My Lord Raven
By
Tamela Quijas
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination.
My Lord Raven© 2011, Tamela Quijas
Second Edition
Gray Lady Publishing
....I speak of a love that happens betwixt a man and a woman but once in a lifetime...
More than two centuries had passed since the Earl of Ravensmoor whispered the phrase on his deathbed. His heirs, intent on honoring a dying man’s request, endure a lifelong quest to seek the soul of the love lost of their ancestor.
The tale of ill-fated love taunted his ancestors, and Dante Burroughs was the last of the great line. If he didn’t bring the heart and soul of Kaitlyn home, the Ravensmoors would vanish into obscurity, lost in time.
He was unaware of the hidden promises whispered in the ancient deathbed phrase, or of the dreams that would torment him when he came of age.
She taunted him, drawing him into a gossamer web leaving him unfulfilled and lost in a corrupt and modern world. He knew he had to find her, the woman capable of redeeming his cursed soul and granting him the love he sought.
Across an ocean, Kathleen Bennett knew the torment. Restless and responsible, her dreams are filled with the image of blue-eyed man who whispers seductive promises to her willing heart.
A time would come, when the souls of the past would collide....
Prologue
England
The common practice of the day meant drawing the cumbersome weight of thick velvet draperies against the magnificent rays of the autumn sun, lest the brilliant golden light disturb the weakened figure on the massive four-poster bed. Alas, the action had the opposite effect on the wretched and dying soul. Smothering heat and skin dampening humidity made the room stifling.
The emaciated figure, swathed in sheets, heaved a shaking sigh, the sound escaping from decomposing lungs. He exhaled again, this time more gently and in marked despair. Feebly, he lifted a quivering hand and wiped the sheen of sickly sweat from his brow. He grimaced and his hand fell to his side. To the casual spectator, the man was close to Death's grand door and waited for the entryway to swing wide.
Appearances were misleading, for Death failed to sap the man of his purpose. Despite the wasting sickness wracking his body, the penetrating quality of his vibrant eyes failed to dim. They were animated and coherent despite large amounts of laudanum. In fact, they were nearly feverish with expectancy as they raked over the shadowy recesses of the room.
Strangely composed, he regarded the many pieces of heavy Elizabethan and elegant Georgian furniture surrounding him. Priceless portraits and panoramas adorned the silk paneled walls. Ancient statues, obtained from far-flung reaches of the world, lined recessed shelves. His blue eyes stroked each piece with adoration, much as a man would the face of a loving mistress, his actions meant to commit each line to memory. His breathing lulled and he appeared oddly consoled by the familiar sight of each object.
This is mine. He thought with pride as a sardonic smile played across his lips.
Whether by ill gain or justified, birthright, thievery, or money well spent, it belonged to him. He had enjoyed the beauty of Colinwood, the house his father had commissioned, for more than a half century. He had walked the wainscot halls from entryway to the rafters, engraving each step into the far recesses of his mind. He had rambled over the acres of land, lush fields, and plentiful forests. He had savored the wealth and fame that made other men envious.
Yet, he would die a broken man.
These were material possessions, lacking value. The true treasure lurked in his heart, the languishing remnant of his youth, filled with sweet memories of Kaitlyn.
A tragic carriage accident, decades ago, had left Nathan Burroughs the sole heir to the illustrious Ravensmoor title. He had pushed his untroubled youth behind him, for the responsibilities he had not prepared. As the third son, often overlooked, he advanced to earldom overnight. Unwise, untrained, and untried, Nathan had yearned for the freedom of his early days, lacking the inflexible rules and stringent obligations.
Kaitlyn had granted him freedom. For a brief time, she erased the misery conjured by the name of Ravensmoor. She made his rebellious youth more bearable, and he could have spent eternity with her.
Instead, she had vanished, his dreams and wishes having never borne fruit.
His dispassionate glare flew to a far-flung corner of the room. He scowled at the garishly attired, overweight dandy, sprawled in an ornate armchair. His son held an embroidered handkerchief to his nose, inhaling a hearty pinch of snuff. Leslie would do anything to ward off the nauseating stench of the disease consuming his father's lungs.
The dying man managed to grimace a semblance of a smile. His sole heir granted him the same affection he would present a beggar with the plague. Leslie avoided speaking to his father, his repugnance undisguised. A waste of an hour, the earl thought, and time better spent tending to the responsibilities surrounding the estate.
Pampered by his mother, God rest her reprehensible soul, Leslie believed a fortune would be delivered unto him with his father's demise. He was unaware of the stipulations attached to the inheritance, whereas one-half would fall into far more competent hands.
His thoughts wandered, and he heaved a lamentable sigh. If only Kaitlyn were this boy's mother. She would have made him a man of which to be proud. She had been made of far sterner material than the mewling child his mother had coerced upon him.
The ailing man recalled his mother with a bitter twist of his lips. Manipulative from the offset, Nathan failed to detect her true nature until too late. Dispassionately, his mother had sobbed hysterically at the burial of his sire and brothers. He had to act forthwith, she pleaded, or all would be lost. With his youth, Nathan lacked the wisdom of his brothers.
As a younger son, he'd been beset with questions and uncertainties. How would his dear mother endure this harsh world, and entertain in style? How would he defend the family wealth from the avarice so prevalent at his father's demise?
At first, he protested, blinded by the invincibility only youth can savor. However, his objections had fallen aside. He accepted his mother's sobbing pleas, fueled by Kaitlyn's disappearance, and wed Leslie's mother.
His wife scorned him on sight, cowering from his dark looks and massive build. After furnishing the necessary heir, her desire for matrimonial visits ended. She referred to him as the great and hulking beast stalking Colinwood, affording her atrocious nightmares.
Her disgust was much of his making, he supposed. He failed to demonstrate any emotion, save tolerance, toward her. She was an obligation, sanctioned by his mother and her father. The chit conveyed an adjacent tract of land and her own vast fortune to his family. She provided the additional security his mother sought. She was nothing more than a woman who bore his name, and
his heir.
Nathan hesitated in his musing. He longed to know what might have been, if the love of the unconventional Kaitlyn had flourished. They were foolish thoughts of a dying man, his laudanum blunted thoughts clouded.
For decades, he wanted Kaitlyn's reappearance. In quiet moments, he gazed over the vast fields, visible from the very windows of this room. Many a morning, before his malady confined him to bed, he had ridden at breakneck speed through the fields. Aloud, he shouted at the world, challenging her to return to his side.
As always, he remained alone with his memories.
On long and solitary nights, Nathan had sat in the secluded confines of his candle lit study. The neglected estate ledgers would surround him in chaotic abandon, their numbers a blur, his ever-competent mind numbed by smuggled brandy and gossamer images. At those times, he felt her, her ghost evident in the prickling sensation in his palms. Her memory only haunted him for an eternity while cruel taunts of a far more dreadful sort chased her caressing whispers.
Peacock.
The dying man recoiled at the insulting name as it leapt into his thoughts. Distressed, he recalled the hushed voices of his retainers and the sardonic twists of upturned lips, visible before heads lowered in respect. Amusement was rampant whenever the Ravensmoor heir promenaded his weighty and dazzlingly attired form throughout the manor house.
Lord help us all, the elder Nathan thought despondently. The future earl would be the Peacock of Ravensmoor.
He sighed harshly. Venerated for centuries, courageous men had championed the ancient Ravensmoor name, fought marauding intruders to keep hold of the lands, and perished for what they valued. These were the same valorous men whose lives spoke of virtue and heroism, their deeds recorded and glorified.
All for what cause?
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had one reason left to battle for the remaining hours of his life. It was his final duty to ensure the title wouldn't fall into disreputable hands, capable of destroying every acre and relinquishing every sovereign to the gaming tables.
“Leslie,” the elder Nathan whispered, in a voice a shadow of what it once was. He wanted to beat his clenched fists in annoyance, but was too feeble to execute the action.
Formerly, his voice had commanded entire regiments of soldiers in faraway lands, and his deep baritone had made peasants quiver in fear in far-flung reaches of the empire. The same tones once shook the very windows of the great house, and sounded like booming thunder as it echoed across the fields.
Presently, his voice was a blurred memory, replaced by the raspy and tremulous tones of a deathly ill man.
“Father?” A scantily raised and archly penciled brow rose with the query but Leslie didn't move.
“Leslie, approach me.” Nathan forced the command from his aching throat, frowning, a muscle pulsating in his tight jaw. He knew Leslie wouldn't move unless specifically commanded.
Issuing a long-suffering sigh, his heir rose from the delicate chair. He straightened and, with a flamboyant flutter, brushed a hand over the snug fit of his jacket. The heavily perfumed handkerchief, swung with a fluttering snap of the wrist, rose to his nose. As he neared his father, Leslie halted. His penciled brows drew together in a tight vee and he issued a nauseated cough.
“You wish to speak with me, Father?” He asked in a nasally whine. Ordinarily, his voice irritated even the most easygoing of nerves. At this instance, the folds of lace muffled it. Repulsed, Leslie brandished the bit of fabric before his florid features, attempted to wave away the odor of impending death.
“Yes, Leslie.” The earl confirmed weakly. The aroma of the handkerchief tore at his diseased chest. Notwithstanding the pain savaging his lungs, the earl smiled. “I wish you to call forth my namesake. I wish to speak to the boy.”
“My Nathan?” Leslie's question echoed with annoyance.
“Were you capable of siring more than one?” The old earl questioned, a single brow rising high.
“My son is preoccupied.” Leslie snapped evasively, his beady eyes darting about the room.
“Why must you always defy me?” The ailing man questioned, the deep tones of the past replacing the warbling tremor.
Leslie didn't respond and the earl scowled darkly.
“Summon the boy!”
“Father?”
“Saints preserve you, Leslie!” He interrupted harshly, without the weakest hint of a cough. “If you continue, I'll have you barred from Colinwood!”
Leslie bobbed his periwigged head in compliance, moving from the room. Dispassionately, the earl noted, Leslie was ill-shaped by gluttony and years of soft living. His jowls sagged and his neck had vanished. His spine pulled against the great weight of his stomach and he teetered on spindly legs.
Detecting the knife like eyes on his back, Leslie spared his father a glance. Condemning eyes examined the elderly man, mentally wishing him to die a bit swifter. The earl gave his son a knowing smirk and a minuscule shrug. Leslie harrumphed and cast the chamber doors wide with the churlish behavior of an ill-natured child.
The earl dropped back, closing his eyes and exhaling a heartfelt gasp. Filled with pain, the choked sound echoed with the threat of his impending death. He knew his time on earth was coming to a final act, and he opened his eyes to scan the dim confines of the room.
Lord Nathan Archimedes Christophe Dante Burroughs stifled his appreciative but weak smile. He could trust the eternally irresponsible Leslie to leave the doors ajar. The action wasn't much, but it did provide a bit of dappled sunlight into the oppressive darkness surrounding him.
Damn them all, he thought bitterly.
They wished him to die in the darkness, refused the warmth of the sun, or the sweet aroma of clover in the fields. He longed to sit in the formal gardens, surrounded by the clusters of the full-blown rose blossoms and the heliotrope he planted in his wild youth.
She wouldn't have allowed them to shut him away, a virtual leper to the outside world. She would have called forth the sunlight, the flowers, and her loving warmth to cover him in his most disparaging hour of need.
Lovingly, his gaze fell on the shrouded and seemingly abandoned painting at the far end of the chamber, propped against a wall. The sole occasions the shroud was drawn aside, in the last few decades, was when the earl was assured the utmost privacy. Only when he longed to gaze on the breathtaking features concealed beneath the heavy fabric, when he craved the peacefulness and love only her image could offer.
Before long, he would have lost all, including the fleeting memories of her laughter. The ailing earl felt a long repressed and burning dampness fill his eyes.
He squelched his morose sentiments, hearing the dulled sound of footsteps. Whisking the moisture from his eyes with a trembling hand, he adopted a negligent pose. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he watched two men enter his chamber.
Openly scorning the overpowering darkness filling the room, the younger male thrust the chamber doors wide behind him, brushing aside the protests of a hovering housemaid. A welcome swath of afternoon light flooded the room and the youth flashed a lopsided grin at the blossoming smile on his grandfather's face.
Scowling, Leslie turned to chastise his son, but the admonishment never left him as the old earl cleared his throat. He remained silent, but his eyes rolled heavenward.
The younger Nathan stalked about the chamber, his jaw set in firm determination as he threw the draperies open, admitting the autumn sunlight. Delighted, his hands rested in balled fists on his hips before he drew close to bed.
Young Nathan was a son in which many men would be proud, for the boy cut an arresting figure. He stood well over six feet, having inherited the astonishing Ravensmoor height, looming over his sire's slouched form. Whereas Leslie was prone to plumpness, the youth was solid, rippling muscles evident beneath the soiled material of his shirt. Nathan sported a crop of thick blue-black hair and his skin radiated with the youthful vitality and sunshine, the tanned flesh accentuating striking cobalt hued eyes. The el
derly man smiled with delight before his dispassionate gaze flashed over Leslie's stout form.
As promptly as the smile materialized, it vanished.
“You astound me, my son.” He muttered sarcastically, his throat unbearably dry.
“How, dearest sire?” Leslie's tone was surly.
“I long questioned your paternity, boy.” The earl remarked, uncaring as a blood-red flush spotted Leslie's rotund cheeks.
“My mother's integrity was beyond reproach!” Leslie championed hotly.
“Dear Lord, of that I'm well aware!” The elder Nathan grumbled, recalling the frigid woman with distaste. “Simply, you lack resemblance to the Ravensmoor men. You're a product of your mother's breeding, or lack thereof.” He hesitated taking a valuable gasp of air. “Today, though, I have seen the error of my ways.”
“The error of your ways?” Leslie contended a bark of incredulous laughter. “What has brought about this change?”
“All I have to do is look beyond you. Your son is a true Ravensmoor.”
The candid ruthlessness of the comment didn't surprise Leslie. He questioned the subject, as well, not his father's son in the slightest sense. Long ago, the dying earl had boasted a head of thick hair, agleam with the same blue-black gloss as of his grandchild. At present, it was thick and luxuriant, having faded to the whiteness of newly fallen snow. Leslie was damned with a crown of brittle brown and wigs salved his vanity.
His father had been massively built, his youthful form resembling a sculpted Roman guard or medieval knight of old. Prone to obesity, Leslie donned corsets to confine his expanding waist.
The earl's Greco-Roman features whispered with the age-old rumors of Romany blood. He sported a long straight nose set above full and pouting lips. His chin was jutting, marred with a slight cleft. The most spectacular feature, though, were the earl's eyes. Those damnable and penetrating eyes of sapphire blue, the most colorful shade Leslie could recall. Purely his mother's child, Leslie lacked the noteworthy features that set the current Lord Raven apart from his peers.
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 1
