“Where are you going?”
She turned, every trace of the innocent child gone from her eyes. “Back to Broddington. There are ghosts to uncover and put to rest. And I intend to do just that.”
Instinctively, Baxter took a step forward, then checked himself, halting in his tracks. Perhaps it was better this way. She was angry now, all fragments of her earlier softening having vanished. If she returned to Broddington now and confronted Kingsley, it could only serve to broaden the chasm between husband and wife, unraveling the fragile relationship that had apparently been forged.
Massaging his throbbing forehead, Baxter silently cursed Kingsley for all he had taken, all he was still taking.
But it was far from over. Ariana was a Caldwell: She would return to Winsham. Next time, Baxter would tell her of his plan.
Reflexively, he gripped Vanessa’s letter tightly in his hand.
At long last, he and Ariana would bring Trenton Kingsley to his knees.
CHAPTER
12
SHE HAD TO FACE Trenton.
Ariana stood in the sheltering warmth of the conservatory, her instinctive haven at Broddington. Lulled by the warmth of the summer sun, she drank in the solace of the fragrant flowers and velvet greenery that surrounded her.
But in this case, nature alone was not enough to comfort her. In truth, nothing could truly alleviate the turmoil wrecking havoc in her heart and mind.
What would she say to him? How should she behave?
Vanessa’s letter had been the writing of a desperate woman. And Trenton was the cause of her desperation: Of that there was no doubt. The questions remaining were several: How far had Trenton allowed his rage to carry him? And how much of Vanessa’s ramblings had been actual truth, how much distorted perceptions of it?
Most important of all, did Ariana dare continue to trust her own instincts when it came to Trenton? Could she permit herself to care for a man who was a cruel and possessive blackguard—or worse? Would she be his next victim?
Ariana rubbed her closed eyelids with her fingertips, praying she could somehow, some way, separate fact from fiction, delve into the past so the present was clear, the future fathomable.
“Well, my wayward bride returns.”
Ariana whirled about, her startled gaze finding her husband where he lounged in the open conservatory doorway, watching her with scorching intensity.
“Trenton …” She could hear the hollow, phobic quality of that one uttered sound as it reverberated through the vaulted room.
Trenton heard it too. He dropped his lit cheroot to the grass, crushing it beneath his heel, and stalked menacingly toward his wife.
Trenton Kingsley killed our sister. Baxter’s earlier accusations crashed down in torrents, the litany a harsh, stinging blow to Ariana’s composure. The madman coveted her like some cherished possession. … His twisted jealousy evolved into a hideous, insane obsession. … Kingsley was unstable. … He killed our sister.
Ariana visibly recoiled.
“I commend your brother,” Trenton commented bitterly, halting only when he loomed directly over her. “He’s done his job well.”
“W-what do you mean?” Ariana groped behind her, clutching the thick stalk of a potted fern for balance.
“An ineffective weapon, at best.”
“Pardon me?”
Trenton gestured behind her. “The fern. Surely you can find a more compelling object than that with which to fend me off. I hardly expect to be felled by a plant.”
Ariana released the stem at once. “Do I need to fend you off?”
“What do you think?”
His voice was low, chilling, his body ominously still, emanating the controlled power and turbulence of a coiled viper ready to strike.