Andrea Kane (29 page)

“No, of course not.” Trenton cleared his throat roughly. “You’re welcome to come.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” She inclined her head quizzically. “We will be returning to Wight, won’t we?”

Trenton smiled. “Could I keep you away?”

“Probably not.” She strolled out of the barn, wrapping her arms about herself and gazing at the plush green hills and brilliant flowers surrounding them. “I never expected to feel such a sense of belonging as I do at Spraystone.”

“I know.” Trenton came up behind her. “The Isle has a way of stealing your heart.”

“You never did teach me to sail,” she reminded him.

“You never left your owl’s side.”

“Never?” She turned, giving him a look that was an irresistible combination of innocence and seduction.

Desire, relentless and staggering, exploded in Trenton’s loins, an inevitability he no longer questioned, only marveled at. Pulling Ariana to him, he threaded his fingers through the thick masses of her auburn hair. “I can’t get enough of you, misty angel.”

“Nor I of you,” she whispered, reaching up to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. “We really should begin packing.”

“Later.” He tugged her head back, pressing his lips to the pulse at her throat

“How much later?” She drew open the sides of his shirt, running her palms up his powerful, hair-roughened chest.

Trenton’s cobalt eyes darkened to near black. “I’m glad your owl needs more of your tender ministrations,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms and heading toward the house, “because so do I.”

“Trenton? Are you sure he’s strong enough to fly? Perhaps he—”

“Look at him,” Trenton answered gently, gesturing toward the crate. “His eyes are bright and clear. Tonight marks the fourth full day he’s eaten well. He’s been restless since morning. He needs his freedom.”

“You’re right.” Ariana raised her chin determinedly. “It would be cruel to keep him captive any longer. Odysseus needs to soar.”

“Perhaps he’ll follow us to Sussex, as he did to Wight,” Trenton suggested with a hint of a smile. “He has, it seems, appointed himself your protector.”

“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be seeing him again.”

“Additional faith, misty angel?”

“Perpetual faith, husband.” She squatted beside the crate. “You’re well now, Odysseus,” she said solemnly. “Take the freedom that is yours by right.” Without hesitation, she lifted the crate and backed away. “Until we meet again, my friend.”

Odysseus pivoted his head, ostensibly noting that his confinement had been removed. For an instant, he leveled his penetrating topaz stare at Ariana, blinking once, twice.

Then, with an expressive screech, he spread his wings and sailed out the open barn door into the welcoming dusk.

Ariana snatched her lantern and hastened out after him.

“Where are you going?” Trenton called after her.

“I want to watch him. He’s magnificent when he flies.” She paused. “Come with me.”

“I must be insane,” Trenton muttered, following. “I run from cuckoos, I follow white owls; next you’ll have me designing structures where your bloody birds can meet for social events.”

Ariana laughed. “I rather like that idea. Hurry!” She tugged at his hand, and the two of them sped off across the ground and away from Spraystone. Odysseus’s flight was graceful and easy to follow: He was the one stark streak in the darkening sky. Twice he landed on the branches of tall trees, briefly surveyed the land below, then took flight again, evidently testing his wings, reveling in his reacquired freedom and health.

“He’s heading out over the Solent,” Trenton noted, pausing as they reached the beach beside Brading Harbor.

“Maybe he’s preceding us to Broddington!” Ariana ran on ahead, ignoring the wet sand that weighed down her gown and stained her shoes, stopping only when she’d reached the water’s edge. Holding her lantern high, she silently bid her friend farewell, peering intently into the night sky until he’d disappeared from view.

“He’s truly free,” she acknowledged softly. Turning, she smiled at Trenton. “Some things are meant to be, and we have no control over them. This moment was one.”

Trenton didn’t answer. The incandescent glow of the lantern filtered out around her, turning the radiant copper of her hair to a fiery red. The water lapped at her feet, first catching the edge of her gown, then receding into the darkening waters.

Sudden, unbidden images gripped Trenton, seized his gut, wrenching like a knife. Slashes of memory sprang to life, uncontrolled, unforgettable.

“Some things are meant to be, Trenton. … This moment is one of them.”
A shimmer of crimson hair, a golden haze of light.

“Yes, Vanessa. You’re right. This moment was meant to be. But not for the reasons you think.”
He could feel the rage pump through his veins, the blind fury recurring as if it were happening right now.
“This is not the beginning, you vicious slut. … It’s the end. I intend to ensure that fact
…
tonight. “

“Trenton?”
The lapping of the waves, the hush of the night.

The finality.

“Trenton?” Ariana went to him, her eyes wide with concern. “What is it? You’re white as a sheet.”

Trenton stared at her, unseeing, numb.

“You’re frightening me. … What’s the matter?” Ariana clutched at his arms.

A chilling light dawned in Trenton’s eyes, and he thrust Ariana away from him. “Not again, Vanessa. Never again.”

Turning on his heel, he strode back to Spraystone.

The River Arun hadn’t changed.

Illuminated by a single lantern, the dark, surging waters rushed through Sussex, emptying fiercely into the Channel, merging them into one.

The woman stared at the deserted bank, visualizing the man she wanted and the woman who was no more: an image that caused enmity to distort her still lovely features into a mask of hatred.

All that would soon be rectified.

“Miss?” The constable’s footsteps were muffled by the sand. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“Yes?” Swiftly, she pulled up the hood of her mantle, shielding her face from view.

“Are you all right?”

His weathered face was unfamiliar, she discerned at once, relief surging through her. “Of course, Constable. I’m fine. … Just enjoying an evening stroll.”

He frowned. “I saw the glow of your lantern. A young lady like you shouldn’t be walking alone by the river at night.”

She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of his remark. Youth had long since passed her by, and she, better than anyone, knew that fear arose not from solitude, but from helplessness. “You’re right, of course, Constable. It’s time I returned home.”

“Do you live nearby?” His shaggy brows knit in concern.

“Just beyond those trees,” she answered quickly. “Thank you for your interest, Constable. Good night.”

“Good night, miss.”

She felt his eyes upon her as she glided purposefully toward the area she’d designated as home. In the future, she’d have to be more careful.

The wind picked up, cool against her flushed cheeks. She was half tempted to lower her hood and let the air rush through her hair, making her feel alive again.

But the risk was too great.

Her fingers tightened about the mantle, holding it firmly over her head.

One stubborn strand broke free, whipping defiantly about her face.

Only the moon witnessed its crimson glow.

“We have to discuss it.”

Ariana’s face was pale, her eyes red from a long, sleepless night. How many times had she confronted Trenton, pleaded with him to talk to her? But to no avail.

The yacht sails whipped in the stiff breeze, the Isle of Wight fading as they neared the English shore. “Trenton … please.”

He hadn’t spoken since their encounter on the beach, nor had he moved since their ship had left Wight this morning. He stood at the yacht’s railing, his gaze fixed on some distant point.

Ariana took a deep breath, attempting a more direct approach. “Did I resemble Vanessa more than usual last night, or was she just on your mind?”

Slowly, Trenton turned. “You don’t resemble Vanessa … not in any way.”

Grateful that her husband was finally responding, Ariana rose, going to stand beside him. “Then why did you call me by her name?”

“I can’t explain it. For a split second, I saw her.”

“Why? Was it something I did? Said?”

“Stop it, Ariana.” He averted his head, staring broodingly over the Solent. “I’m not ready to discuss this. …
I
don’t even understand it.” His mouth thinned into a grim line. “I find myself in the untenable position of actually wondering what’s real and what’s fabricated.”

“Were you in love with my sister?” Ariana blurted out the unrelated question without thinking. Astonished by her own brazenness, she wished she could retract her words. In this case, it wasn’t Trenton’s anger she feared, but his honesty.

“No.” His response was instant and absolute. “Not then. Not ever.”

Ariana’s relief was so acute it hurt. “I’m glad,” she whispered. She leaned against the railing, gazing out over the water. “I wonder where Odysseus is by now.”

Trenton’s head snapped around, amazement registering in his eyes. “That’s it? You’re not worried about my possible insanity or my propensity to violence? You only want to know my feelings for Vanessa?”

“For the time being, yes. I know you didn’t kill her. Now I know you didn’t love her. The rest you’ll tell me when you’re ready. The only reason I hope it will be soon is that it hurts me to see you suffer so.”

A muscle worked convulsively in Trenton’s jaw, and he drew Ariana roughly into his arms. “You humble me.”

“I love you.”

“Then I pity you, misty angel.” He buried his lips in her hair. “But, Lord help me, I need you. And I’m too selfish to convince you not to care.”

“You couldn’t convince me if you tried. Besides”—she tilted her head back and smiled—“did you or did you not ask me for time?”

“Time cannot cure all things. Have you ever considered that I might be beyond cure?”

“I’ve considered it. I’ve also dismissed it.”

He stared soberly down at her. “There is a great deal I need to resolve.”

“Then I suggest you begin at Broddington. We’ll be there in an hour.”

“An hour.” He repeated the words hollowly.

“Trenton,” Ariana said softly, “the ghosts of your past have waited six years. They can wait a bit longer … until you’re ready to confront them.”

“It’s time I
made
myself ready, don’t you think?” Trenton’s expression hardened. “I hope to God you know what you’re letting yourself in for, Ariana.”

She touched his cheek. “The pain is yours. Let the risk be mine.”

T
RENTON LEANED AGAINST THE
closed door, surveying the barren sitting room. It was the same room he’d designed with his father all those years ago, the same haven in which they’d worked, sketched, talked. Here, more than anywhere else at Broddington, Trenton could submerge himself in memories, meet the past head-on.

He’d procrastinated long enough: It was a full week since they’d left Spraystone. And not once had Ariana pressed him for answers; in fact, she’d left him virtually alone with his thoughts, spending her days in the garden furiously scribbling, presumably making notes on her newest discoveries of nature.

But Trenton himself was ready. Despite his internal anguish, he recognized that, for the first time in years, he was actually feeling a glimmer of hope, a possibility that life might hold more for him than mere existence.

Not, however, until he’d resolved the past.

He strolled over to the desk, running his hands over its polished surface.

For six years, he’d avoided this room like the fires of hell. There had been no reason to confront the pain evoked by his father’s passing; the Trenton he’d been then was dead and gone, in his place, a shell of a stranger. But if marriage to Ariana had taught him one thing it was that some fragments of the old Trenton still did exist, no matter how few or flimsy. He owed it to himself—and to her—to try to delve out those fragments and meld them into one.

For the first time since Richard’s death, he’d allowed himself to remember this room as it had looked before: lined with paintings, piled high with sketches, a tribute to the man who had created it. He could visualize his father sitting amid the chaos, oblivious to the world as he contemplated a particularly intricate drawing, his brows knit in concentration.

Surprisingly, the vivid recollection elicited no pain, only a warm glow of tender nostalgia. Evidently, without realizing it, Trenton had, at some point over the years, come to grips with his father’s death.

But never with its cause.

And never with the fact that Trenton could have—
should
have—prevented it.

Richard Kingsley had provided his sons with love, a strong set of principles, and every advantage money could buy. In return, he’d asked for only one thing: respect for that which he prided above all else: the Kingsley name. Vanessa had robbed him of that—and Trenton had been unable to stop her.

The familiar rage coiled in Trenton’s chest. Automatically, his gaze traveled to the desk, and without giving himself time to reconsider, he stalked over and yanked open the bottom drawer.

The journal was just where he’d placed it, just where Ariana had found it weeks ago.

He’d never forget the look in his wife’s eyes that day; the agony, the confusion.

How could he blame her?

Sinking into a chair, Trenton opened the journal.

The precise handwriting, the faint scent of roses: It all accosted him at once.

Six years evaporated as if they had never been.

Trenton clenched the journal savagely, images hurtling back in hard, stunning blows to his head.

Vanessa.

His first glimpse of her had been in March of 1867, at the onset of the London Season. She’d been waltzing at Devonshire House, moving breathlessly from one partner to the next, her green velvet dress swirling about her satin shoes, her cheeks provocatively flushed. He’d been unable to tear his eyes off her all evening, though it had taken some doing for him to intercede for a dance. But once the introductions had been made, her emerald gaze had claimed him, melted over him, offered him anything … anything.