Having never been in love, it was the only explanation for these confounding sensations. It hurt to be apart. A strange delirium came over her whenever he held her gaze, whenever he claimed her mouth in the sensual way that made her dizzy. All she wanted was to race to his room, kick Mr Cavanagh out into the corridor and sink into Mr Trent’s warm embrace.
The gentleman appreciated honesty. Perhaps the time had come to face facts and make her feelings known. Indeed, she contemplated the dilemma while undressing in the dark. The prolonged anticipation was like an unquenchable thirst. A compulsion to drink in the sight of him, to taste him until the craving subsided.
She slipped into her nightgown, tried to ignore her aching breasts as they brushed against the soft material. Sleep would elude her tonight, and so she padded over to the window to watch the rain splashing on the sill.
Memories of the night she met Mr Trent filled her head. A graveyard encounter beneath the moonlight. She’d been startled at first, scared, but they soon fell into easy conversation. After the horrific encounter with the masked rogue, she should have been afraid of every man, and yet something about the look in his eyes had brought comfort.
Heavens.
The more she thought about Mr Trent, the more unlikely she was to get a wink of sleep. Focusing on the sound of the rain proved soothing until movement near the iron railings in the square sent her heart shooting to her throat.
A lone figure lingered in the shrubbery, watching her window, oblivious to the rain lashing his hat and coat. In the gloom, it was impossible to see his face. His gloved hands gripped the iron bars as if he were a prisoner and she one of the privileged who’d come to sneer and gloat. An ominous aura surrounded him. Dark. Evil. His menacing spirit seemed to reach out to her with its gnarled fingers, to choke every breath from her lungs.
Fear held her in a state of paralysis.
The fiend raised a hand and drew the letter B in the air with his long index finger.
Brethren!
She stumbled back, hugged her body as if the action might protect her from the sinister threat. She must tell Mr Trent. But then would he not race from his bed in pursuit of this monster? One more knock to the head might prove fatal.
Her heart thumped hard against her chest.
Agreements must be kept.
What if this rogue found a way into her bedchamber?
What if he’d come to claim payment for Sebastian Vale’s debt?
Without further thought, she hurried to the door and prised it gently from the jamb so as not to disturb Miss Trimble. She peered out into the dark corridor. The pounding pulse in her throat eased upon finding it deserted. She slipped out and closed the door quietly, crept to Mr Trent’s room.
Worried about disturbing other guests, she tried the handle before knocking, and to her surprise found the door unlocked.
Verity entered the room to see Mr Cavanagh slouched in a chair, his strong legs visible beneath his toga. His eyes were closed though she doubted he was sleeping. Mr Trent stood barefooted and naked to the waist, the muscles rippling in his back as he plunged his hands into the porcelain bowl on the stand and washed blood from his face and hair.
The lump in her throat felt as large as a boulder. “Mr Trent.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. “Lawrence.”
He swung around, water dripping from an ebony lock hanging over his brow. “Miss Vale?” His gaze slipped to her nightgown, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
It was the only place in the world she wanted to be.
He brushed the errant lock of hair from his brow, glanced at Mr Cavanagh, who’d sat up upon noting the intrusion, and said, “Wait in Miss Vale’s room until she returns. And I suggest you tiptoe for fear of rousing the intrepid Miss Trimble.”
Verity stared at the broad expanse of Mr Trent’s chest, at the bulging muscles in his arms, and almost forgot the reason she came. She cast Mr Cavanagh a sidelong glance. “There’s a pistol in my satchel, a knife in a sheath under the pillow. Lock the door and keep them with you.”
“Why, is Miss Trimble out baying for blood?” Mr Cavanagh’s sinful smirk would falter if he knew of the fiend hiding outside. “Give me five minutes alone with the woman, and she might see my way of thinking.”
“This is no time for arrogance.” Sheer terror sent bile bubbling up to her throat. “They’re out there, watching, waiting.” She raised a trembling finger and pointed to the window.
Mr Trent frowned. “Who’s out there?”
“The Brethren.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lawrence stared at Miss Vale and tried to rein in the erratic nature of his thoughts.
Focus on the Brethren, not the woman in a nightgown with her hair hanging loose.