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Authors: Brenda Joyce

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BOOK: House of Dreams
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His eyes flashed. “Communicate? Or negotiate?”
“Both,” Cass replied unsteadily. She would do anything, even sell her soul to Isabel herself, to get the children back, and safely.
Something banged outside.
Cass almost leapt out of her skin. In unison they whirled, facing the direction the noise had come from. It sounded as if someone or something had crashed into the front of the house.
Another thud sounded, hugely, perhaps against the front door.
“What in God's name is that?” Antonio demanded.
They exchanged glances. “I don't have a clue,” Cass whispered. Isabel? Tracey? The wind?
There was no wind. Spain's central plateau was hot and dry in the summer.
Antonio started determinedly forward.
Insanely, Cass wished he were armed. She ran after him. “Stop.” She gripped him from behind. “What if we are all wrong? What if a murderer is out there—a real live person, someone armed? You don't have a weapon.”
“Your sister might be out there—and she is the most likely murderess I can think of,” he replied.
Cass recoiled. “She is not in her right mind.”
“And does that justify her sins?” he pressed, striding down the hall.
“Are you now a judge and jury? Are you even the law?” Cass said bitterly.
“I will protect my son—and your family, and you, Cassandra—in whatever way I must.”
“Then go answer the fucking door,” Cass said coldly.
He turned and answered the door.
And the moment he opened the door, something dark rushed into the room. Cass screamed.
An instant later the something became a someone—Gregory, dark and bloody, crashing prone to the floor at his brother's feet.
Cass cried out again. And she realized Gregory was terribly hurt—his forehead was gashed, and blood had stained one side of his face and his shirt. His clothes were torn and dirty. Antonio dropped down beside him, lifting him into his arms, cradling him.
Cass's heart resumed its beating, erratically. She glanced past the twin brothers, at the open front door—into the yawning chasm of the Castilian night. She didn't think twice. Malevolence filled the night. She ran to the door and slammed it closed, bolting it.
As if bolting it would keep Isabel away.
Then she turned to face the brothers.
What has happened?
“How badly is he hurt?”
“His head is bashed front and back,” Antonio said hoarsely. And he held him hard against his chest.
“I'll get the first aid kit,” Cass said.
Isabel.
Could Isabel have done this? They still didn't know just what she was physically capable of.
The kit remained in the library. Cass did not wait for Antonio to answer, she ran through the house. And as she ran, it crossed her mind that Tracey wasn't in the house.
No. Tracey could not have done that. Absolutely not.
Cass felt the urge to vomit. Her stomach was so sick. The first aid kit was on the floor beside piles of books. Cass faltered. So was her laptop. But she couldn't ignore Gregory. Without a word, she delivered the kit to Antonio and returned to the library, drawn to her laptop.
Her pulse began a slow, heavy, dreadful pounding, Cass glanced from the laptop to the windows. It was night now. The sky was dark and slick, gleaming black, with very few, very distant stars. Cass shivered and walked over to the laptop, powering on.
Her pulse increased. A message. A negotiation. A plea. How the hell should she proceed?
What did Isabel really want?
Cass cringed. She was certain she wanted vengeance. But that was not the answer she wished to receive.
Cass watched as her Word program came on. She started to choose an oversized font, then realized it did not matter. She typed out the words.
ISABEL. WHAT DO YOU WANT?
Cass hesitated. Then she highlighted the phrase, copied it, and keyed in the function paste—again and again, until her screen was filled with the question.
“Miss de Warenne?”
Cass ignored Celia. It was do or die. Maybe even literally. She had to speak with Isabel, really speak with her, just the way hostage negotiators spoke with kidnappers, but she was only a fiction writer, and a coward to boot.
And the night was only just beginning. The clock in the corner of the library was just striking 10:00 P.M.
ISABEL. WHAT DO YOU WANT? Cass typed again.
“Cassandra,” Celia cried with urgency and desperation.
Cass's gaze flew from her screen to the older woman. But Celia wasn't even looking her way. She was gazing beyond Cass, at the doorway.
Slowly Cass turned.
Tracey stood in the doorway, staring at her, her blue eyes brilliant, piercing. “Yes?” she said.
And Cass knew it was Isabel.
London with its many towers, spires, and rooftops came into view as the Flemish ship bearing Isabel, Helen, and her infant son moved up the Thames. The waters were sluggish and black, the air was thick and wet, it was unusually hot out, and Isabel had already heard that the sweating sickness had come yet again to London. But the city was the most wondrous sight she had ever beheld, and as she stared past the Tower Bridge to Saint Paul's graceful spires, tears filled her eyes. Home. She had come home at last.
“I never expected to see the city so soon, and not under these circumstances,” Helen said quietly.
Isabel's pulse pounded. She did not reply. Helen only knew half of the truth. Isabel bent to kiss the head of her son, Philip, named in honor of the Spanish king and Queen Mary's husband. She was afraid.
“I hope your husband will forgive you, Isabel,” Helen admonished.
Isabel looked at her grim expression. Helen thought Isabel had left Spain to surprise her husband, bearing the gift of their child. But she was wrong.
Isabel had run away—and she never intended to return.
The ship was sliding into its berth. Isabel kissed Philip again, who slept peacefully in her arms. He had been born easily, awakening with a howl—and he was pale of complexion, his hair so blond it was almost white, his eyes brilliantly blue. Isabel had never loved anyone the way
she loved her child. When she looked at him, the most wondrous feeling, a blending of joy and love which made her feel as if she might take wing and fly off into the sky, filled her breast. And when she looked at him, she also saw Rob.
Alvarado, should he ever glimpse the child, would instantly know the truth.
“Well?” Helen said, “We must make inquiries and find out where the court now resides. We must not set a single foot in the city with so many dead about.”
“The court is at Oatlands,” Isabel said nervously.
“Good. I will make arrangements for a litter and horses,” Helen said.
She had turned away. Isabel caught her arm. “We are not going to court, Helen,” she said quietly.
Helen blinked. “I beg pardon?”
“You did hear me the first time. We are not to court.” Isabel stared.
Helen's hands fisted on her hips. “And what monkey mischief are you about now, Isabel?”
“We are to Carew Hall. We are to Lord Montgomery.”
Helen stared at her as if she had spoken Latin or Greek.
“I am leaving my husband. Do not say one word! My decision is final, and Douglas will help me.” But even as she spoke, Isabel was aware of precisely what it was that she was doing—and of the price she could pay. Her husband was not a lenient or even a kind man. He would never forgive her this treachery. He would seek to somehow punish her for it.
But Isabel had no choice. The child was clearly not his. And she needed Rob, desperately. She needed him as her lover, her friend, and the father of her son. Surely he would keep them both safe—especially as he was now a widower. He could hardly turn away his mistress and the mother of his child.
She assumed he was at court. But she did not dare seek him out there—for her husband would be there, as well. She needed a go-between.
Montgomery had said if ever she needed a friend, he would be there.
She needed a friend now.
Helen stared, aghast. “You have lost all of your wits,” she said finally. “And I beg you, do not do this!”
Tears filled Isabel's eyes. “Helen, he will take one look at Philip and know the truth.”
“Not if you convince him that your son resembles you!” Helen cried. They had never discussed the issue of Philip's paternity, just as they had never discussed Isabel's affair. But Isabel was certain that Helen knew all.
Isabel now stared, because she had never seen her companion so agitated—her mouth was actually trembling, as if she might weep real tears. “I cannot live my life with him. I cannot live in that cold, inhospitable land, in that dark, dreary, melancholic house, growing old, not just in age, but in humor, in my heart. I cannot stand being surrounded by servants who despise me because I am a foreigner, servants who do not understand a word I say. I cannot bear waiting for him to return, waiting to please him, to bear him another son, when I cannot even tolerate his touch. Not when it is another that I love. And does not Philip deserve to know his real father?”
Helen reached for the railing. She had paled considerably. “Philip's father is Alvarado de la Barca. You destroy yourself,” she whispered. “May God have mercy on you.”
 
 
“Isabel?” Montgomery came striding into the hall of the manor house he had inherited from his first wife, eyes wide. He halted at the sight of them all, his gaze on Isabel.
She could not look away from his mesmerizing eyes, not for a very long moment, and in that moment her pulse seemed to riot uncontrollably. Isabel was nearly paralyzed.
He recovered first, coming forward, his gaze now slipping to Helen and the baby, and then he bowed over her hand. “Countess, what a surprise. I thought you to be happily in Spain—in your husband's lands.” He looked up, his gaze searching.
Isabel felt like weeping. “I beg a word with you privately, my lord.”
His blue eyes moved over her face, slipped to her beautiful blond child once again, and he nodded. He took her elbow firmly. “Come with me.”
A moment later he was closing the door to a small chamber, and they were alone.
Isabel's heart continued to beat with undue force. It was so hard to speak.
He studied her. “I am afraid of what happenstance it is that brings you to me,” he finally said quietly.
“You told me once, not long ago, that you would be my friend if ever I was in need,” she replied breathlessly—desperately.
He nodded, grim. “'Twas a vow I made, not just to you, but to myself. I do not break my word, Isabel.”
He was an astounding man, Isabel thought wearily. A fine, honorable man. “My husband does not know that I am in England.”
“I suspected as much.” He came forward, gripping her arms, worry etched all over his strong face. “Isabel—”
“I have run away,” she cried.
He paled.
She just stared at him, beginning to tremble, an image of her beautiful child there in her mind. “I fear for my son's life, dear God. I fear God will punish him for
my
sins. I fear my husband's wrath when he sees Philip. I fear to become old and haggard, unloved and alone, I fear so much, Douglas … I fear to die in that horrid land and to remain there for all eternity!” And it was a plea.
Somehow he moved closer, somehow she was in his strong, solid, oddly familiar embrace—as if he had held her this way, intimately, as lovers do, many times before. But of course, he had not. “No, do not fear,” he murmured, as Isabel became aware of his height and strength and even the warmth of his body.
“I cannot go back,” Isabel whispered. Her skirts were crushed against his thighs, his arms were hard around her back, and suddenly their eyes met. And she knew. She knew as surely as she knew the sun would set that night that he would kiss her, and he did.
For a brief eternity, his lips plied hers, soft and tender, and then suddenly they stepped apart.
Isabel stared at him in shock.
His expression was hardly stunned. It was grim.
She backed away. Her hand found her mouth. “I … I came here to beg a favor,” she heard herself whisper roughly. “I came here to beg you to get word to Rob.”
He laughed harshly, once. “I suspected so.”
“The child—”
“Is de Warenne's,” he finished for her. “Isabel, you play with fire. You must not continue this deadly game. De la Barca will never forgive you your treachery.”
“And that is why I have run away!” she cried. “That, and I cannot live without love, having found it once. Can you not understand?”
“Did you find love with de Warenne?” he asked angrily.
She did not like his look or his tone. “Of course I have.”
He stared, jaw flexed. There was so much anger in his eyes, on his face.
“Why do you look at me that way? Why?” She was growing frightened.
“I want you to return to your husband. Mark me well, Isabel—I, who love you unselfishly. De la Barca will hunt you down if you do this, and no one, not even I, will be able to protect you from his wrath.”
She shivered. “How can I return? How? The child is obviously Rob's. And Rob will protect me—he will protect us.”
“You will lie through your teeth,” he nearly shouted. “You will love him and lie to him, and convince him the child is his!”
Isabel shrank away, for she had never seen him in such a temper.
He paced. And when he faced her, he had recovered his composure, but barely and with difficulty. “Isabel. I am afraid he will kill you for this. You must go back to him.”
She hugged herself. “He will kill me if I return, even if I lie, slowly, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. I hate Spain! I hate the Spanish people! And his touch.” She shuddered. “'Tis Rob I love and need,” she implored.
He strode to her. And suddenly he was shaking her. “When will you awaken? When?” He was shouting again.
“I do not comprehend you,” she cried. “And you are hurting me!”
He released her. But his fists remained clenched. “Rob de Warenne serves no master but himself. Yet to do so, he must be very clever. Your husband serves the queen's husband. Can you not understand? De Warenne will never risk his neck to keep you and the child!” He was shouting at her again.
“You are wrong,” she said, tears falling. “You are wrong.”
He turned away, but Isabel had glimpsed something in his eyes, and she rushed after him. “What is it that you know that you do not tell me?” she cried.
He slowly turned, but did not speak.
Panic filled her, and with it, an inkling. “Douglas?” She could barely utter his name.
“He has a new mistress, Isabel.”
She lay in his bed, ravaged. Her mind refused to think. There was only the heartrending pain in her breast, a pain she had been living with for the past two days.
In the antechamber outside, she heard Philip begin to cry, but she could not get up. The hungry cries ceased. Isabel heard Helen hushing the child, and in her mind's eye, she could envision her companion rocking her son.
Rob has a new mistress.
Her grief knew no bounds; it was unbearable.
“My God, what is this?” her husband exclaimed in the antechamber.
Isabel's entire body stiffened with tension. He had come; the games would now begin.
The games she would play for the rest of her life.
Isabel wanted to die.
They were speaking, her husband and Helen, but Isabel hardly heard. She must recover all of her composure now, all theatrical abilities, for she must deceive her husband and deceive him well. Her son's life and future were at stake. And that was why she would live—and outwit her master now.
His heavy, heeled footsteps sounded. Isabel knew he paused on the threshold of the bedchamber, and she opened her eyes, sitting up slowly.
He stood there, staring, a resplendent figure in a burgundy velvet waistcoat that was bejeweled and embroidered. His eyes were wide; he did not smile.
Isabel smiled. “Surprise, my lord,” she said softly—seductively.
He remained motionless.
Isabel slipped from the bed, clad in a low-cut crimson gown gilded with gold thread. Her bosom was mostly bare, her waist nipped in to impossible dimensions. And she had bathed in her favorite fragrance—violets. The scent seemed to fill the room.
His gaze slid over her. “Indeed, this is a surprise,” he said, in heavily accented but precise English.
Isabel was surprised. “My lord, how well you speak,” she cried—as if with delight.
“I have been at court for long enough,” he said flatly.
Isabel moved toward him. “I have come bearing you the greatest gift a lady might bear her lord,” she said, moving into his arms. “Have you seen your son?” And she pressed against him, smiling.
His hands closed on her shoulders, and it went through Isabel's numb, dazed mind that she was succeeding in yet another deceit. He said, “And is it my son, my dear?”
It took her a moment to comprehend his words, as she had been rising up onto her toes to kiss his cheek. She blinked.
“Did you not hear me?” he asked, dangerously low.
Oh God, he was aware of the truth, of her betrayals and treachery, of her adultery. Isabel's instinct was to step back, away from him, but she did not do so, overcoming a sudden, vast revulsion for the man she had married. Indeed, she pressed closer to him. “Of course, my lord. What kind of question do you ask? Do you jest now, about our son?” she said, coyly, batting her lashes at him. When her pulse had found a new and frantic beating, one filled with a real and awful fear.
He released her so abruptly that she stumbled and would have fallen had she not landed against the wall. He disappeared, only to reappear with pages of vellum in his hand. He shook them at her. “Is it my son?” he demanded, his eyes as black as a thunderstorm.
She was unable to comprehend what he was doing—and what it was that he held. “Of course,” she said, and she smiled. “How could you doubt me?”
He smiled at her, but the smile was merciless, and he read, “‘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.'” He looked up at her, dropped her letter to the floor, and read anew. “‘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 and the child, dearest Isabel?'”
Isabel stared at him, stunned. He had her letters. He had Rob's letters. The implications were only just beginning to sink in.
He strode to her and flung the page filled with Rob's carefully scripted handwriting into her face. “Should I continue, dearest Isabel?”
He had intercepted her letters. He had stolen Rob's letters. She began to tremble, and she was truly afraid.
“I did not believe it, you know,” he said savagely. His entire body was shaking. “The rumors of you and him. My beautiful wife, cuckolding
me, not behind my back—in front of my face. I did not believe any of it, not even when I saw the way de Warenne would watch you—for so many of the courtiers would watch you as he did, Isabel, my beauteous wife. But then, then I saw this.” He bent and grabbed the letter she had written to Rob on the eve of last Christmastide. “And then I saw his letters to you! Speak, goddamn you, speak!”
He was shouting, he was enraged, but Isabel could not move, not even to save herself from his wrath.
“Will you not speak?” he screamed.
Tears came—and fell. “I have loved him since I was fifteen,” she whispered.
He struck her. So hard that she knew he had shattered the bones in her face, and she fell, sobbing, to the hard stone floor.
In the antechamber outside, she heard Philip begin to cry.
And above her, she heard Helen plead, “My lord, have mercy on her, please.”
“Get out!” Alvarado shouted.
The kick to her ribs took her by surprise, and she curled over, overcome by waves of excruciating pain. But he was hauling her upright to her feet. “Is the child mine?” he shouted at her as she staggered in the throes of dizziness.
“No,” Isabel heard herself say.
He backhanded her another time across the face and Isabel was knocked anew to the floor.
“Whore,” he shouted down at her, and then she heard him move, whirl, leave. The door slammed shut behind him.
Isabel began to weep, as much from the pain as from the fear.
“Oh God.” Helen knelt over her, her hands soft.
Isabel cried out.
“Oh, God! Let me get compresses, oh, Isabel!” Helen leapt up and was gone.
Philip was howling now.
Philip. Her son. Rob's son.
No, not Rob's son, never his son—only hers. She had to get up, she had to go to her son, and together they must flee—for their very lives.
Isabel tried to push herself up onto her hands and knees. But the pain in her middle was so intense that she cried out instead, and then the waves of blackness came.
Isabel fought, and failed.
The darkness fell, and it was a brief blessing.
BOOK: House of Dreams
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