?”
Antonio finally came to life, and he handed him the photograph.
It had been taken in the ruins just down the road. In this photograph a part of the crumbling wall and one tower were clearly visible. And bolts and swirls of light, or electricity, the reddish gold color of actual flames, filled up that frame, as if electrical charges were ricocheting back and forth along the ruined wall.
And clearly visible in the swirling sparks was a figure and a face.
It was Isabel.
 
 
Cass lay on her stomach in her bed, unmoving. Her aunt was dead. Catherine was dead, and Cass had cried and cried and cried, and now she was exhausted, and all of her tears seemed spent.
She had never known such a terrible sense of loss before. Such a huge aching emptiness. Such profound, piercing pain. Her heart seemed to be in pieces, and Cass didn't think it would ever be whole again. Catherine had been far more than her aunt, she'd been her mother and her best friend. How could this be happening? How could she have died? How could she really be gone?
On Monday there would be an autopsy.
But Monday was too late.
If only Catherine hadn't come!
She is summoning all of us together.
Alyssa. She didn't know. Somehow, someway, sometime soon, Cass would have to pull herself together and tell her niece the awful truth.
She did not think she could do it.
A hand slipped over her head, into her hair.
And the moment she felt his large palm, she knew it was Antonio, and she glanced up. Surprisingly, more tears filled her eyes.
“I thought you were sleeping,” he whispered. “I hope I did not wake you.” His eyes were filled with sorrow.
“You didn't,” she managed, choking on the two single words.
He hesitated. “I only wanted to check in on you. Can I bring you something? Anything?”
Cass shook her head, then managed to think about poor Celia. “Did you give her the Valium?”
“Yes.” He did not have to ask her who she referred to. “She's sleeping now.” His gaze held hers.
Amazingly, more tears came, filling her eyes.
“Why don't you take a Valium as well?” he asked softly.
“Do you know what I need?” Cass whispered.
He sank down onto the bed and pulled her into his arms. Cass burrowed deeply there, against his chest, holding on so tightly.
She wanted to weep again, but she had cried all afternoon, and only a few tears would seep out.
Antonio held her, stroking her hair, her back. “I am so sorry,” he said.
Cass already knew. She wondered if she could lie in his arms like this forever. The pain, she thought, would never abate, never go away, but she needed him like this. “The children?”
“They are eating melted ice cream, they are fine. We will tell them later, together.”
She wanted to ask about Tracey. She did not dare.
He held her.
Cass let him.
And suddenly, abruptly, Cass knew what it was that she wanted, what it was that she felt. Suddenly, abruptly, everything changed. Cass's grief vanished. And in its place was violent desire.
She looked up at him, stunned by the feverish urgings of her body. Their eyes met. And in his eyes she saw the same, identical lust.
Cass didn't think. She reached for his head, her fingers threading through his thick hair, as he gripped the back of her skull, anchoring her in place. Their mouths came together, fusing, and then their lips were open, fusing again, and Cass felt his teeth, grating her gums, and she was fully on her back, spreading her thighs, wide and wider still, and he was between them, and even though they were both dressed, she felt a huge arousal there. Cass gasped, tearing her mouth from his.
“Christ,” he said, rising up over her, gripping her jeans, tearing them open.
“Oh yes,” Cass said, thrusting her hips up toward his face as he
yanked both the jeans and her panties down. And it occurred to her that they were being watched. The sensation was distinct.
But she could not care. He said something in Spanish, something she knew was rough and crude, tossing her legs over his shoulders, his fingers finding and opening her; playing her.
“Eat me,” Cass said harshly, an order.
He buried his face between her legs and his tongue was everywhere.
“Oh God,” Cass cried, holding his head.
His tongue slid over every inch of her, laving her repeatedly, deliciously, excruciatingly. Cass could hardly stand it. She could not bear the building pressure. She tried to push him away; she tried to pull him closer. Pleasure became borderline, mingling with pain. But he would not stop.
His tongue began flaying her. She wept.
The violets surfaced more strongly; Cass vaguely realized with some distant, functioning part of her mind that the scent had been present for some time.
And Cass was coming. She thought,
Isabel
is here, but his tongue would not stop and she did not want him to and the orgasm was an endless series of spasms that were rocking her body wildly, and had barely died when he said, “I want to fuck you.”
He was rising up over her, ripping off his belt. Cass gripped his wrist, hard, her eyes on what she wanted, that one single huge penis, barely contained by his trousers, so close to her face. “No.”
His eyes blazed. “No?”
She gripped the waistband of his pants, popping them open. “Come in my mouth,” she commanded.
His eyes widened and an instant later Cass was facing every swollen, aroused inch of him. She held his buttocks as he thrust deep, again and again, and when he bucked over her, she sucked harder, swallowing every drop.
He did not collapse. He held her face, kissing her, and Cass kissed him back, still tasting him, tasting herself, their mouths tearing at one another, insatiably, and finally she felt him growing again. “Fuck me now.”
“I will fuck you all night.” He thrust into her.
Cass clawed his back and shouted in pleasure and encouragement; she wanted more, faster, harder fucking, and she could still taste him, salty and bitter, and his hands, on her buttocks, began to hurt, but the pleasure refused to die; instead, it was building and building …
He pulled out. “Turn over.”
Cass didn't hesitate, and when he took her from behind, she cried out, pain mingling with the pleasure, indistinguishable, and when his hands found her this time, pulling her open, he cursed, and Cass knew it was because it was so good it was unbearable …
They came again.
And this time he collapsed on top of her, and she could not find the strength to move.
Antonio slid off of her. Cass's pulse finally began to slow; her mind began to function, comprehending what they had just done. And suddenly a new tension overcame her.
And with that new tension came absolute coherence and complete comprehension.
Cass froze. The sickly sweet scent of violets was everywhere—they were bathed in it, drowning in it.
She glanced at Antonio, who lay flat on his back, still completely clothed, his khakis open. His eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling rapidly.
Cass sat up, still staring. And slowly she looked around.
She expected to see Isabel, smiling at them. She saw an empty room filled with lengthening shadows, a room that was cold and ugly.
His lids lifted and their gazes met.
Cass flushed, and had her jeans or underwear been near, she would have covered the lower half of her body. “She's here.”
He also sat up.
“Oh my God.” Cass suddenly hugged herself. And a chill entered her, freezing her to the bone.
Antonio zipped his pants. “Cassandra.”
She stared wildly at him. “Aunt Catherine just died, and you and I …” She could not find the right words to describe what they had just done.
“It happened,” he finally said, clearly at the same loss as she.
She thought about what they had done. She thought about what she had said. She was aghast, in shock. “I've never done those things before,” she managed.
He hesitated. “Some of the things I said … I don't know what overcame me.”
Cass suddenly jumped off the bed, knowing he was watching her, and she found her underwear and leapt into them. Then she hopped into her jeans. “I don't know what overcame me, either,” she cried, aware of the heat in her cheeks. She had never wanted anyone the way
she had just wanted Antonio. The intensity of her desire had been so great it had been violent—she had actually welcomed pain. Her temples began to throb.

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