Authors: Brenda Joyce

House of Dreams (13 page)

BOOK: House of Dreams

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“No, thanks,” Cass managed, wondering if she had entered the Twilight Zone. Very determinedly she studied her feet as they moved one after the other. “Remember? I'm only here for the weekend.” But she could not shake an image of her aunt now, pleading with her not to go to Castilla, and not to let Tracey and Alyssa go, either.

They paused in front of Tracey's bedroom door. “Cass, you're thirty-two going on ninety, destined for spinsterhood like Aunt Catherine. But it's not too late to change.” Tracey touched her. “You're my sister. I want you to be happy. I really do.”

Cass managed a brief, brittle smile. “I'll think about it,” she lied.

“I'll see you at supper, then.” Tracey hesitated, then hugged her, hard. Then she slipped into her room. Cass found herself staring at the closed door.

Thirty-two going on ninety.
Distined for spinsterhood.

Making a fool of herself.

Entertaining Antonio â¦ babbling on.

And for a moment, Cass just stood there grimly. This, she thought, would be
the
weekend to remember.

It was almost midnight. Alyssa was sleeping, and Tracey's door remained shutâalthough Cass felt quite certain that she was not inside. Cass was hesitant as she made her way downstairs, her slides clicking loudly on the stone floors. The night outside was thick, dark, and starless, without any breeze. She was tense. Far tenser than made any sense. She could not sleep.

Supper had been a miserable affair, with her refusing to look at their hostâafraid she would blush if she did so even though by now she was feeling that she had been thoroughly manipulated by her sister. If so, it had worked. She was determined to stay as far away from Antonio as was possible. It had put a damper on the eveningâand a damper on the entire weekend. Tracey, of course, had chattered away for most of the meal, in very high spirits apparently, and the two children had seemed to get along well. Antonio hadn't said much. He had appeared tired. Uncharitably, Cass could imagine why.

The house was so dark.

Cass shivered. There were wall sconces lining the corridor and the stairs, but their lights were small and flickering. And the house was so quiet. There was no sound of air conditioners or fans, no TV, no radio, and there weren't any exterior noises eitherâeven at Belford House, one could hear the occasional car on the road, the barking dogs, the whickering of a horse or a cowbell. It was almost eerie.

At all costs, don't go to Castilla â¦

Oh, balderdash!
Cass thought with exasperation. As much as it hurt to admit it, her aunt was irrational when it came to the subject of the de la Barcas. That made sense. Nothing else did.

Cass paused in the central hall by the entryway. She slowly looked around. And one by one, the hairs on her nape rose.

She glanced around again, but she was alone. Why was she so nervous? Everyone in the house was asleep. There was no reason to be nervous or uneasy; Cass had never been afraid of the dark before, and she wasn't afraid of the dark now. Except that she almost felt as if someone or something was lurking around the corner or in the shadows, about to jump out at her.

“Christ,” she muttered irritably.

She thought about Alyssa, sleeping soundly upstairs. Once again she'd felt uneasy when leaving her there, even though she knew her anxiety was unfounded. It occurred to her that she could turn around and go back upstairs; she could pick up a book or go on-line and surf the Web. She'd brought her laptop with her; she never traveled without it.

Finally Cass continued down the next hallway. She had one weekend in Castilla in which to explore. She was a history nut to begin with, but her curiosity about the history of her family and its connection to the de la Barcas had been thoroughly aroused in the past few days. The mystery of Isabel de Warenne remained in the forefront of her mind. And since the weekend wasn't turning out the way she had expectedânot that she'd had very much time to ponder itâshe might as well satisfy her own burning curiosity rather than dwell on Tracey's torrid love affair or Catherine's involvement in Eduardo's death. Or the fact that Antonio had actually taken the time and made the effort to go over police files that were thirty years old.

Cass shivered again, this time her heart sinking with sickening intensity. Her game plan was to focus on the pastâthe far past, as in the sixteenth centuryâand avoid any and all references to her aunt and Antonio's father if he ever broached the topic again.

The first step was to view Isabel's portrait. Maybe she had misunderstood Antonio. Maybe the portrait was in the opposite corridor downstairs, not upstairs. Cass suddenly faltered.

The last door in this wing of the house was open, and the room beyond was well lit. It was a libraryâbookshelves lined the one wall Cass could glimpseâand Antonio was bent over a huge desk. She stared at him for one instant, thought, Shit, and turned abruptly around.

But not before he glanced up, seeing her.

Cass hesitated, about to flee, and he said, “Cassandra?”

Cass swore to herself again. He was now the last person she wished to seeâright? Slowly she turned around.

He was standing.

Cass heard her heart drumming. She hesitated, and said, “Hi.”

He smiled, moving to the doorway. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

Somehow, Cass drifted forward. “So did I.” She couldn't help wondering what he was working on.

He just stared.

Cass actually felt herself begin to blush. Christâher sister had been right!

She looked away, anywhere but at him, and took a quick inventory of the room. Bookcases lined two walls, crammed to overflowing not just with books, but with folders and papers. Another wall held a large fireplace with a black marble mantel; his desk was freestanding. The walls were painted moss green, the ceiling, boasting circular starpatterned plaster in its center and panels with various motifs, pink and gold. Most of the furniture was shabby and tired, and two sets of wide doors opened onto the grounds in front of the house.

He had been working. The desk was covered with notes, open books, and more notes. There was a glass of brandy on it, as well.

“I hope I'm not interrupting.”

“Of course not.” He removed his tortoiseshell eyeglasses. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked.

Cass almost gaped. “I â¦ actually, I was hoping for a glimpse of Isabel's portrait.”

His eyes brightened. “How remiss of me. I offered you a viewing at your home in Sussex, but in the confusion of your arrival today, I completely forgot about it. I apologize.”

Cass stared. “Antonio, I'm the one who is sorry.” The words spilled forth unbidden. “I had no idea we were arriving without an invitation.”

“I am aware that you were not involved in your sister's scheme,” he said simply, a slight, wry smile on his mouth.

He had made that so easy. Cass stared. He was wearing a small but substantially wrought gold cross on a chain on his chest, and it had caught her attention.

“But now that you are here, I truly wish for you to enjoy your stay in Castilla,” he said.

Cass met his hazel eyes, which seemed black in the night. “I do not think I have ever met anyone as polite as you. You should toss us all out on our backsides.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, washing over Cass like melted chocolate. “Cassandra. I never say what I do not mean.”

Cass looked away. His eyes were just too intense. “What are you working on?”

“I am trying to compile the history of my familyâas my father attempted to do.”

Cass looked up slowly.

He turned casually away, fingering the papers on his desk. “It will take me months to file all of his notes and records.” He turned. “Shall we?”

“Shall we?” she echoed.

“Her portrait is upstairs.” And with his eyes lighting up, he went to his desk and picked up what Cass saw was a photograph of the ruby necklace. “Come.” He smiled, inclining his head.

Cass preceded him out of the library and into the corridor. She glanced at his profile as she fell into step beside him. “The portrait. The portrait of Isabel de Warenne,” she asked eagerly. “Do the necklaces match?”

His smile was brief, his gaze as brief but penetrating. “You will judge for yourself.”

“I can't wait,” Cass said, meaning it.

They had reached the landing on the second floor of the house. It was the same hall where she and Tracey had fought just a few hours earlier. She followed him halfway down the corridor, then paused behind him as he pushed open a door. And Cass followed him into a night-darkened room.

He hit the wall switch, but nothing happened.

Cass didn't moveâit was almost impossible to seeâas he groped his way around what had to be a bed. She heard another switch clicking, but no light came on.

“I'll have to get a bulb,” he said, moving past her in the dark. “I'll be right back.”

Cass's eyes widenedâshe almost told him to wait, she'd go with himâbut he was gone.

Her tension mounted dramatically.

Which was absurdâshe was only in a pitch black room. Cass was about to retreat to the hall outside, when her every instinct went into overdrive.

She paused. Straining to hear; straining to see.

Which made absolutely no sense, for there was nothing to see, and certainly nothing to hear, unless it was a mouse. Right? There was no reason for her to feel alerted or alarmed.

But she was alarmed, and nervous as all hell, and the room was far cooler than she had realizedâor had the temperature just dropped? Cass hugged herself. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, while unease continued to creep along her spine. The bed, another canopied affair, began to emerge from the shadows. The room felt large; she felt
isolated and alone. Cass suddenly became aware of something elseâshe sniffed the air. A very faint floral scent was present.

She realized she did not like this room, even though she hadn't seen it. She did not like it at all. Cass was about to walk into the hall; instead, she did not move at all.

Something was very wrong, but what?

The room was freezing cold, but the air was thick and stuffy. So what? Actually, the atmosphere was more than thick, it was heavy, but then, the Castilian night had felt heavy and oppressive all evening. Her imagination was running away with her. That had to be itânothing was different or wrong. Just like nothing was wrong with her own bedroom upstairs.

On the other hand, maybe something was wrong with this entire damned house.

She wanted to walk out, but her feet seemed to be cement blocks. And suddenly the floral scent was there, wafting around her, thick and sickeningly sweet. And so terribly overpowering.

Suddenly panicked, Cass stepped out of the room. But alone in the long hallway, with the wall sconces casting flickering lights and dancing shadows, she did not feel relieved or relaxed. In fact, her shoulders were as stiff as a board. Tension pounded along her neck and invaded her shoulders. She could hardly move them, she could hardly breathe.

“You coward,” she tried to whisper, but she couldn't seem to get enough air and her words were a hoarse croak.

Where the hell had that perfume come from?

Vents, was her first thought. But her room, and Tracy's, were on the other side of the house, the courtyard between them. They were the only women in the house. And neither one of them wore sweet perfume.

Suddenly Antonio was approaching, lightbulb in hand. “Actually,” he said, when he came closer, “I put bulbs in the other day. They must have been old or defective.” His gaze became searching. “Are you all right?”

Cass wet her lips. “I'm behaving like a wimp. That room made me nervous,” she admitted somewhat reluctantly.

For one moment he regarded her, and then he said, “It's not a pleasant room.”

Cass gaped as he walked back inside. Then she rushed after him. What did that mean?

An instant later, one beside lamp came on.

Cass glanced quickly around, expecting all of her silly unease to vanish. It did not. In fact, it heightened. And she really saw nothing of the room, not the huge bed, not the Oriental rugs, the chairs and settee, the small writing desk. Her gaze slammed to a halt on the portrait hanging over the fireplace.

“Isabel de la Barca,” Antonio said, his tone hushed.

Cass didn't move.

She stared.

She stared at Isabel de Warenne.

The woman in the portrait, a young woman with alabaster skin and red-gold hair peeking out from beneath her headdress, stared right back at her.

BOOK: House of Dreams

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