Shades of the Wind (2 page)

the plantation’s women to give the house a thorough going-over. That is all that is

really necessary to keep Anubeion as he prefers it.”

Unable to keep from thinking the owner must be something of a miser, Catherine

moved toward the cheery fire that was snapping in the grate at the far end of the room.

Without looking up at the massive painting above the hearth, she laid her reticule on

the mantel then held out her hands to the flames, basking in the warmth that enveloped

her.

“Does he also like to keep the rooms this dark?” Catherine inquired. The gloom was

uncomfortable and seemed to envelop the entire plantation house. It made the

atmosphere more oppressive.

“Bright light bothers him,” the housekeeper stated. “We have grown accustomed to

this level of light but if you prefer, you may keep your own room as bright as you

wish.”

“I too prefer the darkness,” Bahru said. He took a seat, crossed his legs and laid a

hand on the back of the settee. “I require something to cool my throat.”

“I will see to it, milord, as soon as possible.”

Catherine glanced around at the other woman, hearing disapproval in her words

and censure in her tone. Although there was a polite look on the housekeeper’s face,

there was, however, a glint of scorn in her dark eyes. Catherine returned her gaze to the

snapping fire.

“We don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” she said.

“We shall try to accommodate you as best we can,” the housekeeper replied.

“Would you like for me to have Hawkins draw you a bath, milady?” She was standing

at the door, her hands folded primly at her waist. It was obvious she wished to be away.

“I require a bath,” Bahru said. “See to mine first.”

The housekeeper nodded her head. “Milady?”

The thought of a hot bath sent a shiver of pleasure down Catherine’s spine. She

smiled. “That would be delightful. Thank you. I’m sure Ola would find a bath relaxing

as well.”

“Hers can wait,” Bahru pronounced, “until I am abed.” He frowned. “What do you

have for our supper?”

“Cook is preparing a tray for you,” the black woman stated, turning her head to

look out the door. Her dark eyes followed Beasely and Hawkins as they climbed the

stairs with Catherine’s trunk.

Catherine’s left eyebrow shot up. “We won’t be dining with His Grace?”

Once more a condescending smile tugged at the housekeeper’s lips, her eyes flared

slightly. “The master prefers to take his meals in his suite,” she answered. “Alone.”

8

Shades of the Wind

Disappointment settled like a rock in Catherine’s stomach. She had been looking

forward to conversing over the nightly meals with her fiancé’s new employer. She had

many questions about his native country.

“You will learn more about Kensett than you will ever have dreamed of knowing,”

the housekeeper said as though reading her mind again. “The master is very proud of

his Hasdu heritage.”

Catherine blushed, sensing a slight admonishment in the housekeeper’s tone. She

was glad she was not directly facing the woman. “I would certainly never presume to

pry,” she responded.

“I am sure you wouldn’t,” the black woman answered dryly.

Beasely appeared in the doorway, his sopping hat clutched tightly in his big hands.

“Your things are in your rooms, Lord Bahru and Lady Catherine. Is there anything else

I can do before I head back to town?”

“Surely you’re not going to venture out in this rain again!” Catherine gasped.

Although the thick curtains prevented her from looking out, she knew the sun wasn’t

that far from setting. She looked at the housekeeper. “There’s room for Mr. Beasely to

spend the night, isn’t there?”

“No!” came Beasely’s immediate denial. His eyes had gone wide and his face pale

at the suggestion. He fiercely shook his head, his hands rolling the brim of his hat

around and around in agitation. “I gotta get on home before nightfall. I can’t stay here,

milady.”

Catherine was surprised at the driver’s vehement rejection of her offer. From the

sounds of the rain beating against the windows and the ominous rolls of thunder

shaking the panes, the storm had no intention of abating any time soon. If anything, the

onslaught was worsening.

“But you said yourself we barely made it here, Mr. Beasely,” Catherine protested. “I

would feel awful if you got mired down—”

“Can’t stay, I tell you!” the man nearly shouted. His mouth trembled even as he

blushed at his rude outburst.

Catherine stared at him, stunned at the intense look of unbridled fear stamped on

his wrinkled face. His eyes were darting to and fro as though he expected someone to

jump out of the shadows of the library and attack him.

“Can’t stay here,” Beasely repeated in a choked whisper. He began backing out of

the doorway. “Won’t do it.” He bobbed his head firmly in farewell and then spun on his

heel, more than anxious to leave before Catherine could think of a way to prevent him

from doing so.

“Why are you concerning yourself with the hired help, Catherine?” Bahru asked in

a snide tone.

The housekeeper laughed, the sound one of scorn. “My question as well, Lord

Bahru,” she stated. “Beasely is a fool at best.”

9

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“He acted as though he was scared out of his mind to stay the night here,”

Catherine replied with a nervous giggle. “Is the plantation house supposed to be

haunted?”

An elegant black brow lifted in query. “You’ve not heard the stories about

Anubeion, milady?” the housekeeper countered.

“Stories?” Catherine repeated, her laughter nervous. “Are there stories?”

There was a quirk of the housekeeper’s lips. “They tell tales of a night creature who

prowls the lands of Anubeion Plantation.”

“Oh for the love of Osiris!” Bahru said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What

stupidity.”

“They?” Catherine asked.

“The slaves,” was the reply. “Most of their ancestors were brought here from

Necroman when the master’s great-grandfather built the plantation house. They

brought with them the childish tales of their homeland and the ridiculous superstitions

as well.”

“Is that where you are from?” Catherine inquired. “Necroman?”

The housekeeper lifted her chin and her voice was filled with disdain when she

answered. “I am not a slave, Milady Brell. I was born in Khirbet Province. I was

chatelaine at the master’s keep there. When he was sent here, I came with him.”

“I know very little about Kensett,” Catherine said. “I—”

“There are five provinces in Kensett,” Bahru snapped as though talking to the

village idiot. “The capitol is at Kharis in the northern province of Khamsin and is the

most prosperous with Khirbet close behind in wealth. Kerak, Kharstand and Kermis—

where I was born—are the other three. Each Province is ruled by a sheik, members of

the Ben-Alkazar family. The summer home of the royal family is in Khirbet, near the

sea, and it is there where Prince Khenty preferred to live.”

Embarrassed at her mistake, Catherine apologized. “I meant no insult regarding

your nationality. It’s just that your accent is so—”

“Black?” the housekeeper snapped. Her eyes became obsidian slits of irritation.

“Musical,” Catherine amended. She felt her face flaming and knew she’d somehow

made an enemy of this woman. “My brother has a cook from—”

“You have had a tiring journey,” the housekeeper interrupted. “We can discuss

your life in Virago when you have rested.” She stepped away from the door, expecting

Catherine to follow her.

At a loss to understand what she could have done to alienate the housekeeper so

early on in their acquaintance, Catherine turned to retrieve her reticule. As she did, her

attention was caught by the gilt frame of the portrait hanging over the fireplace then

lifted to the portrait itself. The breath caught in her throat as she stared at the man in the

portrait.

“The master,” the housekeeper said in a soft, respectful tone.

10

Shades of the Wind

Bahru glanced around and when he saw the painting, came quickly to his feet. His

face paled and he backed away. “I did not know,” he said in a whisper. His hand went

to his throat. “No one told me!”

Catherine stared at the portrait—caught and held by the imposing figure of the

black-clad knight sitting astride a magnificent rearing destrier. The glow from the fire

cast shadows on the canvas but gave off enough light for Catherine to make out the

details of the painting.

His hair was midnight black, sleek and shining as it flowed to the shoulders of his

ebony silk shirt. The artist had set a wind to blowing over the tall crags behind the rider

so that the stygian hair was lifted slightly away from the temples of a lean, squarejawed face. Strong hands sheathed in black leather held tightly to the steed’s reins and

bulging thigh muscles gripped the horse’s body in restraint, giving the impression that

if not controlled, the beast might well leap out of the painting to trample its viewer. A

coiled whip hung at the rider’s hip and around his neck he wore a green ribbon that

held a strange golden symbol.

Beyond the horse and rider were mountains—their jagged peaks veiled in lowhanging, sodden gray clouds—so steeped in opaque gray ground fog that it seemed as

though the two main objects of the painting might dissolve into the mist at any

moment. High atop the massif of the mountain range, fixed precariously upon a veined

scarp, just the hint of an ancient keep, a single light glowing from the battlements could

be seen. The sheer inaccessibility of the keep made it appear dangerous and foreboding.

“He is magnificent, isn’t he? His is the
heqa segr
, the silent power,” the housekeeper

breathed, coming to stand alongside Catherine. Her voice was hushed with awe as

though she were regarding the portrait for the first time. “The portrait was done while

he was fighting the Rysalians alongside his great-uncle in the mountains of Asaraba.”

Catherine could only nod for she was held, not so much by the extraordinarily

handsome face of the rider—although his sensuous lips, straight nose and high

cheekbones together combined to set her heart to fluttering—but by the intensity of his

dark gaze and the promise of even darker visions those eyes had beheld.

“I did not know he was one of the Anubi,” Bahru whispered. He took a few steps

back. “Is this to be my destiny?”

A strange feeling went through Catherine and she wondered if her destiny as well

lay with this dark warrior.

“He is a wondrous being. There is no other like him in all the megaverse,” the

housekeeper stated. She swept her gaze over Bahru. “And nay, milord. You could never

be such a one as he.”

Catherine forced her gaze from the portrait and turned to look at the housekeeper.

The woman was staring fixedly at the man in the portrait and upon her face was a look

of such rapturous devotion, such intense sexual longing and unrelenting need,

Catherine hotly blushed and had to look away. She glanced at Olabishi and found her

companion staring with wide eyes at the painting.

11

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You haven’t told me your name,” Catherine said to break the discomfort of the

moment. She moved away from the fireplace, wanting to put distance between herself

and the portrait.

The housekeeper reluctantly tore her gaze from the painting and shrugged

indifferently. “Nyria,” was the answer. She walked past Catherine and exited the room

with haughty grandeur, her spine stiff.

Taking the lantern from the foyer table, Nyria held it aloft and started up the grand

staircase, not bothering to ascertain if Catherine was following.

Bahru quickly followed Nyria, not bothering to escort the woman he was engaged

to wed.

The risers of the spiral staircase that led up to the second floor were wide and deep

and covered with thick velour carpet. The railing was teak and—although it needed a

good polishing—was intricately carved and inset with elaborate panels embossed with

sheaths of wheat.

“The staircase is lovely,” Catherine observed.

“It took the woodcarvers nearly a year to finish it,” Nyria explained in a bored tone.

“The wood itself came from Serenia. The carpet was purchased in Ionary.”

Catherine marveled at the exquisiteness of the material used to create this grand

staircase. Obviously no expense had been spared, yet she wondered why such beauty

was being neglected. She reached out to touch the thick brocade wallpaper that adorned

the walls.

“I would imagine these walls could tell tales of their own,” she commented,

grimacing as her fingers came away with a slick wetness that could only be mold.

“About all the gatherings held here at Anubeion.”

“Many years ago,” Nyria informed her, “the master’s great-uncle gave elegant

parties here.” She reached out to caress the sweeping wood of the railing. “Planters

from as far away as Oceania came to visit us.”

“How long has it been since His Grace has entertained?” Catherine asked, wiping

her hand against her already soiled skirts. “I’ve heard tell of the magnificent parties

here in the southern countries. I hope—”