He took a long drink, his gaze never leaving Adam's face. Dante had expected a young man who bore a resemblance to the woman haunting his dreams, not an arrogant youth with a twanging drawl, and proudly stamped Latin features.
“I arrived when you were out,” Adam provided, remaining where he stood.
Dante narrowed eyes slid to his daughter's face. The boy appealed to Anne and he was unable to dispel his feeling of unease. Anne, in tuned to her father's thoughts, lowered her head.
“You're returning to the university?” He asked as Anne took the empty glass from his hand.
“I came to visit during the winter holidays. Historically, England's appeal was irresistible,” Adam allowed, his words stilted as he detected the underlying current. “School resumes on the ninth.”
“Hmm,” Dante's heavy lidded regard moved from his daughter and returned to the young man. His eyes swept over the battered cowboy boots and faded denim jeans before sliding upwards, past the khaki shirt. He judged Adam not much older than his daughter and, for the briefest moment, a sudden rush of a pain pierced his heart.
Dante winced, waiting for the heartache to ease. His daughter issued a swiftly muttered excuse and slipped from the room, unable to meet her father's eyes. The tension between the two men was apparent to even the blindest of individuals.
“Anne's told me of your family curse.” Adam began, waiting for the door to close behind Anne's slender figure.
“It's not her place…”
“Perhaps not, but my sister is involved. I can tell you she doesn’t seem willing or able to leave. When I consider the options, the only thing keeping her here is you.” Adam provided tightly, the twanged words bringing an immediate pause to Dante's train of thought. Stiff shouldered, the boy moved to the panorama displayed beyond the large windows. He stared at the gloriously snow covered vista, and waited for Dante to speak.
Dante snorted in disbelief, his head falling back on the divan's worn leather. “Kate feels nothing for me.”
Adam was silent, studying the towering obelisk in the midst of the garden. He guessed the ancient grounds were glorious in the spring, filled with fragrant and multicolored blooms. It was a striking landscape, as old as the house, well tended and much loved. He grimaced at the obelisk that hungrily reached to the sky. Adam had studied enough architecture to understand the monument was an unappealing eyesore, with its trio of mismatched benches.
“Tell my sister how you feel.” Adam suggested, still staring at the obelisk. “Let her know your heart.”
“I have.”
“Oh?” Adam didn't move from the window. “You've told my sister how much you adore her, that you love her?”
“It's not your concern, boy.” Dante snarled harshly.
“Men will say anything to get what they want,” Adam supplied with an insight far beyond his years. “Mom told Kate all about a man's lying ways, how they spin tales of false love. All until responsibility knocked on the door and the guy's on the first bus out-of-town.”
“I never mislead your sister. She knows my heart.” He snapped, insulted. Dante grimaced, the action causing his bruised face to ache. “She doesn't return the sentiments.”
“Are you blind, Ravensmoor?” Adam snapped, turning about and bravely facing him. “I've been with my sister for a week. I could tell you how often she thinks of you, and how much you mean to her, all without her saying a word!”
“Then why did she leave me?”
“Hell if I know!” Adam smirked, his tones never rising as his fists slid into his pockets. “One moment, they're looking at you like you're a piece of chocolate cake and the next they want to toss you out on your ass.”
Dante smiled at the unexpected bluntness. Despite the candor, the boy still put him on edge. “So, what about your sister?”
“Don't make me regret bringing her, Ravensmoor.” Adam countered harshly. Despite his lack of stature and the leanness, Adam refused to back down as Dante rose. His eyes lifted upwards as the giant stood before him. “You may be larger and far more experienced. I know you could pound me into the ground without a second thought.”
“Faster than you could ever know,” Dante growled beneath his breath.
“Whatever, Burroughs,” the boy shrugged, his expression deliberately bland. “I can tell you this much, though. I don’t care who you are, or what you can do to me. Kate’s my sister and, if you hurt her, I'll do everything I can to make your life hell.”
“I would never harm Kate.” Dante countered, nodding his head at the boy's bravado. He respected the threat, knowing Adam would defend his sister.
“Then give her the truth and tell her how you feel.” Adam recommended as the man swung about on his heel. “You can find her haunting the ballroom, for lack of a better phrase.”
Dante stopped and spun about, surprised. “Kate is in the ballroom?”
Adam heard the wealth of feeling evident in the man's voice; his sister's name enough to weaken his mountainous form.
“It's the painting,” Adam provided with a shrug. “Every minute the Ravensmoors have left is running out. You need to tell her the damn story.”
“I should thank you, Bennett,” Dante muttered, his handle on the doorknob.
“Don't make me regret it, Burroughs.”
“She's part of me, with or without your blessing.” Dante managed gruffly before a dark frown marred his face.
“It’s all in your hands, then.” Adam responded grimly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the towering figure.
“By the way, since we’re so busy passing out threats,” Dante halted, turning to open the door. “Don't dare place a finger on my Anne, or I will pound you into the ground without a second thought.”
“You’ll do what?” Adam smirked even as his throat convulsed nervously at the threat.
“Touch Anne and I'll do everything in my power to make ruin you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Kathleen?”
The sound of his voice was low and sudden, the silence of his steps failing to warn her as he moved across the room. Kate shook herself, her gaze moving from the image of the painted woman.
“You've avoided me for more days than I care to count.” Dante scolded her.
“I’ve a lot on my mind.” She admitted, reluctantly. It wasn't a lie, since her thoughts were troubled, and filled with unanswered questions.
“So much you've scorned my presence?” The question echoed with hurt.
“I haven't avoided you,” she whispered, granting him a sidelong glance. “I'm always nearby.”
“Nearby isn't with me. I'm devilishly selfish, Kate. I want you at my side, every moment of every hour.”
Kate bowed her head, struck silent. Deliberately, she had avoided his overpowering presence. She had her own wounded pride to salve and she was wont to release her entire heart into his hands. Noticing her silence, Dante sighed.
“I met your brother.”
“Adam?”
“The one and only.”
Kate smiled, realizing how foolish she sounded.
“As I have met your illustrious Tarquin De Burroughs,” she mentioned with feigned lightness, lifting her eyes from the floor.
“Oh, yes?”
“He appears a formidable character.”
Dante's brows rose and the familiar dimple formed. “He was nothing more than merely a lowly and over-sized knight, sporting an extremely sordid reputation. His sole rise to power and redemption was at the hand of his beautiful lady.”
“Your Lady Isabeau.”
“Isabeau Launceleyn.” He repeated the woman's name in a tone of near reverence. “She made Lord Tarquin all, otherwise he was naught.”
Much as you've done to my own life, he thought.
Kate nodded, lifting her regard to the woman in the portrait. Dante raised his dark head to the image overseeing the room, her familiar face laughing down at him.
“Who is she?”
“The first Nathan of Coli
nwood was an untrained youth.” He provided plainly, looking at Kate. His expression remained bland, although his eyes glittered with the remembered words of the age-old story. “Nathan was never intended for the earldom. He hadn't been trained to assume the title and revolted against the strictures.”
“Much like yourself?”
“Yes.” He admitted with a regal toss of his head. “The year of his father's death, Nathan received a crash course in behavior, etiquette, and mannerisms. Gone were the days of his youth, replaced by regulated hours, responsibilities, and precisely executed actions. Everything was perfect, until she arrived.”
Kate's eyes swept over his beloved features, longing to reach out, yearning to sink into the comfort of his embrace. Her stubborn resilience held her back.
“Nathan took one glance at her, his mother's servant, and fell helplessly in love.” Dante smiled crookedly, and his gaze slipped over her upturned face.
“Nathan lost the girl in the end, did he?”
“Yes.” Dante's admission held a touch of sadness. “Perhaps, the lives of the Ravensmoor men wouldn't have been cursed, had Nathan obtained the lady's hand. Instead, she disappeared. Nathan spent his lifetime waiting for her to return.”
“What aren't you telling me?” Kate prompted.
Dante heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Kaitlyn's disappearance is an unsolved mystery. She vowed she would return and I believed the tale. Nathan was her heart, the very essence of her soul.”
“But, the lady vanished.”
“Yes.” Dante lowered his eyes to the woman at his side. Ah, how he loved her. He fully understood the emotions that tormented his ancestor. “She left with Nathan's heart, her memory forever haunting him.”
“So this is a story of unrequited love?” She questioned.
“A great deal more than that, sweet Kate,” he breathed raggedly. “She was Nathan's obsession, his all-consuming passion. Nathan wanted his heirs to wait for his lost love.”
“Really?”
“Yes, much to the chagrin of every bloody Ravensmoor since the eighteen hundreds,” he admitted with an awkward smile.
“Simple enough, I suppose, if you believe in fairy tales.” Kate shrugged, and a wry smile twisted her lips.
“My father didn't, and he told the tale with absolute contempt. It was an obligation, a rite of passage to retell the story. My father despised the portrait.” Dante issued a bitter laugh and lowered his head. “For some reason, at my birth, he suffered a damning epiphany. He understood I was the last of the Ravensmoors.”
“One heir, one son, nothing more,” she echoed.
“As you know, we're not a prolific lot.” His answering smile was tight, a slight flush burnishing his cheeks. “My father had a magnificent thought. As a pun, he granted me the name of our most despised ancestor. He wanted the curse to end with me, as it had begun with the first Leslie.”
Kate's expression was pensive. “Did you believe in this curse?”
“I didn't, at first,” Dante admitted, reluctantly. “I, myself, hated the image of The Raven's Lady.”
“Why?”
“I can blame my distaste on the tales.” He sauntered across the ballroom, pausing before the fireplace, his attention captured by the painting. “I scorned her at every turn, on account of my name and the fable. I avoided her, hated her, all until the week of my twelfth birthday.”
“What happened?”
“My father neglected to mention a small detail.”
Kate moved to his side, as his words became a husky whisper. She halted before the bleak hearth, her exhausted eyes moving upwards and looked into the smiling features of the woman. “What did he forget, Dante?”
“Each Ravensmoor has been haunted by her.” His laughter was dry and humorless at the admission. “She's woven her enchantment around us since Nathan's death. She's made us desire a love that vies the one she had with Nathan Burroughs.”
“What are you saying?” Kate was taken aback by the aching words flowing from him.
“We dream, Kate. Every Ravensmoor heir, from the time of the great Nathan, has suffered inescapable dreams of the woman.”
Kate paled at the admission and a shiver crept across her skin.
“Your image, her image, haunts my every night,” he confessed softly, but the words filled the grandness of the room.
“No,” she scoffed nervously, shaking her head.
“I knew your name before we met.” He turned about to face her, knowing she would avoid his gaze. “We're destined, fated, for lack of a better word. It was a matter of time until our paths would cross,” his words were whispered, the brilliant color of his fabulous eyes softening. “At my side is where you belong.”
“You suppose a lot!”
“No,” his reaction was arrogant and firm. “I know.”
“To coin a phrase I heard here, you're spouting drivel,” Kate forced a weak laugh. “We can't be suffering from some age-old family curse, where the lord of the manor awaits the damsel in distress.”
“We, Kate?”
Immediately, she realized her mistake. “I don't need you!”
“You've whispered otherwise, my dear.” He managed with marked patience, lifting a skeptical brow as her face flamed.
“That's ridiculous!” She sputtered.
“We're destined, Kate.” He smiled indulgently and Kate wished she could howl with frustration. “You may say what you wish, but the obvious can't be ignored.”
“No.” Kate knew he spoke the truth. They were fated, she realized, from the first moment. The battle was an internally waged war, where he was the obvious victor.
“The evidence is all around you, Kate.” Dramatically, his voice dropped at her half-hearted denial. “Our meeting may have taken nearly two hundred years, but we're destined. I can't, and won't, risk losing you.”
“I don't believe a word you're saying, Dante!” She raked her trembling hands through her bright hair, her expression troubled.
“You’ve never believed in fairy tales, Kate?” He questioned.
“They're stories to amuse children!”
“No, my love,” he shook his head. “You were fated to return, as your ancestor promised.”
“As my ancestor promised?”
Dante lifted his face to the portrait. He was silent, staring at the features of the woman smiling down at him.
“Let me introduce you, Kate.” He supplied with an elegant ease and turned about, his expression unchanging. “You bear a stunning resemblance to your aunt.”
“My aunt?” Kate's words were strangled.
“Kaitlyn Burnett.”
“Kaitlyn Burnett?” Kate repeated the name in a daze, her wan features blanching.
“Howard's sister.”
Numbly, Kate stepped backwards. Her hand clutched to her heart and her pulse thundered. The woman in the portrait returned her stare, the painted eyes gentle and mischievous. Kate longed to flee the ballroom, to escape the image of the woman genetically interlaced with the Ravensmoor family.
“Why don't you tell me of your dreams, my sweet?”
***
“Tell me, Kathleen!” Dante's deep baritone rattled the numerous panes of the foyer windows. There was an underlying tone of desperation in his harsh words that made Kate pause. She recognized the powerlessness he would never willingly disclosed to another soul. She remained where she stood, poised in cowardly flight. “Tell me, Kate!”
She pivoted about and looked at him, her chin raised. Despite the damaged arm held in place by a dark colored sling, he never appeared more Lord of the Manor than at this moment. His stance was rigid, commanding, his dark head thrown back, and his jaw stubbornly set.
“What do my dreams matter, Dante?” She asked warily. A flash of emotion flitted across his face and the stern lines softened.
“I don't wish to know of just any dream,” he furnished, wavering on his feet. “Just tell me about the one, Kate.”
“You want to know about one?”
She laughed aloud, the sound filled with sarcasm. “I can't remember my dreams from one day to the next! I don't think there's a person alive who can!”
“You've never been just any person, Kate.” Dante's response was unhurried; one dark brow lifted as he examined her heated face and took a soundless step across the marbled foyer.
“There isn't anything to tell you!” Kate insisted.
“Would you tell me of the fields at dawn, my sweet Kate?” Dante's words echoed loudly, the deep tones lifting to the high ceilings. His raised voice drew the attention of the staff and numerous figures hovered in the foyer.
“I can't!” She stressed, but the words lack conviction. The study door flew open and revealed Anne's curious face. Kate winced as she spied her brother, close at the girl's shoulder.
“Ah.” Dante responded with a disbelieving quirk of his brow, taking another step, ignoring the sea of expectant faces surrounding them.
“There isn't anything to tell you.” She snapped evasively.
“Nothing, Kate?” He questioned skeptically.
“Not a single damn thing!” She ground out, mutinously lifting her face, her eyes narrowing. “I can't tell you anything!”
“No?” He smiled, the action tight, “You wouldn't know about lifting your face to the morning sky, racing in the fields of Colinwood, or the very scent of the land?”
She drew in a deep and shuddering breath. Weakly, Kate shook her head and lowered her eyes, not trusting the betraying quiver she knew would affect her words.
“No answer, Kate?” Dante probed with relentless insistence, taking another step. “You wouldn't know about how the boughs of ancient trees caress the ground, in some secreted corner of the fields?”
“I don't ride!” She blurted out, glaring at him.
“Ah, darling, I never said anything about riding.” His tone was deceptively soft, his eyes twinkling with a suspicious glow.
“I assumed…” Kate attempted to cover up the slip but found the denial a waste of breath.
“In your dreams, you ride.” His deep voice was deceptively whiskey soft. “You ride quite well, don't you, my sweetness?”
My Lord Raven (The Ravensmoor Saga) Page 27