Andrea Kane (5 page)

If Trenton’s painstakingly acquired research hadn’t convinced him of the viscount’s dire straits, the look on Caldwell’s face when Covington conceded to Trenton’s demand most assuredly did. Without Suzanne’s dowry, Caldwell was penniless. And, to a coldhearted bastard like Caldwell, poverty was a more heinous condition to endure than the most lethal of diseases.

So where was the exalted sense of vindication Trenton had expected to feel?

Lowering himself to the ground, Trenton braced his weight on his hands, disregarding the icy tide that washed up around him, soaking his trousers and boots. He stared, unseeing, toward England’s distant shore, instantly conjuring up an image of the one surprise last night had spawned.

His vague sense of familiarity had been immediate; he’d just been unable to place it. Although God only knew how he could have overlooked it, given that his arrival, his purpose, the very essence of his vengeful thoughts sprang from the Caldwells. And the resemblance
was
striking.

Still, he’d never met her, for six years before she’d been a child and he’d been consumed by her sister. That being the case, he’d simply forgotten her existence.

Squinting, he recalled the delicate features and waves of coppery hair, the turquoise eyes regarding him so solemnly as he approached her in the contorted maze. No, it was not so surprising that he’d missed the likeness, at that. The small, artlessly beautiful fairy-tale creature he’d rescued last night was but a subtle replica of her dazzling older sister. For he, better than anyone, knew that no one could equal Vanessa.

Fiery, turbulent Vanessa, with a flaming mane of red-gold hair that flowed down her back like a raging sunset, and the hypnotic scent of roses clinging to her skin. Lush, seductive, bold, deliberate … No, there had been nothing subtle about Vanessa Caldwell. And no man was immune to the hypnotic effects of her tantalizing spell.

Lord, how he despised her.

Trenton’s face set in a fierce expression, hard waves slapping against his saturated clothing.
God help me,
he thought silently,
but I cannot feel regret for what I did. Perhaps at one time I could have. But that time is long gone, buried beneath the unalterable consequences wrought by Caldwell hate.

He dug his fingers into the sand, the irony of the situation striking home yet again. He had caused Vanessa’s death, but she had prevailed nonetheless, and the ultimate victory was hers. For the punishment she’d extracted was far crueler than death could ever be. So despite their pain and grief, the Caldwells had won.

And last night’s triumph paled in comparison.

The constriction in his chest told Trenton he had just unearthed the root of his foul humor and utter discontent. He had still not taken all he must from Baxter Caldwell.

But what more could he take from a man who loved nothing but money and no one but himself? Aside, of course, from Vanessa.

Trenton could still recall how totally shattered and agonized Baxter had been when he discovered that his precious sister was forever lost. Could he truly have cared so deeply for that heartless bitch? Obviously, the answer was yes. For nothing short of bottomless grief and rage would compel a man to commit so conscienceless an act as the one Baxter had committed.

Could Baxter feel that same blind adoration for his baby sister too?

Trenton’s thought materialized from nowhere, descending like the heavy blanket of mist that cloaked the maze where he’d found her. Did Baxter revere … her name eluded him for a moment, then rustled through his senses like a warm, gentle breeze.

Ariana.

Such gentleness and faith had shone in her extraordinary eyes before she’d learned who her rescuer was. And such fire had replaced them when she discovered the truth.

Did Baxter dote on Ariana the way he had on Vanessa? He’d certainly exhibited a fine show of brotherly protectiveness at the Covingtons’ ball: all righteous indignation, clutching Ariana to his side as if she were his most priceless possession. And indeed, could she be?

She wasn’t cold and cruel like Vanessa, nor weak and shallow like Baxter. Her naïveté was too genuine, her responses too natural.

But respond she had.

The sensual pull between them had been immediate and undeniable. He hadn’t imagined the insistent ache in his loins, nor the bewildered yet unmistakable awakening in her eyes as he’d carried her from the maze.

Still she was a Caldwell.

A sudden possibility struck Trenton, and a slow, sardonic smile curled his lips.

He could use their attraction to his advantage.

Mulling over that pleasurable prospect, he shifted his weight, stretching his legs in front of him, oblivious to the cresting waves now drenching him to the waist.

Ariana. A breathtaking angel, ready to be guided into the heavenly realm of passion. True, she would resist him at first, entrenched as she was in her brother’s enmity. Still, Trenton had every confidence that she would eventually succumb to his calculated seduction. Quite simply, she wasn’t sophisticated enough to combat his expertise or to fight the attraction that drove her to him.

Then there was the matter of her virginity.

As a rule, Trenton didn’t prefer virgins. However, he found this one strangely alluring in her innocence. Yes, he would certainly savor every moment of his combined victory: sexually initiating Ariana and, in the process, bringing Baxter to his knees, ruining his baby sister and thereby fulfilling one contemptuous accusation that, until now, had been false.

At the memory, Trenton’s jaw clenched. Ruin Vanessa? Hardly.

And yet she’d made that claim—repeatedly, as he recalled—on that final night … the last night of her life.

Trenton could envision it as if it were yesterday, rather than six years before: the secluded shadows beneath the cliffs, the dark waters of the River Arunn mingling with the rough waves of the Channel, the foam slapping at their feet

The rage that loomed in his heart as he’d faced her.

Her eyes were strangely lit, not only by the lantern’s haunting glow but with a depth of despair that might have been pitiful enough to move him, had it been anyone but Vanessa.

His fists knotted at his sides in an attempt to restrain himself.

But to no avail.

And when she began to taunt him, his fury was uncontainable, condemnation and hatred blazing in his eyes.

He could still remember her plaintive cries as she begged him not to do this to her.

Please … don’t … Trenton … don’t
…

Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

He was out of control and he knew it. What was more, Vanessa knew it too.

No … no … don’t … no
…

He didn’t flinch nor look back. He simply walked away, leaving behind him only a sudden silence and an extinguished lantern.

Taking with him only an odd sense of relief …

“Help me! Help!”

Trenton’s eyes flew open, as it struck him that the scream he was hearing was no haunting voice of the past but a very real and fearful cry from somewhere in Osborne Bay.

He leapt to his feet, scanning the choppy waters, which had grown significantly rougher during the hour he’d been lost in thought. The yachts had long since disappeared from view, and the sky looked menacing, the clouds low.

“Help!”

He heard it again, and this time his keen gaze located its source. Far out in the bay was a small rowboat, bobbing idly on the waves, devoid of occupants. Splashing frantically near the boat, yet not close enough to grab on, was a woman, whose head appeared intermittently, then sank beneath the water.

Trenton wasted not a second. Simultaneously he kicked off his boots and tore off his shirt, flinging them to the sand. In three long strides he was deep enough to dive, then took hard, powerful strokes that carried him swiftly to the speck of color he recognized as the drowning woman.

His arm locked about her waist, dragging her head above water along with his own. Ignoring the boat entirely, he swam forcefully for shore, uncertain of the woman’s state of consciousness, decidedly uneasy about her lack of coughing or movement.

Her face was ashen when he lay her on the sand, blood trickling from an ugly gash on her forehead. Trenton paled as he recognized her. Not allowing himself to dwell on the devastating possibilities should his efforts fail, he proceeded to force the water from her lungs until her first shallow breaths evolved into a fit of gasping coughs.

“Your Highness!” Hurried footsteps accompanied the shrill voice. “Oh, Lord!” The maid watched helplessly as Trenton soothed the young woman’s coughs, assisting her until her breathing was erratic but normal.

“The Princess will be fine,” he assured the shaking servant, using his discarded shirt to wipe the blood from the princess’s forehead. “None the worse for her ambitious adventure.”

“I must summon Her Majesty at once.” The slight, knock-kneed girl turned, then stopped. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” she breathed, well aware that Trenton was a frequent guest of the Queen’s. “Thank you ever so much.”

Trenton glanced down at Princess Beatrice, who was now calming her gasps, shivering uncontrollably while attempting to still her nerves.

“Do not alarm the Queen,” Trenton cautioned the servant. “I shall assist Princess Beatrice to the house. Then Her Majesty can see for herself that all is well.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” The grateful maid wrung her hands, simultaneously bobbing her head up and down.

“Can you walk, Your Highness?” Trenton asked Beatrice gently.

Slowly, the Princess nodded, allowing Trenton to draw her to her feet. “I never imagined the weather would turn so dreadfully,” she rasped. “Nor so quickly. When I went out rowing …” she inhaled sharply, shakily, “the sky was light, the day lovely. I assumed I had hours before the storm hit. … I’m normally a strong swimmer. But when I struck my head on the boat …” She choked in more air, touching the gash on her forehead. “You saved my life, Your Grace. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You can thank me by saving your strength. You can also thank me by walking into that house on your own two legs and assuring your poor mother that you are well.” He offered her his arm.

Beatrice smiled faintly. “Done.”

Queen Victoria abandoned her watercolor sketch of the upcoming storm the instant she saw Beatrice and Trenton approach Osborne House’s lower terrace. She rushed forward, the color draining from her face as her child hobbled in unsteadily on Trenton’s arm.

“What has happened?” the Queen demanded.

Trenton helped Beatrice into a chair beside the fountain, then moved forward, leaning over to brush the Queen’s hand with his lips. “Everything is fine, Your Majesty,” he soothed.

Victoria waved him off, bending over to anxiously inspect her daughter’s condition.

“The Princess merely fell in the bay,” Trenton assured her.

Satisfied that Beatrice would recover, Victoria turned to address Trenton. “Don’t take me for a fool, Kingsley,” she shot back, as regal in carriage at fifty-four as she’d been as a girl. “I’ve lived through far too much for you to patronize me. Beatrice did not merely fall in the bay. She is bleeding, not to mention totally saturated and white as a sheet!”

“The duke saved the Princess’s life, Your Majesty,” the maid piped up, scurrying onto the terrace. Quickly and respectfully, she relayed the incident to the Queen. “I saw the whole thing,” she concluded, nodding vigorously for emphasis.

Victoria turned to Trenton, her lips quivering with emotion. “You’ve given me back my child, Trenton. For that, I am forever in your debt. Anything you ask of me is yours.”

A corner of Trenton’s mouth rose in amusement. “I am in need of nothing, I assure you, Your Majesty.”

“That’s preposterous!” she snapped. “Everyone is in need of something!”

“I beg to differ with you, Your Majesty. I’ve acquired all I can possibly take … at least for now.” Trenton thrust aside the dark reflection, flashing Victoria one of his rare, infectious smiles. He had to restore the Queen’s humor, so she would forget this nonsense of fulfilling some nonexistent need of his. “As a matter of fact,” he continued, “it is
I
who have been needed these past few days … twice, in fact. Both times I was called upon to rescue damsels in distress.”

Victoria responded with a cold stare, unmoved by either his dazzling charm or honorable proclamation. “Dispense with this idle chatter, Broddington. I am aware that you require no monetary compensation. However, surely there is something you wish.” Her features softened and she clutched the pillar beside her, as if for support. “Please do not deny me the chance to repay what you have restored to me this day. I could not have withstood another loss.” Her voice trembled.

Trenton inclined his head in understanding. The Queen had suffered greatly over the past score, both personally and as a sovereign. First came the bloodshed of the Crimean War. That finally behind her, personal tragedy had struck. The Queen’s mother, the Duchess of Kent, passed away in March of 1861. And then, a scant nine months later, Victoria was forced to survive the ultimate blow, the death of her beloved Prince Consort just before Christmas.

At this supreme tragedy, Victoria’s mourning was boundless, for she adored Albert and relied upon him heavily. And it was no secret that, without her husband, the mercurial Queen felt lost and incomplete. Only Beatrice, the family baby and Victoria’s constant companion, managed to offer her mother the solace she needed to go on living. No, Trenton knew that to lose her sixteen-year-old daughter would be devastating to Victoria.

“I greatly appreciate your kind and generous offer, Your Majesty,” Trenton answered with quiet perception. “However, you know me well and we are both aware that my specific wishes, unfortunately, are not tangible things to be granted. Even by one with power as vast as yours.”

A pause. “Perhaps, in your situation, that is true,” Victoria conceded thoughtfully. She raised her chin, her gaze meaningful. “Vengeance is not for us to render. That is something only the Lord can do.”

Trenton’s expression hardened. “That being the case, I have no wish to be granted.”