by Karen Kay
The fire from the central wall was the only lighting in the room and in the late hour of the afternoon, it threw eerie-looking shadows against the wood-paneled walls.
Estrela shivered as she studied the paintings hung on the room’s walls, paintings of long-dead men and of tragedy, of wars and murders. A deep-red, silk curtain fell down over, and completely covered, one huge painting, and Estrela wondered what sort of image the curtain hid.
A memory stirred, was almost there within her consciousness, then gone.
She stared at the picture again. Odd to have the painting hidden. Why?
Estrela had no answers. She looked up then, where she glanced at several different coats of arms that lined the ceiling. She didn’t recognize any of them, nor did the sculptured wood that lay over each entryway into the room arouse any memories.
She kept glancing around. A bouquet of flowers drooped over their silver casing as the bunch sat on the central table, while a dark brown, Chinese rug lay in part over the floor, the entire effect adding to the dreary atmosphere that hung over the room as though it were a dark, smoke-filled fog.
Truly, it was an odd place.
The new Earl was quick to join them, however, and he begged them to sit, to relax, to enjoy their tea while his household servants and maids attended to their rooms and to their dinner.
He was a small man, this new Earl. A plump man, yet he was friendly and graciously entertaining and for this Estrela was grateful.
And as the company of three Indians, one Prince and one Duke sat, stretching out before the great fire and relating the adventures of their trip, the two ladies, each with their maids, sat quietly, the Duchess of Colchester asleep in her chair while Estrela looked everywhere, her gaze catching again and again on the picture hidden behind a red, silk curtain.
Chapter Nineteen
It was only a matter of moments before the servants returned to the drawing room, there collecting individual guests from the arriving party and escorting each to his or her respective room.
The upstairs maid ushered Estrela to her chambers, announcing the usual dinner hour and the “rules of the house” at the same time. “Doors must be locked after midnight,” she said, and “no reading in bed.” The last an odd rule, Estrela thought as the maid departed.
Once inside the bedroom, though, Estrela glanced around her chambers. The walls were a dark, paneled oak, the floors a hardwood maple. A worn, faded rug lay over one end of the room and chairs were strewn through the chambers as though placed there in haphazard haste.
The sturdy, four-posted oak bed took up one entire side of the room and from its posts hung beige curtains, decorated with green and red flowers.
Again, as in the drawing room, dreary paintings hung over the walls and Estrela wondered at the history of the old Earl’s lineage.
“Do ye wish t’ rest before dinner, M’lady? Shall I postpone unpacking until t’en?”
Estrela looked over to Anna, whose room lay just beyond her own. “A nap sounds wonderful, Anna,” Estrela said. “Thank you for suggesting it. Perhaps you could rest, too?”
“Per’aps.”
Estrela smiled and Anna, after seeing to the bed and pulling back the coverlet and linen sheets, retired from the room.
Estrela lay down on the bed, pulled up the covers and, sighing, closed her eyes.
“She cannot stay here,” a tired, old voice said. “It is not safe for her.”
“But Your Majesty, where shall I take her?”
“France? Germany? Belgium? No not Belgium. You must take her someplace where no one will find her. Someone knows of her descent, someone whose hatred for her grows ever stronger.”
“It cannot be, Your Majesty.”
The older gentleman sighed. “I am afraid it is so. Now, go, while it is still safe. Go before they know how you run and where. It is the only way.”
Estrela awoke with a start. Afraid, her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she scanned the now-darkened room.
Who had spoken?
Was someone else in her room or were the very walls talking?
For comfort, she lit the wax candle next to her bed, the flickering light adding a hushed element to the already eerie atmosphere of the room. She glanced about the room once again.
The windows, directly in front of her were closed, the drapes covering them standing still, with no breeze to disturb them. On each wall hung paintings, the pictures carefully mounted in richly carved frames, their presence adding a certain depth to the room. And it was at those paintings that Estrela now stared, examining each one as best she could in the dim candlelight. Mostly the paintings were of men, dark men staring out from the canvas, though now and again, she caught a depiction of a war scene or that of an execution; no ladies, no children, no paintings of quiet, idyllic scenes, no family portraits. And despite herself, she shivered in the chill of the evening air.
Were these rooms haunted?
She had never envisioned that she would have such a reaction at just visiting a place, yet she could not deny that she felt afraid. And the strange thing was that she felt she should remember more about this house where she had spent several years of her life. She hadn’t been that young when they had left here, five years of age, perhaps six.
But she didn’t. She remembered very little.
“It is not haunted.”
Estrela jumped.
And before she could assimilate the fact that it was Black Bear’s voice she heard, he stepped out from a darkened shadow in the room.
“What?” she asked, her voice breathless. “Black Bear, what do you mean it’s not haunted? This room or the house?”
“Both,” he said, stepping more fully into the room and advancing toward her where she lay in the bed. “It was what you were wondering.”
She gulped before replying. “Yes, but are you sure?” It was odd. She didn’t question his presence in her room; she didn’t ponder how he knew her thoughts. Such things had become natural to her, to him, to them both. “Why do I feel so odd here?” she asked after a moment.
He shrugged. “I do not know. I can only tell you that the gloom you feel, that I feel, too, is recent. The past does not haunt this place, only the present.”
She glanced at him quickly. “What do you mean?”
Again, he shrugged. “I have been asking questions. I have learned just now that many of the old servants in this place have met with death—and recently.”
Estrela drew back, her eyes widening.
“It was perhaps not wise that we have come here. But since we stay only the night or two, it may not be too bad. I have seen one thing here, though, that concerns me.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“A raven.”
“A raven? Why should this trouble you?”
He hesitated. “Because I have dreamed of a raven and of other things and I do not understand these visions.”
“Oh.” It was all she could think to say. She knew he would not share his vision with her. And it was not because she was female. No Indian ever spoke of his dreams to another person other than the medicine man. “Then do we leave here tomorrow?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I decided to come to this house, hoping that you might remember something. Because this house is so close to the Duke’s, it was not a hard journey to make. But I did not know at that time of the danger that presently lurks in this place. Had I known, I would not have brought you here. However, now that you are here and you are recalling things, we may stay longer, if I can assure myself of your safety.”
“Why is it so important that I remember?”
Black Bear smiled. “Because, Waste Ho, someone tries to kill you. No one knows who it is, not even you, and if we are to protect you, we must discover why someone would consider you dangerous. Then we can discover who it is.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Waste Ho,” he said, “you hold the key. Your memories may be your protection. Besides.” He sm
iled. “Would you want to keep this mystery unsolved and then despair that someone was trying to kill our children?”
She gaped at him. “Our children?”
“Is not a womanly virtue for you to bear children?”
“But, Black Bear, I am—”
“Shh… You belong to me, no one else. It has always been so.”
“No, I—”
“Enough!” He gazed at her where she lay in her bed. And with only her thin chemise for covering, Estrela shivered in the cool air.
The movement seemed to be his undoing. He bound across the few necessary steps that would take him to her side, and once there, he knelt quickly before her, his dark eyes staring straight into hers.
He smiled. “But I am silly to talk of these things now when you are still angry with me,” he said, bringing a hand up to trail his fingers over her cheek to her neck.
“Yes, you are,” she said to this handsome lover, throwing her head back to allow him more access to the sensitive spots that he was missing. “I am terribly angry with you.”
“It is too bad,” he said, tracing his touch over her throat, her shoulders, her arms, passing his hand farther down over her breast. “If you were not so angry, I could make love to you.”
“Yes,” she murmured again, straightening her shoulders, and pushing out her chest.
“If only I had been more thoughtful,” he said, his voice, his baritone caressing her as his lips followed the path of his hands, his fingers. “If only I had seen to your needs more that day, I would not now have to beg for your favor.”
She shivered. “Yes,” she whispered, “it’s true.”
“But,” he spoke softly, his warm breath a delicious sensation as he gently suckled her breast through her chemise. “But I acted such a clod, and now I have nothing but your wrath to attend to.”
“Yes,” she muttered, barely able to speak.
“Take it off.”
She didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. Her whole body felt warm and a particular part of her anatomy on fire.
Without pause, she shrugged out of her chemise, the caress of his fingers over her naked skin feeling so good, so right, it was her undoing. “Why have you waited so long to make peace with me?” she asked at last. “Couldn’t you have done this a few weeks earlier?”
He smiled. “Were you not angry with me? Were you not denying me your favors?” he asked as he trailed his tongue lower and lower, down to her stomach. “What chance did I have against your wrath?”
She sighed and had she the strength, she would have answered him. His tongue, however, was working magic over her flat stomach, the touch of his fingers there against the inside of her legs an intoxication she could not resist.
“You are mine, Waste Ho,” he said. “You belong to me and I to you. Say it to me, Waste Ho. Let me hear it from your lips.”
She whimpered; it was her only response.
“Say it.”
“I…” She twisted her head.
And then he slid down farther, the touch of his tongue finding that hidden place between her legs.
“Black Bear!”
“Tell me you are mine,” he insisted, pushing her legs back into place when she would have closed them.
“Black Bear, I…”
He brought his tongue more fully upon her there, and Estrela’s conscious thought ceased, replaced by raw feeling. Estrela could no more have thought logically than she could have stopped the sweet sensation.
It went on and on. He gave to her over and over, and Estrela, though she knew what he did was most likely indecent, her own reactions unthinkable, she had never experienced anything like this. These were heady sensations sweeping through her body, and she had no will to deny herself.
The pleasure built and built until Estrela, instead of doing what would have been most femininely proper, opened her legs more fully toward him, her response a sweet surrender.
She moved to fit him. She couldn’t help herself. It came as natural to her as talking. And just when the pleasure built so that she wanted it more fully, he removed the presence of his tongue.
“Say it,” he said, gazing up at her. And as she shuddered, he repeated, “Tell me.”
“Black Bear, I…”
He lay a finger on her there. “Say it.”
She gulped. “Yes, Black Bear,” she whispered, “I belong to you.”
And Black Bear, not even smiling, returned his attentions to her, where, only a moment later, he brought her once more to the brink of release; keeping her there, keeping her there until, just when she thought she couldn’t take it, he tipped his touch within her and she fell over the edge, glorious sensation washing over her not just once, but again and again.
While her body rocked in pleasure, Estrela seemed to float, until Black Bear, rising above her, pushed himself inside her.
He gazed down at her as he leaned over her, and she returned the look.
Their eyes met and held, his body straining against hers and she twisting underneath his.
He smiled at her as they moved against one another, the pleasure between them building into a roaring crescendo in her ears, blocking out all sound, eliminating all thought and she tried to smile at him, but she couldn’t.
It felt too good.
She groaned, she screamed, she gyrated.
Black Bear strained, his gaze never leaving her.
As they struggled, their movements became as one, their gyrations in unison, and amid all the whirl she thought she could feel his pleasure growing; it was as though it were her own. She heard him groan and then she felt it, the power of his release within her, and with one final twist of her hips she followed him, her own enjoyment so intense, she thought she could never have such pleasure again.
A silly conjecture on her part, she was to learn, for he proved her wrong within an hour.
They didn’t sleep. They played with one another. They kissed. They laughed. They loved, exhausting one another until at last, both of them spent, they drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
Neither of them appeared at dinner that evening; neither one was greatly missed.
And somewhere in the middle of the night, Black Bear aroused her to start the lovemaking all over again, until at last, toward early morning, they slept, the two of them entwined together, so close in body and in spirit, Estrela knew his thoughts as easily as she knew her own.
She smiled, then, a self-satisfied smile of one who knows she is truly loved.
For she had learned something from the sudden insight.
Something of great value.
Black Bear loved her, not just loved her; Black Bear stood devoted to her. And just as she belonged to him, he was now a part of her.
He belonged to her.
It was a heady awareness.
She tiptoed down the stairs, the flickering of her shadow along the wall causing her more fright than comfort.
It was early morning, the time just before dawn, and Estrela had left Black Bear still asleep in her bed upstairs.
She had to know. She remembered now the sensation she’d felt upon seeing this house, coming into the house and then, in the drawing room—the picture.
She had to know it. She had to see it.
If it was what she thought it was… No, she dared not consider it.
It was an odd sensation to come here again after what seemed a lifetime away. It was as though the house, perhaps this very location, stirred up old memories. Memories she’d not realized she’d had until now; a part of her life that had been lost to her…until she’d seen it…the picture, hanging on the wall, the curtain before it.
It hadn’t occurred to her at first. She’d almost thought nothing of it. Except an idea of it kept coming back to haunt her again and again, ideas of what lay behind that curtain and a knowledge of just whose picture it was.
She had to know it and she needed to see it now.
Their visit here was not an extended one. Soon their party would return t
o the Colchester estate. Soon she would become again part of the Colchester family. But tonight, or rather this morning, she would discover the truth.
And if she were right, she would… She didn’t know. It didn’t bear thinking about.
She paced farther and farther down the stairs, drawing closer and closer to the room, the drawing room, until at last she stood at the bottom of the stairs.
She had no light to guide her, the candle in her hand remaining unlit. No, she found the room from memory alone, her white nightgown floating out behind her as she passed silently forward.
She drifted through the sitting room now, ignoring the ghostly shadows that seemed to leap to life in every corner, sweep in behind every curtain. On she went, until she reached it, the drawing room.
She hesitated at the door, she sighed.
She opened the door.
It creaked.
She stopped and glanced around her, her breath coming in tiny gasps.
She pulled on the door again; it squeaked, it moaned, yet it opened enough to admit her.
She gulped, staring at the opening to the room in fascination, never remembering being more frightened.
She passed into the room, slowly, as soundlessly as her slippers would allow, their soles barely whispering over the hardwood floors and Chinese rug, as though to reinforce her ghostly appearance.
There it was. On the wall. The picture. The picture behind the red curtain. The one she’d seen earlier tonight.
She reached out a hand toward it.
She pulled back.
If it were true, what she thought was there, it would forever change her life.
She gasped, the fingers that she held over her mouth masking the sound.
She reached out again and, breathing deeply, snatched the curtain back.
She didn’t faint. Life didn’t suddenly stop. In truth, she could hardly see the picture; it was too dark. And she squinted toward it until she remembered that she grasped a candle in her hand.
She looked at the candle, glanced at the picture, back at the candle.
Finally, drawing a deep breath, she moved to the fireplace where, reaching out, she lit the candle’s wick from a dying ember.
