Andrea Kane (33 page)

Die … betray … die
…

With a hard shudder, he slammed the book shut.

Violently, he crushed the rose beneath his heel. Either Ariana had an unknown affinity for roses and
Othello,
or this was someone’s very sick idea of a joke.

“Thank you, Jennings.” Ariana smiled absently, handing her wrap to the butler. The outcome of her meeting with Baxter, although unsurprising, had drained her emotionally.

“Is that my wife, Jennings?” Trenton bellowed from the drawing room.

Ariana looked questioningly at Jennings, who had paled at the sound of Trenton’s booming voice.

“Yes, Your Grace, it is,” the butler called back. “The duke wanted to see you the moment you arrived home,” he advised Ariana in a swift whisper.

“Very well …” Ariana began. She had no time to finish her sentence before Trenton stalked down the hall, seized her hand, and dragged her into the drawing room and out of earshot.

“Trenton?” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and startled.

“When was the last time you went shopping?” he demanded.

“Shopping?”

“Yes: Shopping. Specifically, to a bookstore in London. To buy me a gift … a volume of Shakespearean plays.”

“Trenton, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. If I’d been in London I would have told you. As far as Shakespeare, you never mentioned being a great fan of his. Were I going to buy you a gift—”

Trenton snatched the volume from the sofa and held it out to her. “You didn’t purchase this book?”

Ariana gave the volume a cursory glance. “No, of course not. I just told you—”

“Are you certain?”

“My head is not
that
far in the clouds. I don’t forget the purchases I make.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you interrogating me about this?”

Trenton cursed under his breath. “A merchant delivered this book today. He said my wife had bought it as a present for me and asked him to deliver it personally.”

“Are you sure he said your ‘wife’?”

“Positive.”

“Then evidently he misunderstood whoever purchased it. Is there a note?”

“None.”

“That’s odd.” Ariana’s brow furrowed.

“Or intentional.”

“Trenton, why would someone pretend to be your wife in order to send you a volume of Shakespearean plays?”

“You tell me.” Trenton opened the book, pointing to the underlined section. “Read that passage.” He waited while Ariana read. “The page was marked with that.” He gestured toward the crushed rose.

The color drained slowly from Ariana’s face. “A rose … That was Vanessa’s favorite flower, the scent she always wore. And the section from
Othello
…”

“Is about death … or, to be more specific, murder. Not merely a rose’s, but a woman’s.”

“This has to be a mistake … a horrible coincidence,” Ariana whispered.

“Oh, it’s no mistake, misty angel.” Trenton’s penetrating cobalt stare bore into Ariana. “The merchant described my wife as an incredibly beautiful woman with masses of red hair and splendid green eyes.”

“Oh my God.” Ariana sank down onto the sofa, feeling lightheaded.

“My sentiments exactly. If
you
didn’t buy this for me, who did? And why?”

“Red hair and splendid green eyes …” Ariana swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Trenton, that’s not really a description of me. My hair and eye color are not nearly so vivid. That sounds more like …”

“Vanessa,” he finished for her.

“Was the merchant reliable?”

“He was nervous as hell. He said something about his vision not being what it used to be.”

“Could his description be wrong?”

“What do you think?”

Ariana laced her fingers tightly together. “The question is, what do
you
think?”

“Honestly? That this was someone’s attempt to torture me.”

“Baxter.”

“You said it, not I.”

“I find it hard to believe my brother would be so cruel,” Ariana reasoned aloud. Seeing Trenton’s jaw tighten, she amended, “I didn’t say he wasn’t selfish and greedy. But despite whatever else he may be, Baxter is not a sadistic man.”

“Obviously you’ve been in his company this afternoon,” Trenton said bitterly.

“What you’re implying is unfair and untrue. Meeting with Baxter altered nothing, Trenton. I’m not as easily influenced as you evidently think.”

“What did the bastard tell you?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.”

“He admitted blackmailing me?”

“He had another term for it, but yes.”

Thunderclouds erupted on Trenton’s face. “I can just imagine how he presented his case.”

“That makes absolutely no difference.” Ariana rose, going to stand beside her husband. “Did you think I’d take Baxter’s word over yours, especially after I’ve offered you my love and my trust?”

Trenton turned to face her. “No,” he denied instantly. “But if Baxter didn’t send me the book, who did?”

“I don’t know. Another enemy, perhaps?”

“An enemy with very precise timing, wouldn’t you say?”

Ariana assessed the torment on her husband’s face and ached for his anguish. “Everyone knows you’ve been away from Broddington for years,” she reasoned gently. “Baxter’s rumors riled many people after Vanessa’s death. … You said so yourself. Perhaps your emergence re-ignited someone’s ill feelings. … Why, just think of poor James Covington, whose daughter Suzanne is probably still wailing over the betrothal to Baxter you forcibly severed.” Ariana attempted a smile, determined to ease Trenton’s ominous thoughts. “As you can see, you are not the most beloved man in England. In fact, you are quite a bear. Fortunately for you, I see beneath that brutal exterior.”

Trenton stared into her eyes, desperate to believe her, incapable of doing so. “What about the bookseller’s description?”

“Whoever is responsible for this obviously went to a great deal of trouble to upset you.” She stroked his cheek. “I won’t let them succeed.”

Trenton drank in Ariana’s tenderness, a balm to his raw nerves. Sifting his fingers through her hair, he murmured, “Who would ever have believed that a slip of a girl would be giving me her strength? … Or that I would be needing it?”

Relief flooded through Ariana as she sensed the tension ebbing from her husband. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his chin.
“Girl?
And here I thought I had graduated from
girl
to
woman
weeks ago.”

Fervently, Trenton clasped her to him. “You did. You have.” Waves of emotion clogged his chest, and Trenton expressed them in the only way he knew how. “Come to bed with me.”

Smiling, Ariana nodded against his throat. “The perfect place for me to exhibit my great strength and stamina.”

“Ariana …”

His wife leaned back in his arms. “I love you too, Trenton,” she said softly.

Slipping her hand in his, she led him to the door.

Ariana slept peacefully, her hair a bright copper waterfall across Trenton’s chest.

Smiling tenderly, Trenton gathered his wife closer, feeling her warm, even breaths against his skin.

In response, Ariana murmured something unintelligible and snuggled against him, deeply asleep in the aftermath of their soul-shattering passion, secure in the shelter of her husband’s embrace.

Rubbing his chin absently over her satiny tresses, Trenton wondered who he truly sought to comfort by holding his wife so tightly in his arms: Ariana, or himself. Candidly, he acknowledged the blessed relief of feeling her warm, soft body pressed against his. It was almost as euphoric as the exaltation he experienced when he exploded inside her, poured his entire being into hers.

Lord, he loved this woman.

The realization, instant but absolute, elicited only wonder and joy, rather than doubt or reservation. The feeling was not a new one, regardless of Trenton’s cowardice at assigning it its proper name. He’d loved Ariana for weeks: perhaps from that first moment he’d made his way through the mist of the Covington maze, only to lose himself all over again in the melting beauty of her eyes; certainly since their wedding night, when he’d joined his body to hers, made her his wife in every way.

Pressing his lips to Ariana’s forehead, Trenton felt a wave of gratitude that God had seen fit to bring her into his life. In a mere month this extraordinary young woman, with her fundamental love of nature and her unconditional faith in a man that had long since ceased to exist, had broken through Trenton’s rigid walls of isolation, surrounded him with her goodness and her love, and penetrated deep into his heart.

A heart he had thought would never thaw again.

Thanks to Ariana, Trenton could actually visualize himself as the man she believed him to be; and he wanted to be that man, desperately, for her.

Vengeance suddenly seemed a poor substitute.

Trenton frowned. At a time when he could actually consider burying the past, looking ahead rather than back, someone was making certain that the past remained very much in the present.

Who?

Staring at the ceiling, he contemplated the possibilities. The most likely, of course, was Baxter. Unlike Ariana, Trenton regarded Baxter not only as a greedy, selfish man, but as a heartless one, as well. He’d never forgotten the bastard’s odious pleasure at refusing Trenton’s request to spare Richard further grief, and the perverse satisfaction Baxter had taken in evicting Trenton from Winsham.

The man was indeed capable of cruelty.

But not without cause.

That was the part that nagged at Trenton’s mind, made him doubt Baxter’s guilt. Vindication alone was not enough to drive Baxter Caldwell; no, not unless he had something tangible to gain from it.

Money.

In this case, money was not an issue. Mentally torturing Trenton would bring nothing of monetary worth to Baxter. Which drastically reduced Caldwell’s plausibility as a suspect.

So who had sent that book? Whoever was guilty had to be motivated by blatant viciousness, enough to pay someone to impersonate Vanessa in order to torment Trenton.

Masses of red hair and splendid green eyes.

Trenton squeezed his own eyes shut to block out the image that conjured up: Vanessa. Damn her even in death.

Rearranging the pillows, Trenton settled himself for sleep, determined to stop agonizing over that bloody book. Purposefully, he ran his hand over Ariana’s soft curves, reaffirming what was real, what was important. Then, cradling her to him, he slept.

The lantern heralded her arrival, piercing the dark of night and illuminating her hair to a fiery crimson blaze. Her lime silk gown was snug, and she wore nothing underneath, clearly defining every tantalizing curve of her body.

He was unmoved.

He could hear her voice, sense the urgency that drove her. He could feel the silk of her gown as his fingers dug into her shoulders, the fragility of her bones as he shook her.… Dear Lord, the venom inside him was such that he could kill her. …

Kill her… kill her… kill her …

Trenton, don’t … don’t … don’t …

Bolting upright, Trenton felt sweat drip down his back, trickle along his forehead. It was a dream, only a dream. And yet, so very real.

Wild-eyed, Trenton looked down at Ariana, who had rolled onto her other side and was curled away from him, still sleeping soundly. He wanted to wake her, to crush her against him, to bury himself inside her, to forget.

He couldn’t run forever.

Easing out of bed, Trenton dressed and left the room. Broddington was dark, the grandfather clock in the hall telling him that it was nearly midnight. Quietly, he slipped out into the night, inhaling long and hard.

He realized he was still shaking. That damned dream had unnerved him even more than he thought.

Strolling about the grounds, Trenton wished he were at Spraystone. His head was so much clearer there, his thoughts better able to crystallize. And heaven only knew he needed that, needed to achieve some semblance of peace.

He walked endlessly, staring vacantly ahead. Moving automatically, he let his feet take him where they would.

They took him to the River Arun.

Gazing at the deserted shore, Trenton felt that familiar chill encase his heart. Six years. It had been six years since he’d paced along this shoreline, waited for Vanessa to arrive.

His life had never been the same.

Hands balling into fists, Trenton muttered a savage oath and turned away.

It was then that he saw it.

Laying on its side, candles extinguished, the brass lantern was half buried in the sand, only its upper portion visible. Like a man possessed, Trenton walked toward it, squatting to take a closer look.

A groan escaped his throat.

The lantern was unique: a gazebo cage exterior with space for three candles within, ornate, intricate, unchanged.

It was the lantern Vanessa had carried the night she died.

With trembling hands, Trenton lifted it from its sandy bed. Had it been here all these years? Impossible. The police had searched every inch of this beach when they’d scoured the waters for a trace of Vanessa’s body—and discovered only her bloodied gown.

Then where the hell had it come from?

The wind whistled through the trees, and Trenton lifted his head slowly, with the sudden, eerie feeling he was not alone.

From fifty feet away, a woman beckoned him. She wore a tight-fitting lime silk gown with a low, square-cut bodice reminiscent of the 1860s. Her hair, a lush mane of flaming red, billowed out around her, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back.

Suddenly she extended both arms in his direction and uttered a single word. “Trenton …”

“No!” Trenton shook his head violently, staggering to his feet, unsure whether he was running toward the apparition or away.

It didn’t matter.

For when he looked again, she was gone.

T
RENTON WASN’T SURE HOW
many hours he blindly walked the beach; but the sky’s harsh cloak of black was softening to a muted gray, signifying the oncoming dawn, when he found his way back to Broddington.

He had traversed shock and denial and moved into self-censure by this time, contemplating the possibility that he was indeed losing his mind.