Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

Last time he’d been in England, when she was a new, naive bride, he’d commanded only her body—her scorching response, her searing desire. But now he wanted more than her body’s compliance. What had he said? He wanted her to come to him as if they were engaged in a love affair. He wanted not only willingness, but trust. He wanted every ounce of lonely strength she’d built for herself during his long absence. He didn’t just want her naked; he wanted her vulnerable and weak. Easy to hurt. He wanted her, and damn it, she’d worked too hard for herself to give it over to him for the asking.

No. He might wish for her compliance with all his carefully controlled might, but he wasn’t going to get it. Quite the contrary.

She’d seen one spark in his eyes, one hint that her failed seduction had been something to him other than an eye-rolling display. He’d leaned toward her. He’d kissed her. And when she’d reached for him, he’d grabbed her hand before she could touch him.

His armor had flaws.

Kate could hear the floor creak in his room. What was he doing in there? Taking off the rest of that clothing? She gave the door between them a baleful, jealous glare.

He wanted to win her without giving himself up in return. He wanted to conquer her, not win her regard in exchange for his own. He wanted to hold back.

But this time Kate wouldn’t be the one left behind with her burning desires. She was going to crack his control. This time he would burn. He would want. He would desire her beyond all reason. And once she had him, desperate and pitiful, begging on his knees…

Kate sighed, her practical side taking over. If she ever brought her husband to his knees, she would likely feel as confused as she was now. She wouldn’t know what to do with him.

Rage had a place and a purpose, but even anger left her vulnerable. What had her furious imaginings been but hope in another form? Already she’d reverted to girlish dreams, involving declarations of love, delivered on one knee. But she didn’t need revenge. She had no use for petty scorn. She just didn’t want to be hurt.

She shut her eyes and breathed deeply. No hope. No longing. No desire. If she could just excise her wants, he could never cause her pain again.

KATE REMOVED THE EGGS, one by one, from her pockets and set them on the rickety table in front of her. Motes of dust tangled in the pale morning sunshine, filtering through the thick glass windows of the little shepherd’s shack.

“I cannot say when I’ll be back,” she said, pulling the last egg from her cloak pocket. “I had thought I might come out here with greater regularity, but there have been complications.”

Louisa sat in her chair, her arms folded about her swaddled infant. She looked as ladylike as ever, even though the serviceable green wool she wore was no match for the delicate silks and sprigged muslins that had made up her wardrobe in London. Her face grew long at these words, and she pulled her child closer to her chest.

“Complications,” she said quietly. “I detest complications.”

Kate began heaping provisions from her basket onto the table. Her shoulders ached, having carted the load five miles here. “There’s a cured ham and some carrots and a bunch of greens. You know there are already potatoes and turnips in the shelter. But I’ve brought some scallions from the garden, such as they are. I might not return for a week. The fare will likely be monotonous.”

She trailed off, feeling useless. Louisa shook her head.

“What sort of complications could keep you away for a week?”

Kate glanced away and pulled another cloth napkin from the basket.

The cottage where Louisa was hidden lay five miles to the west of Berkswift. It had once been little better than a shepherd’s shelter, four walls and a makeshift fireplace. But over the decades, it had grown into a tiny three-room affair—an open room for cooking and eating, furnished with a rough-hewn table and trestles, a sleeping room and a storage shed.

Louisa and the Yorkshire nursemaid Kate had hired fit compactly in the space, packed together like common passengers shoved into a stagecoach.

Kate reached into the basket one last time. Her hands closed on metal, cold and deadly. “I brought you—”

“News, Kate. I want news.”

“This.” Kate set the silver-tooled pistol next to the ham.

The clink it made as she laid the weapon on wood seemed somehow too soft, to demure, to have been made by a gun. She’d found it that morning in a cabinet. It had been a grim sort of serendipity. Under the circumstances, bringing it had seemeed like a good idea.

“Do you know how to shoot?” Kate asked.

Louisa’s face shuttered. “Not really. One—one simply points and squeezes, I suppose?”

“Harcroft is staying at Berkswift.” Kate spoke quickly, as if saying the words faster would make them less painful. “He caught wind of a rumor about a woman looking like you disembarking from a cart. He flew out here in a rage.”

“He knows.” Louisa’s face froze. Her hand curled around her sleeping baby in quiet protectiveness. Her eyes pinched to narrowness. But by the slump in her spine, that show of strength was little more than bravado.