Anne bounded after her father. Her bare feet were soundless as she raced up the staircase, her nightgown swishing about her legs. As her father arrived at an unexpected halt in the darkened chamber, she nearly staggered into his broad back, pulling up short. Automatically, she switched on the lights, filling the room with a soft light. Dante made his way to the four-poster bed and placed the sleeping woman on the coverlet. Kate, still sound asleep, curled into a comfortable little ball.
Dante turned toward Anne and expelled an exhausted sigh before raking an agitated hand through his hair.
“For the sake of my sanity, I need a bit of help with our guest.” He supplied awkwardly.
Anne shot him a devilish grin and winked bawdily, enjoying his unaccustomed blush. She was the feminine image of him, from the statuesque figure, the long flowing black mane of wavy hair and the piercing blueness of her eyes. Despite the hell he endured due to her unforeseen arrival, and his error of sound judgment about Angelica, he never regretted his daughter.
“Damn it all, Anne!” He cursed roughly, although the hissed words lacked annoyance. “This is my secretary. I dare say that she wouldn't be too happy in the morning, if she thought I undressed her!”
Strictly composing her features and the ribald humor choking her, Anne gave her father a deceptively meek nod and made a beeline toward the bed. Dante moved aside, revealing the reposed figure in the dim glow of the lamplight.
She gasped, her legs weakening as she looked from the woman to her father, her eyes wide. Dante remained silent, his gaze caressing. Incredulous, Anne clutched at his arm, deliberately drawing his attention as a slow but pleased smile curved his lips.
“Papa, it's the woman from the portrait!” She gasped, her awe evident. “You've brought the Lady home!”
Chapter Six
She lifted her face to the sky and inhaled deeply. The scent of dew dampened earth, the aroma of sweet clover and freshly cut hay swirled about her. These fragrances made her, a city girl, sit back and wonder why she spent so many years surrounded by polluted air and far too many people. Kate breathed in again, savoring the quiet.
It was unnecessary to scrimp and save for years to enjoy the beauty of the countryside. The luxury involved the simple closing of her eyes. It was easy to accomplish, just when the last touch of light filtered across the rooftops. The night allowed her the liberty to flee into the luxury of her dreams.
The mingled scent of hay and clover rolled across her tongue. The underlay of dew kissed grass becoming more prevalent with each hungry gasp. In the early morning chill of her dream, she pulled the frayed and tattered front of her jacket together, grateful for her heavy woolen trousers and scuffed riding boots. Her horse pranced impatiently beneath her and she soothed the animal. A small, unladylike snicker of disbelief escaped her as the horse shuddered. She wanted to laugh aloud from her high perch, knowing she only rode in her dreams.
Kate knew she had returned, recognizing the lay of the land far better than the city where she lived. At any given moment, the faint chirps of birds would begin from the ancient grove of trees surrounding the meadow. They were happy sounds, full of life and joy, not the angry voices that frequently accompanied her mornings. The sounds of the city were blissfully lacking from the beauty of this meadow, as well as the hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic.
The slightest hint of a moist morning air danced over her flesh, caressing her bare hands and wrists. Kate savored the moment of peaceful solitude and smiled with glee. She loved everything about the dream. She turned in her saddle, the first fingers of dawn cutting a swathe of scarlet across the lightening sky. Ancient elms speckled the landscape, the heavy boughs brushing the ground, their amber and scarlet leaves rustling. Dense forests of pines were to her right, thickly overgrown and darkly shadowed. Before her was a meadow of the most lush emerald green grass ever seen, the rich color so intense her eyes ached.
As always, she was familiar with her surroundings. She knew, without having to venture further, there was a palatial home at the far end of the field. She was unable to reach the house, having never been to the residence in her dreams, though she could imagine every detail. It was an immense and elegant estate with a sweeping gravel drive leading to the low staircase. Magnificently carved entry doors would welcome one into the home. A stable of the finest horseflesh was somewhere nearby, their whicker echoes on the wind. The perfume of blooming lilacs, roses, and heliotrope would rise from the garden where they thrived in abundant profusion.
Kate had this dream more than a hundred times, perhaps a thousand. She couldn't remember how long the dream had followed her since her childhood. She knew the horse she rode would dance impatiently beneath her, wanting to race across the meadow, aching to stretch tight muscles. Something always held Kate back, preventing her from leaving. She was restrained to this particular area of her dream, waiting. There was always a touch of something elusive summoning and pleading with her to remain. More often than not, she woke at this certain part, feeling she missed the most important part of the entire dream.
This time felt very different.
The oddest electrical sensation surged through her, emanating from within and jolting her. Her lungs felt afire, as if she had run a mile and held her breath for longer than humanly possible. Something was happening; she knew it and Kate willed herself not to wake.
“Kate?”
She physically jumped in the saddle, her mount remaining oddly placid beneath her. Her reaction, she thought, was one of those annoying twitches one suffers when on the brink of sleep and waking. In slow motion, Kate turned toward the sound and completely unsure of what to she should do next. The voice and the brightening of the morning sky startled her.
This was new. She was unprepared, slightly frightened, and a bit resentful. This was her dream!
“Kate?”
Her mount danced a nervous side step as another steed sidled alongside her. Compared to the soft cream color of her horse, this new animal was as dark as midnight. The black demon, for she couldn't think of another description, stood nearly two hands taller than her placid mount. Its coat was awash with sweat, which glistened in the brightening light of day, and its respiration labored. Kate thought it odd she hadn't heard any sound of his approach.
Kate swallowed audibly. She gaped in awe as an undeniably male and sun darkened hand reached toward her, hesitantly touching her arm. The shock of the contact was immediate, the same electrical intensity surging through her, causing her nearly to arch with sensation.
Breathe, damn it! She hissed to herself.
Kate felt the stranger's heavily calloused fingertips brush her chilled hand. Oddly enough, the sensation was welcoming, lacking any construed threat. Her racing heart calmed and she exhaled a slow breath.
“Have I maddened you so, my sweet Kaitlyn?”
A low and steady male voice posed in husky inquiry. The whiskey softness of the sound filled her with oddly comforting sense of warmth, banishing the earlier resentment of intrusion. She knew this voice. She felt she had waited for eons to hear this voice once again.
This man was a part of her. He was an echo of her soul, the maddened pounding of her heart. He was the reason she always awoke angry and lost. Immediately, Kate understood why this dream left her frustrated with the world. She waited for him, somehow knowing he was attempting to reach her.
He waited too long, a tiny and desperate voice whispered and she shook her head. The thought was nonsense. Kate didn't know who he was but there was some niggling feeling refusing to release her. His image remained vague and distorted, frustrating her beyond words. Her heart thrummed in her ears, pleading with her to speak to him.
“No.” She responded, shaking her head. “I'm not angry with you.”
“Look at me, sweet Kate. Tell me to my face.” The man pleaded with a laugh, mocking himself. When she remained silent, his words became cajoling. His hand fell away from her, leaving her bereft of its warmth. “Can you not bear to look on
me, my girl?”
“I….” Kate was stumbling over the word.
“Don't deny me the image of your smile, my sweet girl. I would lavish you with all the riches available in my world; shower you with everything I have, if you would grant me one of your glorious smiles.” The huskiness of his voice became seductive and tempting.
He was good. He knew what to say to turn a woman's head, his words a satiny smooth enticement coupled with a voice that held a husky timber as velvety as well aged whiskey. Kate surrendered to the dream, realizing she had been waiting for him. She was seeking his presence in the landscape surrounding her, longing for the sound of his voice, waiting for him to approach her. She was meant for him, had always been his, in some strange and mystical manner that remained hidden.
Kate could smell the musky allure of his sweat-dampened skin, combined with the scent of horses and line dried linens. For a moment, he was nothing more than a blurry image. Lines remained indefinable, lacking prevalence until she looked into his eyes.
To say they mesmerized her, haunted her, and pulled her into the warmth of their languorous depths was an understatement. The image of glistening cobalt colored glass came to her as Kate stared at him, an unfamiliar warmth filling her. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she was staring her present employer in the face. There was a difference to this man, though. He appeared filled with an aching sadness.
His hair was as black as a raven's wing, overly long, tousled by the speed in which he rode. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow and, as she continued to stare at him, he scowled. She continued to stare at him, past the high cheekbones, the narrow nose before settling on lips that sent a flood of unmentionable warmth surging through her. Kate thought, if she closed her eyes for too long, he would vanish. She didn't want him to disappear. He was the reason behind the recurrent dreams, the ache in her heart and the emptiness plaguing her.
He watched the emotions race across her face and reached out. He held his hand upwards, a slight and encouraging smile tugging at the corners of his ridiculously beautiful mouth. She looked at his hands, seeing the work roughened calluses. Kate shook her head, refusing his touch, afraid of what may happen to her rapidly crumbling defenses.
“Am I really such an ogre to gaze upon, my darling little one?” He queried with an anxious but amused chuckle, his eyes twinkling. He seemed uncertain and, as she shook her head, he smiled.
He drew his hand back, ill at ease at her failure to touch him. Absently, he ran his fingers through his hair, the brightening rays of the sun kissing his face. The slight touch of the chill morning breeze molded his shirt to him, revealing the tight muscled form beneath the material. He was too much man for her pounding senses to absorb. She laughed silently reasoning that too much beauty was dangerous to store in one female mind.
“Are you truly so angry, my little one? You look on me as if you’ve never seen me. You refuse my touch and to say my name. You wound me.” His tone was pleading and he appeared bereft, lost in his thoughts before he continued. “Have you erased me from your thoughts, after all this time? Have you relegated me to some unspoken Hades where my name is aught you will say?”
She sat helpless on her mount, her voice catching in her throat. Kate lifted her face, sensing the heartbreak in his words as he reached toward her. He touched her cheek, the warm contact of his fingers encouraging her to answer him.
“My Lord Raven.” She sighed, awestruck as the name fell from her.
Chapter Seven
Kate grimaced at her reflection in the beveled glass of the Victorian mirror, completely dissatisfied with the face staring back at her. She knew her nondescript features would never stand out in a crowd, easily seen, analyzed, and dismissed. Sighing with irritation, she clicked the cap closed on her tube of lipstick at the same moment a loud knock sounded at the door.
She turned from the mirror as the door opened, the figure of a well-rounded and middle-aged woman in a dark dress, entering. In her hands, she carried a brilliantly polished silver serving tray, heavily laden with a delicate bone china service set, apparently prepared to serve morning tea.
“Madam?”
The portly figure paused in the center of the room, the heavy tray in her strong grasp. Kate watched as the woman's eyes and mouth opened to a surprising width.
The fragile china set quaked, the heated brew spilling from the porcelain pot. The tremor increased and the tea splashed on the bodice of the dark uniform and white apron, leaving a stain. The trembling grew and the tray fell to the floor, shattering the delicate service in a glorious array of shards.
“Maevis, whatever happened?” A youthful and feminine voice asked from the doorway. An amazingly lovely woman stood at the portal that Kate recognized as Anne Burroughs, her employer's daughter. The pitch-blackness of her hair and the startling blue eyes couldn't belong to anyone but a Ravensmoor.
“I believe I must have startled her.” Kate issued the lame excuse when the woman remained silent, her mouth comically agape. Anne shook her head and afforded the servant a laughably austere glare.
“I'm sorry, Lady Anne, it's just….”
“I know, Maevis. Trust me, I know.” Anne placated, impatiently waving a hand. Maevis knelt on the floor and began picking up the dismal accumulation of broken china, muttering to herself. She halted the woman with a quick word, rushing her from the room. When they were alone, Kate managed to find her voice.
“You must be Anne.”
“You must be Kate.” Anne's husky chuckle echoed with unspoken delight. Cordially, she extended her hand. Kate responded with a warm smile, shaking the girl's hand, her eyes running appraisingly over the youthful figure.
The photograph hadn't afforded her true justice, and Dante Burroughs' daughter was a great beauty with flawless alabaster skin. Her mouth and the luscious color of her eyes, coupled with her hair, was a direct reflection of her father. Under the intense scrutiny of those eyes, Kate felt the uneasy twisting of her stomach before she released Anne's hand.
“I guess I was a little out of sorts last night.” She supplied awkwardly.
“Out of sorts?” Anne questioned innocently, her brows rising in perfect imitation of her father. “You were dead to the world. You're lucky I was awake when my father returned. Otherwise, my dear lady, you would have slept in your traveling clothes.” Anne bent to retrieve the shattered china and placed them on the silver tray. Kate knelt next to the girl and gathered the demolished cup’s handle.
“You…?”
“Assisted you?” Anne supplied and Kate realized she was one of those youngsters that nearly burst with vitality. “I did, rest assured.”
“I can't thank you enough.” Kate murmured, faintly unsettled.
“You weren't assuming my father had anything to do with it, were you?” Anne asked, noting the crimson shade staining Kate’s pale cheeks.
“I hoped he hadn't,” she grumbled, lifting the last bit of shattered china from the floor. Impatiently, she rose and went to the windows, pulling aside the velvet drapes and flooding the room with sunlight.
“Don't concern yourself.” She straightened and lifted the silver tray to the dresser, affording Kate a shrug. The girl was as statuesque as her sire, but Anne's height was an optical illusion, facilitated by long legs and a thin stature.
“Jet lag affects people in different ways, I imagine. It must be catching, Kate. May I call you Kate?” Anne didn't wait for a response and continued, her expressive hands dancing in the air. “I've never known my father to sleep in.”
“Jet lag and all this wonderful fresh air,” Kate responded distractedly and looked out the windows. Outside, a tree dotted landscape covered winding paths, lined by antique rose bushes. The lone white spire of a church was visible in the distance, the steeple barely cresting the lofty tops of the trees.
“It's common knowledge the Raven accomplishes a half days’ worth of work by dawn.” Anne supplied aloud, not to anyone in particular. She waited for
Kate's reaction, specifically mentioning the name associated to the men who held the title.
The name stunned Kate. It was the same title of the man in her dream, the shadowy figure that left her suffering from a tumultuous coil of raging emotions. Ignoring her discomfort, Anne linked her arm into hers, pulling her into a gloriously sunlit corridor. She was led down long passageway, marked by numerous closed doors and arched floor to ceiling windows. The immense height of the beveled glass windowpanes swept the air from her.
Kate paused, drawing the younger girl to a halt. She was blinded by the brilliant glow of the morning sun beaming through each pane of highly refractive glass, the image of the seemingly endless countryside spread out in a grand panorama. She sighed appreciatively, the heat of the sun's rays bathing her upturned features in their glow. She closed her eyes, savoring the caressing warmth.
“Isn't it lovely?” Anne commented, her eyes trailing from the reverent features of the woman to the view displayed outside the windows.
“That's an understatement.” Kate responded frankly, opening her eyes and spreading her arms wide. “I've always thought hallways were dark and sinister. This is magnificent.”
Anne chuckled with pride. “Colinwood was commissioned in seventeen seventy-four by Colin Burroughs, as a simple country manor. The home has a sitting room, dining room, a ball room, an extensive kitchen, wine cellar, a study, and ten en-suite bedrooms on the upper floors.”
“That is considered simple?” Kate inquired, baffled.
“Colinwood is nearly an eighth of the size of our other estates.” Anne countered with an easy smile, warming at the subject. “The house, park, and woodlands encompass about fourteen hundred acres.” She paused, beaming. “We're situated on the brow of a hill to the east of the main road that connects to High Chilternden, where you were last night. Since you were asleep, you're unaware that the house is unremarkable to a casual observer, save for the exterior use of granite.”
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 8
