Andrea Kane (17 page)

The minutes ticked by, the tension in the room intensified. And suddenly Ariana could take no more.

She curled away from Trenton, determined to keep her agony her own, fighting back the tears even as they trickled down her cheeks. Her shoulders jerked subtly with sobs, their movement the only overt sign of her anguish.

Silently, Trenton closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Ariana with possessive tenderness, enfolding her against his solid warmth. “Have I done this to you, misty angel?” he murmured into her hair, feathering kisses into the tangled tresses. “Forgive me; I never meant to cause you pain. Please … don’t cry.”

Without a word, Ariana turned to him, burying her face in his powerful chest, accepting the comfort he was offering with childlike trust and gratitude.

“Don’t allow my hatred to taint your spirit, Ariana,” Trenton whispered fervently. “This war is not between us. Don’t let me hurt you.”

Ariana raised her head, searching her husband’s face with damp, questioning eyes.

“Go to sleep,” Trenton replied, kissing the teardrops from her wet, spiky lashes. Brushing her lips with his, he tucked her head beneath his chin. “Rest … it’s nearly day.”

“Will you leave me then?” she blurted out, twisting around to look up at him.

His expression hardened. “Do you want me to?”

“No, oh no!” she burst out. “I mean …” She blushed. “I had hoped we could sleep together … awaken together. …” Her voice trailed off, and she paused, hopeful and vulnerable and embarrassed.

Trenton’s eyes flickered that same strange light she’d seen in them several times before—and he drew her back to his broad, muscular chest. “Then we shall,” he replied in an odd tone. Without further explanation, he curled her body into his, kissing her damp forehead. “Now go to sleep.”

Ariana dutifully closed her eyes, physical exhaustion commanding that she comply with Trenton’s bidding. But the dictates of her mind refused to be silenced, whispering their speculations about the enigma that was her husband.

She forced herself to think rationally.

The indisputable facts were that Trenton’s anger and thirst for revenge, justified or not, stemmed from her family. And, like the ocean, they ebbed and flowed along with the dark recollections so tightly locked in his complex mind. The terrifying questions plaguing Ariana were two: What memories could be agonizing enough to breed Trenton’s overwhelming bitterness and inspire his implacable decision to wed her? And exactly what part had Vanessa played in creating those memories?

Silently, Ariana vowed to uncover the truth, to learn precisely what had occurred six years before. Because only by understanding the details of Trenton’s past could she perceive what was hers to combat.

Time passed, the slow, even rise and fall of Trenton’s chest telling Ariana he had fallen asleep. Quietly, she slipped out of bed, donning her discarded robe and walking soundlessly over to the window. She moved the drapes aside, gazing into the faintly lit skies and silently addressing the heavens, praying for the strength to endure the ordeal she knew lay ahead, the wisdom to discern her path, the insight to distinguish truth from deception and the courage to face the outcome.

But face it she must. For despite Trenton’s biting animosity, Ariana had been drawn to him from the moment they’d met, trusted him when reason and caution warned her away, sensed on some fundamental level that he needed her.

And that she needed him as well.

Inherently, she’d always known that what she was feeling ran far deeper than the mere physical. She’d known it in the Covington maze when logic told her to fear him but instinct refused to obey; known it throughout the weeks preceding the wedding when all she could think of, dream of, was Trenton; known it in the chapel when she’d seen the flashes of vulnerability in her new husband’s eyes. And now that they were truly man and wife, it wasn’t attraction alone that compelled her response; for the angry torment in his eyes called out to her as profoundly as did the passion in his arms. Nor was it attraction that caused her to weep for Broddington’s emptiness, which was a mirror reflection of the emptiness that pervaded Trenton’s heart.

It was more.

Ariana squeezed her eyes shut against the glaring knowledge, willing back the resentment, the ambivalence, even the sliver of fear. But to no avail; they were gone forever, replaced by an emotion far more frightening.

God help her, she was falling in love with her husband.

A man who was unapproachable, unreachable, untouchable … and unwilling, if not unable, to accept her love and to give her his in return.

Ariana bowed her head.
Please,
she beseeched the ubiquitous powers above,
show me my course. Please.

The fluttering sound broke the silence, faint, but audible and persistent nonetheless. Ariana’s chin came up and her eyes flew open, scanning the brightening skies of the new day … skies that, moments before, had been deserted.

The owl traversed the heavens, flying directly toward her, his snowy wings cloaking the dawn. As he approached, his piercing stare captured Ariana’s, bathing her in a momentary glow, his expression solemn, his message sage. Then he veered abruptly skyward, disappearing over the spires of Broddington, leaving behind a shrill cry, a silent sky. …

And hope.

“H
AVE I KEPT YOU
waiting?”

Ariana rounded the hall to the second-floor landing, hastening her step at the sight of her husband’s restless pacing.

Trenton’s head snapped around. “No,” he replied with stiff formality. “I’ve only been here a moment longer than you.”

His gaze flickered briefly over his wife’s titian-haired beauty, her huge turquoise eyes and slender shape accentuated by the blue-gray taffeta gown that fit closely to her hips, then draped delicately behind her.

“Is there something wrong?” Ariana managed, shifting beneath his scrutiny.

Trenton tore his gaze from her. “Not a thing.”

“Good.” She forced a smile. “Then, shall we dine?”

“Yes.” Without proffering his arm, Trenton gripped the banister and started down the staircase, maintaining a considerable distance between himself and his wife.

Painfully aware of Trenton’s unspoken message, Ariana swallowed her pride and followed silently beside him, making no move to catch up. Her head was spinning from lack of sleep and from the pain of her husband’s pointed rejection.

His complete behavioral turnabout had occurred the instant they’d awakened. Despite his tenderness during the night, he’d opened his eyes and stared at Ariana as if she were a stranger, rolling away from her with the same icy withdrawal that repeatedly accompanied their physical separations, donning his robe and heading for the door without glancing back.

“I’ll wait for you on the second-floor landing,” he’d instructed, his tone as impersonal as if he were speaking to a business associate. And then she was alone, with only the damp sheets and the savored warmth of his body as lingering memories of the long hours when he’d belonged to her.

I can, I WILL, obliterate the invisible wall between us,
Ariana vowed to herself now, watching her husband’s rigid descent. Deliberately, she summoned strength by recalling the flight of her rare and magnificent white owl. His appearance at dawn’s first light had been no accident, but a sign that what she was seeking could be hers. He seemed to materialize whenever her faith was raw and needed renewal—specifically, at the brink of each emotional precipice with Trenton. First there was the night they’d met, then the day she’d become his wife, and now this morning, when she’d accepted the reality of her love for him. Like a true miracle, her owl had become a symbol of inspiration and a promise of the future.

A sense of lightness and inevitability replaced Ariana’s melancholy. Somehow, some way, she would reach into Trenton’s heart, extract his pain, and procure his love. She needed that … and so did he.

Resolutely, she racked her brain for a safe topic of conversation, intending to rectify the fact that, despite their physical intimacy, she and her husband scarcely knew each other. Their time together had thus far been dominated by either anger or passion, leaving little room for verbal discourse.

“Broddington is an extraordinary home,” she offered cautiously.

Trenton acknowledged her words with a curt nod. “So you’ve told me.”

“Yes, but at the time I had seen only the conservatory.”

“And that’s changed?” Surprised by his wife’s implication, Trenton swung his head around to look at her.

Vigorously, Ariana nodded. “Yesterday Dustin gave me a tour … or at least a partial one,” she amended, warming to the memory. “The music room, the drawing room, the billiard room, the gallery … he showed me all of them.” She paused to catch her breath. “They’re every bit as impressive as the conservatory.”

Throughout Ariana’s enthusiastic recounting, Trenton’s scowl had intensified. “I’m pleased you feel that way,” he returned in a clipped tone. “You and Dustin were apparently even more productive during my absence than I’d originally realized.”

Ariana started.
NOW why is he angry?
she wondered.
Is it the fact that I invaded his domain? Or is it the memories this conversation evokes … memories he’d rather forget?

Whatever his reasons, Ariana was determined to learn all she could. “I saw the paintings of your mother in the gallery,” she began, racing on before trepidation compelled her to reconsider. “She was an incredibly beautiful woman. I see only a slight resemblance between the two of you. … She looks so ethereal, so small and delicate. Dustin has her midnight-blue eyes, don’t you think?”

A glimmer of humor softened the rigid lines of Trenton’s face. “Yes, my mother was beautiful; no, I don’t resemble her much; and yes, Dustin does have her unusual color eyes. Anything else?”

Ariana flushed, recognizing how absurd her inane babbling must sound. Still, as a first step in isolating Trenton’s suppressed ire, it had served its purpose. His unruffled reaction told her he wasn’t bothered by her visit to the gallery or by her viewing of his mother’s portraits. In fact, he seemed totally unaffected by Ariana’s intrusion into that aspect of his past. Further, his own reference to his mother was made with relative ease, indicating that she was excluded from the bitterness that ate at his heart.

Which left, as she’d suspected, his father.

And the Caldwells.

Trenton had reached the foot of the stairs. Leaning against the wall, he studied the engrossed expression on his wife’s face as she made her way toward him. “Evidently you were greatly impressed by your tour,” he commented dryly.

Ariana blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “Your talent is visible in every one of Broddington’s rooms.” She tilted her head back to watch Trenton’s reaction. “As well as Dustin’s talent …” She paused. “And, of course, your father’s.”

A dark cloud settled over Trenton’s face.

“As I told you, my father was a genius.” He straightened, purposefully tugging each of his coat sleeves to the wrist. “As for your observations of Broddington’s assets … they will have to wait.” Clearing his throat roughly, Trenton headed for the dining room, putting an end to any discussion of Richard Kingsley. “I have a great deal to accomplish today. I believe we came downstairs to eat?”

Ariana followed slowly. “Yes, we did.”

“Then suppose we do that. You can entertain me with tales of your excursion through the manor later today.”

“But you won’t be here later today.” Ariana was stunned by her own boldness.

Trenton stopped in his tracks. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that I expect you’ll be off to Spraystone immediately after our meal.”

Silence.

Nervously fingering the folds of her gown, Ariana walked around in front of her husband, facing him squarely even as she prayed she was not overstepping her bounds. “Unless, of course, you’d planned to remain at Broddington today. Had you?”

Trenton stared down at her for a timeless time, his eyes hooded. Ariana’s heart slammed in her chest as she awaited his reply, fervently wishing she could read his thoughts. What she wouldn’t give for an iota of Theresa’s foresight right now!

“I would enjoy seeing the rest of the manor,” she went on, lightly touching Trenton’s sleeve. “And I would rather
you
showed it to me. That is”—she swallowed, carefully treading on unsure ground—“if you wouldn’t mind.”

Trenton glanced at the small hand on his arm. “I could remain at Broddington today,” he conceded at last. “If you’d prefer it.”

Ariana’s whole face lit up. “Oh, yes, I’d prefer it!”

“Fine.” He resumed walking. “I’ll take you through whatever rooms you have yet to see.” Pausing in the doorway of the dining room, he turned to add,
“After
we eat.”

Ariana wanted to jump up and sing with triumph. With the greatest of efforts she controlled herself. “That would be wonderful,” she replied instead, smiling beatifically.

She was instantly and unexpectedly ravenous.

“Who studied in this lovely schoolroom?” Ariana asked, drinking in the open feeling of the high ceilings and wall-to-wall windows.

“Both Dustin and I took our lessons here.” Trenton stood rigidly, arms folded across his chest, in the doorway. During the past hour he’d taken Ariana through Broddington’s library, kitchen, and guest wing, describing each section of the manor with the brilliant detail of an architect and the removed indifference of a cynic. Despite the insight provided by the former, the latter spoke volumes more.

“I don’t understand,” Ariana said in a puzzled tone. “How could you have studied here if Broddington was not yet built?”

“The original manor was standing long before I was born. Dustin and I helped my father redesign the entire estate when we were in our teens. The schoolroom, however, is mostly unchanged. The double doors are of a thicker construction, and a washroom was added just on the other side of that wall.” He pointed.

“What a miraculous haven for learning!” Recalling her own dismal hours in the dreary Winsham schoolroom, Ariana was entranced. She ran her hand over one of the two low wooden stools, trying to picture a dark-haired little boy laboring over his lessons. “You must have been an exemplary student.”