A Vampire's Rise (6 page)

“Much responsibly comes with such a position.”

“So does power.”

He shook his head. “What kind of bread did you get?”

“I don’t know . . . bread.”

He pulled out a loaf, broke some off, and handed me a piece. “We break bread together for the last time.”

“It will never be that way between us?”

“Perhaps I may suggest a new barn. The horses deserve better.”

“Once the house is built, you’ll sleep inside?”

Miguel jumped over the gate. “Look up.”

I followed his gaze skyward at the stars.

“That’s my view,” he said. “Now why would I want to stare up at a ceiling?”

Chapter 9

THE HOUSE OF VELDE rose up out of the ashes.

Taking the advice of Señor Teofilo, I hired British architect Harold Ferring to design the new house. Ferring’s reputation preceded him, and the fact that his services were affordable convinced me I’d made the best choice. Local men worked tirelessly to rebuild under Ferring’s watchful eye.

Teofilo inferred that Ferring’s reason for leaving England was unfortunate, but assured me that he would complete the work in a timely manner. He had, after all, designed the grandest of country homes for Richard III, the king’s newly built Wensleydale estate in Yorkshire.

Ferring liked to drink and, not wanting to imbibe alone, he persuaded me to partake with him. During those long evenings, when I encouraged him to talk and I stayed quiet, he regaled me with the most fascinating of tales. I discovered that Ferring had completed his royal appointment, fulfilling his duty by designing the finest home in the North. When he failed to receive payment, he mentioned the matter to the king’s executive secretary, and it didn’t go down well. His continued request for payment resulted in their threats.

Miguel kept his distance from the man he called ‘the wayward Englishman.’

I insisted on no part of the original manor being replicated. My vision for the house went askew as the structure manifested. The façade had appeared relatively simple on paper, though when it materialized, the house possessed an aura of supremacy. We easily went over the budget I’d initially set. The work continued inside the towering walls. The downstairs rooms were deliberately spacious with high ceilings and low hung chandeliers, wondrously invoking a gracious atmosphere that ventured to be stately, yet at the same time, homey. The bedrooms counted twenty in number.

Ferring stocked the wine cellar and at times would disappear for hours, sampling the vintages. He outlined what would become two secret rooms, one behind the bookshelf in my office and the other actually constructed beneath the four poster bed in the front master bedroom. I tried to reason with him that I’d never need them, but to allay his high-pitched insistence, I relented.

For the library, I purchased a considerable collection of books, many of them scribed in several languages. I took pleasure in placing them in order along the tall shelves. The task took me longer than expected as I’d open a book and become lost in it.

With the work almost complete, and having received payment, Ferring disappeared. Relief that I could take over and make the finishing touches on my own without Ferring’s eccentric influence flooded me. My taste inclined toward a more simple style, and with him gone, I could decorate modestly.

* * * *

Later, I discovered through Teofilo that a royal warrant had been issued for Ferring’s arrest. I hoped that Ferring had escaped the British authorities. As I strolled along the sweeping corridors of my new home, I often thought of him. He’d also been wronged by those wielding power. That much, we had in common.

Spending many an evening reading in my favorite room, the library, my confidence flourished, the promise of happiness ever present.

I often considered the woman who’d made it all possible. Although I had no real proof that Sunaria had taken Roelle’s life, I had a nagging feeling she had. She’d appeared like an exquisite phantom, only to disappear once again into the night. Thoughts of her faded as the day to day challenges of running the estate drew my attention.

I hired new staff, ensuring fresh faces around the manor. I strived to reinvent myself, take on the convincing role of master, a man to be respected, revered even.

The cook provided meals with good portions for the staff, helping to maintain morale. A delicious fare is a boon to a hard worker. Pascal, my discreet butler, oversaw the employees, including several maids, a gardener, an ageing handyman I’d taken pity on, and several young horse hands to assist Miguel. I still couldn’t persuade him to take a room inside the house. He said he’d be miserable indoors. Even during the long winters, he prevailed.

However, when designing the stables, I’d taken into consideration his penchant for fresh air and constructed a thick walled building to keep him warm in winter and cool in summer, a comfortable apartment where all his needs were met, as well as his desire to be close to the horses. A safe dwelling where he could rest up after a hard day’s work, knowing that he was deeply valued. And from where he lay, he’d still see the stars.

Housing the employees in cottages on the estate ensured that they had their privacy and I had mine. At night, with everyone banished, I paced the many rooms, marveling at what I’d accomplished and not taking any of it for granted. I learned more of the horse breeding business from Miguel, studying under the master. I had every intention of establishing a business that would enable the house to turn a profit and ensure my future.

Miguel and I often dined alfresco. We enjoyed watching the horses running free in the enclosure. Despite Miguel’s initial hesitation, he soon relented to my insistence that we eat off the finest plates and drink from silver goblets. The cook prepared flavorsome dishes and delighted us with his exotic recipes, a luxury we both appreciated. During one of those long, warm evenings, after several bottles of wine, Miguel revealed his dream of working with Andalusians.

He leaned forward with fire in his eyes. “Andalusians have an exceptional temperament,” he said, “and a tranquil presence. Perfect mount for a picador.”

I found his description appealing, and his portrait of the horse, with its generous frame, arched neck, and sculptured beauty, convinced me he might just be onto something.

Chapter 10

THE OLD BUTLER told me to wait.

It had seemed more like an order. The central iron chandelier hung low in the unfamiliar grand foyer.

Considering whether accepting Señor Moran’s invitation had been a mistake, I knew my chance to go home had been lost.

Aged twenty-four years, I’d reinvented myself, reflecting nothing of the boy. Even my walk appeared different. I took longer strides with my head held high. My gait reflected pride and my manner confidence.

Miguel’s vision had became my own. We’d established ourselves as Spain’s most successful Andalusian horse breeders. Spellbound, Miguel and I would linger at the paddock gate, admiring the ethereal vision of our cantering Andalusians, enchanted by their extraordinary sense of balance, natural grace, and astonishing ability to learn quickly, proving them invaluable in the bullring.

Our success had aggrandized the house of Velde, the very reason why an invitation to tonight’s soirée from such a renowned family brought no surprise.

The estate had been built on royal land, and the home’s varied history was reflected in its structure. Although in need of repair, its character remained and white washed walls loomed. Here in the entrance, glorious broad pillars rose up, providing a Romanesque air.

Music carried.

Señor Moran greeted me and with pride he relayed that his youngest son, Salvador, had just returned from a military excursion to the Canary Islands, on a mission to vanquish the native Guanche uprising.

With a convincing nod, I appeared interested when he conveyed that the Vespers were renowned for their thuggish tactics. Apparently, the fight had been bloody.

My intrigue into his son’s achievements earned me approval. We strolled down the longest corridor I’d ever seen. How easily brick and mortar can intimidate.

Having access to skillful tailors ensured I blended in. Fine clothes have always made the man and I was grateful for this. Although eager to impress upon my host the advantage of replacing his entire stock with Spain’s finest horses, I’d have to parley into the subject naturally. Mention it too soon and I’d appear desperate, bring it up too late and the moment could be lost.

The grand ballroom opened up before us. Two hundred or so guests mingled. An extensive gathering of family and friends shared in the festivities. The décor reflected a homey philosophy, simple but comfortable.

My unease relented when Señor Moran’s wife, Renee, hugged me warmly. She introduced me to Cornelius, her eldest son, and then her youngest, the man of the moment, Salvador. Wearing his captain’s uniform, Salvador cut a striking figure. Both brothers had inherited their mother’s appealing features, not their father’s. Something they both must have been grateful for.

Despite Salvador remaining seated, his majestic height was clearly evidenced by his long legs, one of them crossed over the other, his left foot resting on the lower rung of his brother’s chair. He was bestowed with rugged good looks, and by the way he raised an eyebrow during our introduction, Salvador knew it. But the playful smile with which he greeted me made up for his spirited loftiness.

He directed me to sit beside him and I accepted the large goblet of plum wine he handed me. His air of confidence would have thrown me if it weren’t for my belief that I belonged.

This dashing captain appeared to be the quintessential man’s man. I found myself staring at him and in return he stared back, until his intense brown-eyed gaze forced me to look away.

My attention turned to his mother, Señora Renee. Sipping my third glass of wine, I easily conversed with her. All the Morans had an easy charm, it seemed. Her kindheartedness reminded me of my own mother. Fearful of spiraling into melancholy, my attention turned back on Salvador. Something about him fascinated me. His unassuming demeanor reflected wisdom.

A tap on my shoulder caused me to turn.

Señor Moran smiled. “Señor Velde, may I introduce a dear friend.”

I rose up, biting hard on my inner cheek. I knew this face, though I’d never met the man.

Senator Felipe Grenaldi’s likeness to his image in the portrait was uncanny. The artist had captured his crooked mouth and his receding hair line. He’d aged well, easily hiding his fifty-years. When we shook hands, I felt moisture on his palm. Felipe gave a smile that quickly faded.

Señor Moran patted my arm. “The senator’s interested in purchasing an Andalusian,” he said.

I nodded, my stare not leaving Felipe’s.

“Business should never be discussed in front of a lady.” He turned to face me. “Shall we?” He gestured to the garden.

As Felipe led me away from the table, he said, “They’ve certainly picked a good evening for their party.”

Stone-faced, I concentrated on keeping my jaw relaxed, not wanting to give away any tension. In a single night, I’d mastered his signature and used the skill to deprive this stranger of his inheritance, and I wondered if he knew.

Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. I glanced up indicating I’d noticed.

The gardens were sprawling. Two gentlemen passed by heading back into the house.

“How’s the ranch?” Felipe asked appearing casual.

“Good.”

“Affluence agrees with you,” he said.

“I have a good stallion for you. He’s temperamental but nevertheless fast.”

“Señor Moran misspoke.”

“I’m sorry. I thought he suggested—”

“I have a proposition,” he said. “I’d like to invest in your ranch. Help establish your business.”

“It’s a generous offer, but—”

“I could further your reputation.”

Something about the way he favored his right leg, flicked the fingers of his right hand against his thigh—an impatient trait—seemed familiar and yet the painting had been the only time I’d ever seen him.

“A royal seal will advance your success,” he said.

I turned to go. “Let me know if you change your mind about that horse.”

“Roelle had a tendency to be unruly, but you know that.”

I faced him again.

“Such a long time ago,” he said. “But I haven’t forgotten him.”

I didn’t want to say that I had. No happy memories there, none worth their time, anyway.

Felipe slid both hands into his pockets. “Roelle was the only one to die in the fire.”

I nodded.

Felipe squinted. “I still believe it was foul play.”

“Have you known Señor Moran long?” I asked.

“Long enough. You were there that night?”

“Where’s this heading?”

“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking with?”

I shrugged.

“I never got answers,” he said.

“We were all devastated.”

He gave a look of surprise.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said.