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Authors: Brenda Joyce

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BOOK: House of Dreams
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“Do you have a moment to spare, my lord?” Isabel asked nervously. Thinking,
The whole court does not know.
Montgomery was wrong. And Alvarado surely had no suspicions at all. Otherwise she, Isabel, would sense something to be gravely amiss.
They continued to converse mostly in French, although he had
picked up a small amount of English, and she could get by rudely in Spanish if need be.
He was waiting. His face was a mask that was impossible to read, but then, he had never been a very expressive man. Isabel met his gaze for one instant, and in that instant she thought that his eyes were cold and hard. She looked away, terrified, thinking,
Sweet Mother Mary, he knows!
His hand closed on her arm. Isabel had not seen him stand. His touch made her flinch. “Is something amiss, my dear?”
Breathlessly she met his gaze, only to look away, afraid he would see her guilt.
“What do you wish to speak of, my dear?”
Isabel managed to think. His tone was not unusual, she realized, for it was somewhat kind, quite level, and also slightly patronizing. She must have imagined the cool light in his eyes, and only because Montgomery had so distressed her. She had nothing to worry about. She and Rob had been overly cautious; they had been most discreet. Isabel finally faced him. She still could not look him directly in the eye. “I am with child, my lord.”
For one moment his expression did not change—for one moment Isabel was frightened again—and then he smiled. “I have hoped for this day,” he said.
“And I,” she replied, a terrible lie.
“No wonder you have been at once pale and flushed, with appetite and with none,” he said, guiding her to a chair and urging her to sit. “When might we expect the child?”
Isabel smiled at him. Her heart beat like a caged butterfly against the walls of her chest. “I think in five or six months, my lord. I have yet to see a physician. I wished to speak with you first.”
“How thoughtful you are, as always, Isabel. Again, you please me to no end. Is any man more fortunate than I? So you think the child was conceived soon after we were wed?” he asked.
“Soon after we were wed,” she whispered, incapable of breathing normally.
He nodded, smiling, then turned and moved to a table where he poured two glasses of white wine. “We must toast the unborn babe, Isabel, and we must toast you, my beautiful, clever, loyal wife.”
Isabel accepted the glass with a trembling hand, trying to decipher an innuendo in his words and finding none. Montgomery had also called her clever—Alvarado meant nothing by it. They drank to the
babe's safe delivery, and her own quick conception of the child. They drank to the event of a son. The wine went down like vinegar, causing Isabel's insides to curdle.
She had always wanted a child, but not like this. Never like this. Her heart was so heavy. The extent of her betrayal was finally sinking in.
How had she come to such a terrible place in time? When once she had been innocent and trustworthy, filled with dreams of hearth and home, husband and duty and love? At least he did not know. Surely if he suspected, he would kill her now.
Alvarado finished his wine and smiled at her. “The time has come, my dear.”
Isabel froze. “What time?”
“The time has come for you to go to Spain. My son shall be born in Castilla, as I was, and my father and grandfather and his father before him.” He raised his empty glass in a salute. “You shall set sail as soon as the physicians complete the examination and assure me that all is well.”
Isabel was stunned. Eyes wide, she stared at him in sheer disbelief. Leave court? Go to Spain? Now? But … How could she leave Rob?
“I will join you as soon as my duties here are done, hopefully before the child is born,” Alvarado said.
Isabel remained stunned. No, she could not go. She could not. “I am so happy here, my lord, we are so comfortable—”
“You will leave within the week, of that I assure you,” he said. “Begin your preparations now.” He walked away.
Their conversation was over.
December 24, 1554
 
My dearest Rob,
My heart so aches for home and all there that I hold dear. Oh, Rob, there are not words enough in the English language for me to describe to you my loneliness and anguish. This land is a cold and barren place. It is a hateful place. It will never be home. Nearly two months have passed since I set foot on these foreign shores, and I am so afraid I will never be allowed to return to England, that this horrid land will be my burial place.
I despair, surrounded by servants whose tongue I cannot understand, with only Helen to comfort me, and the child that grows apace in my womb. Even the doctors who come are strange and
foreign
and I
cannot comprehend them.
I
suppose their nods and smiles mean that
all
is well, but my sorrow is so great
I
cannot care.
I
miss
all
the times we have shared. It is
all
that
I
dream of.
You are always
in my heart
and
in my thoughts.
Not a
single minute, hour, day goes by that
I
do not think of
you,
yearning desperately to return home. This cold
and
ugly house with oversolid stone
walls
has become my prison,
my
husband, my
gaoler.
 
Please
advise
me. I
await
your correspondence eagerly.
Your loving
and
devoted cousin,
eternally
yours,
Isabel
 
 
February 21, 1555
My dearest cousin,
Too much time has passed since last we spoke. I recollect our many conversations, with both sadness and joy, and with longing, and look forward to many more. How fare you, dearest Isabel? I have heard here at court that all is well, and I cannot tell you how that pleases me. I hold your health and happiness and that of the unborn babe close to my heart, as always.
There is much news to impart. The queen is well as her time grows near, although Philip is eager to go to war in the spring, and she is a bit melancholy knowing that. And there is concern, too, for the country itself, should the birthing not go well, and even questions regarding the throne. But I do not want to dwell on that, even though those matters occupy my thoughts night and day.
Protestant rebels still afflict the land everywhere, and the cause of peace was not helped when Bishop Hooper did meet his fate. He was, at long last, condemned to the stake for his heresy, with several other heretics. The burnings have encouraged the rebels, especially in the Southeast. My dearest cousin, how I wish you were here to share with me the worries I bear. Our country is divided now, far worse than before. Lutheran against Calvinist, Anglican against Catholic. The other day I came across two ministers stoning a priest. The ministers were promptly arrested, but the priest, an old man, was already dead. Dear God, how have we come to such anguished times? I see no end to the conflict, for passions run ever too high on all sides.
I do not mean to darken your hours with such foreboding, but always, you were the one I could share my most private thoughts with. Old customs do not die easily, it seems.
I eagerly await tidings from Castilla.
God bless you and the child,
 
Your devoted, loyal, and most loving cousin,
Admiral Robert de Warenne
Cass stared at the computer screen, refusing to comprehend the message, and as she did so, the screen blinked and darkened and brightened again, and suddenly it was filled with words, without any punctuation.
 
I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I AM YOUR SISTER NOW I
 
Cass began backing away, slowly, step by step, her heart pounding in her chest, so forcefully she thought it might tear her rib cage apart, and then she turned and ran.
She ran as if pursued, barged into Tracey's room, and froze in midstride. She wasn't sure what she had expected to see, perhaps Isabel lying there in Tracey's bed, but Tracey slept there, as peacefully as an infant.
Oh, God,
she thought, backing away.
An image of her computer screen remained engraved upon her mind.
An image of those terrible words.
In the hallway she glanced wildly around, but Isabel wasn't present, and then she dashed down the stairs. She had to find Antonio. Tracey was in danger now—everyone was in danger, Cass thought, panicked.
And as she rushed into the library, the first thing she saw was that the children were not present. Antonio was standing on a stepladder, removing books from a higher shelf.
“Where are the children?” she cried, aghast.
He almost fell off the ladder, and then he came more carefully down. “Cassandra.” He gripped her shoulders, his gaze piercing. Cass realized she was trembling. “What happened?!”
She grabbed him. “Where are the children?”
“Alfonso took them outside to play. They need some air and some exercise. They are fine.”
Cass shook her head vehemently. “No. I want them here, with us!”
He continued to hold her, searching her eyes, her face. “What has happened?” He spoke slowly, calmly.
“I had an attack—just as Aunt Catherine did. I couldn't breathe, I was choking—choking on her goddamned perfume!”
His eyes widened impossibly. “But you are all right.” His arm was around her now.
Cass continued to shake. Her tongue felt like it was tripping over her words—she had never spoken more rapidly. “I followed her into my bedroom. There's a message on my laptop—a new message.” Cass felt violently sick. What did that message mean? She refused to understand it.
“What did it say?” Antonio asked tersely.
She glanced at him, because she thought she had heard fear in his voice—for the very first time. Fear. She was so terribly afraid now. But his expression was calm-a mask of iron composure—and God, she needed him now, calm and strong and rational. But he was afraid—she had just seen it—and now her own fear escalated with sickening force. “Follow me,” she said harshly.
They pounded up the stairs. Cass was not surprised to see that this time nothing had changed on her laptop—the fourteen-inch screen remained filled with that one, horrific message, repeated endlessly: I AM YOUR SISTER NOW.
Antonio stepped closer and stared.
Cass hugged herself. “I don't understand. I can't understand. I will not understand!”
It was like there were two of me … my left hand couldn't stop my right …
Antonio looked at her, reaching for her at the same time. Cass slipped out of his reach. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
Antonio stared at her. “Is she telling us that she has possessed your sister, or that she is your sister?” he asked quietly. “I believe there is a vast difference.”
It was like there were two of me … my left hand couldn't stop my right …
Cass wished she had never heard those words! She was filled with horror, with dread. She was going over the edge of a cliff, free-falling—and helpless to stop herself. She even felt dizzy. “What is the difference?” she finally whispered—and it was a horrible capitulation to the truth.
This time he took her hand, clasping it firmly to his side. “If she has some degree of control of your sister's mind, there is hope. Of reaching Tracey—and driving Isabel away.”
Cass could not look away from his gaze. “Is there hope? Is there? She made someone kill the electrician. She made your grandmother kill your grandfather. She made Catherine lure Eduardo to his death!”
“She is so angry,” he said quietly. “But anger can be managed, even defused.”
Cass stared. “Managed? Defused? Are we going to play shrink with her? She's a ghost, Antonio. She's dead. And pissed off. In a very big way. And I don't have a clue as to how to deal with her! Maybe she will not be satisfied until we are all dead, every single one of us!” Cass realized her teeth were chattering.
“Do not think the very worst,” he said sharply. “We must remain strong—mentally. Because her anger contaminates those who are not strong enough to resist it. Do not succumb to hysteria and panic, Cassandra.”
And there was a warning in his tone. It was frightening, too.
She seized his arms, helplessly thinking,
Tracey is not strong. Tracey is weak
. “Tracey is the perfect prey, isn't she?” She was shaking.
“We should lock Tracey in her room—or even tie her up—for the moment,” Antonio responded flatly.
Cass stared in more horror. “Maybe you are right,” she finally said. She was nauseous now. “You think she killed the electrician, don't you?”
“If Tracey was involved, she was not herself,” he said firmly.
Cass backed away. He thought Tracey guilty of murder—it was clear, there in his eyes. “Maybe it was Gregory,” she flashed. “He's hiding something …”
Antonio started. “That is what you think?!”
“I don't know what to think!” she shouted.
“My brother was not the one who reappeared after a mysterious and prolonged absence, covered in blood,” he said angrily.
For an instant Cass and Antonio stared at one another, with a sudden, frightening comprehension. They were furiously arguing—they were falling prey to Isabel, too.
“Come on,” Antonio shouted, grabbing her hand. And they rushed through the house and to the courtyard—but the children were laughing, playing outside in the sunshine, supervised by Alfonso.
Their gazes collided. They turned and dashed upstairs.
Tracey was gone.
 
 
The blackness began to lift.
And as it did, his mind, like a long-defunct engine, slowly, painfully, tried to click into gear and grasp some coherence.
Suddenly there was pain, so much pain, and there was absolute confusion—he did not understand what was happening, or where he was.
And then came total comprehension. He had almost died—but he was not dead.
Gregory did not move, totally conscious now, focusing on the pain shooting in huge waves through his right shoulder. Nothing had ever hurt like this. And then there was the pain in his knee, sharp, endless stabs of it, and the excruciating pounding in his head.
And he was lying on his back on the hard, stony ground.
But he was alive. Gregory slowly opened his eyes, squinting, and found himself looking up at the bright blue sky, the thick cumulus clouds, and the strong Spanish sun.
And then he recalled exactly what had happened, right down to the last harrowing detail—the truck that had purposefully driven him off the road and over the cliff. His labored breath caught. But surely, surely, Isabel had not been behind the wheel. Surely he had been imagining that.
He suddenly closed his eyes, breathing hard, with fear, with panic. Whom was he fooling? She wanted him dead. She had been toying with him ever since he was a small boy, only now her games had become deadly serious—her games had become life and death. He did not know how a woman dead for more than four centuries could drive a tractortrailer, but she had somehow accomplished this feat. And this time she had almost won.
He gritted his teeth, and as he tried to sit up, sweat burst out all over his face and chest, and the pain in his shoulder was so terrible that he almost fainted. He rode out the waves of blackness, grimacing,
refusing to pass out—not daring to. He was afraid she would come back.
He was finally sitting up, unable to breathe because of the pain, and clutching his right shoulder with his left hand. He decided that he had dislocated it. He was going to have to push it back in.
But before he could even think of anything else, Gregory glanced around. No one was in sight.
Relieved, he managed to stand, and when he was upright, pain shooting through his knee, he saw a tree, not much larger than he himself was. He limped over to it, inhaled hard, then jammed his right shoulder against the tree. As he did so, he heard a pop, and the pain was nearly gone.
Jesu,
he thought, standing there, sweating buckets and shaking like a leaf.
He waited until the nausea had passed, then glanced at the ravine. It wasn't terribly steep, and he would eventually be able to climb out, but given the condition of his knee, it might take all day. Suddenly he thought about his family stranded at Casa de Suenos and his heart lurched with dread. Isabel had isolated him, nearly getting rid of him—did she think him dead? What did she intend for those left at the villa? He was sick at the thought.
Then he saw the bike.
It lay a good dozen yards from where he now stood, and even from this distance, he could see that the handlebars were bent. If the tires weren't flat, he might just be in luck. An image of the two children playing so innocently in the library, followed by an image of Isabel with her malevolent blue eyes, filled his mind. Gregory hobbled as quickly as possible to the bike. His head started to hurt even more; he touched the back, felt the stickiness, knew it was blood.
Whatever was happening, he would have to ignore it, he decided grimly.
The bike was, miraculously, mostly undamaged. It was dented, the front bars twisted, but both tires had air. Almost exultant, Gregory lifted it up.
Then, as he started at an angle up the ravine, limping and going very slowly, each step a difficult feat, he glanced up at the sun.
It was late. He had been unconscious for several hours. Not a good sign, medically speaking; he probably had a concussion. Now he had a choice to make.
He could ride back the way he had come, and be back at the villa
in half the time it would take him to get to town. Or he could continue with his mission.
But he was already feeling weak and faint. He could hardly walk; the distance to the road seemed almost insurmountable. His knee continued to protest every step, and he could feel something wet—blood—trickling down his neck. His heart beat from the effort like a jungle drum, uncomfortably, threateningly. Suddenly Gregory knew he would never make it to Pedraza. And he wasn't sure he could make it back to the house, either. But at least it would be downhill all the way.
He did not want to turn back.
But he did not want to die.
 
 
Hand in hand, Cass and Antonio hurried back down the stairs. They burst into the great hall, Cass immediately dropping his palm and racing to the front door, which she swung open. She had only one thought—where was Tracey?
And the first thing she saw as she opened the door was Celia. Celia staggering toward the house, her glasses askew, her hair disheveled, her dress dirty, torn, and stained with blood.
Cass cried out, rushing down the front steps.
Celia saw her and began to run. She started to cry.
Cass embraced the older woman, hard. “Are you all right? What happened!” she cried.
Antonio reached them. “Celia, let me help you.” He put his arm around her.
She looked at Cass with wide, frightened eyes. “Miss de Warenne, oh, Lord save us all, you cannot imagine what has happened.” Tears fell.
Suddenly Cass was afraid to hear what she had to say. “Let's get you inside. You're hurt.” Celia had a huge gash on the side of her head, crusted with dried blood, as well as numerous scrapes and cuts. She was also limping.
“There is a terrible demon about,” Celia cried as Antonio helped her up the front steps. “We're being haunted, but she is evil, and she tried to kill me.”
Cass slammed the front door shut behind them.
Celia could not stop talking. “We saw your sister in the window, and then Alyssa ran out of the house. I did not even think twice and I followed her. It was the most horrid thing! I kept calling for her and
she would cry out, and I followed her cries, going farther and farther from the house. And then I saw this woman—I knew, Miss de Warenne, I knew, in that one terrifying moment, that she was not from this world.” Celia was trembling.
BOOK: House of Dreams
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