Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

“Gareth respects people who get things done. He’ll take your side of things. Just tell him honestly what you’ve done, and what has transpired.”


Laid out logically like that, the thought was actually a relief. After all these weeks, she could finally tell someone besides Ned the truth—about Louisa, and about herself. It had been a confining secret. Perhaps it was best that it was about to be blown apart. She might have allies again. She nodded in agreement.

“And,” Ned continued, “I’ll need to get Louisa. We need to prove she went of her own accord, and she’s the only one who can convince the jury of that.”

Those words froze Kate. “But Harcroft will demand she return to him.”

“We can shield her from him for a little while yet. Gareth is a marquess. He has no legal claim on her, but in the public’s eye, if he places her under his protection, people will start to think. And the more Harcroft rages, the more society will see him for what he truly is.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve seen the state Louisa is in. What could she do? She won’t testify against Harcroft. She can’t even sit up straight when she thinks of confronting him. How can I ask her to speak on my behalf with him sitting there in the courtroom?”

“She’ll testify.” Ned’s voice went dark. “She’s strong. And I can convince her to give Harcroft a taste of his own medicine. I must get going if I’m to fetch her. It’s past dark, and she’s still twenty miles away.”

“Going?” Kate felt a cold flush wash through her. “Fetch her? You’re leaving now?” The words tumbled out before she had a chance to think them through. She knew rationally that he didn’t need to be by her side. But tonight of all nights, she wanted to be held. She wanted to know he was close. She desperately desired to know that she hadn’t been abandoned. It had, after all, happened before. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

He pulled back from her and met her gaze gravely. His eyes seemed impossibly dark in the night, and yet warm, like the charred remains of a log in the fire. “You know Louisa wouldn’t trust a hired man who arrived on her step. Hell, I wouldn’t trust anyone enough to send him, either. It has to be me.”

“I know.” Kate shook her head. “I know. But…” It was foolish to think herself safe when wrapped in his arms, not with danger threatening her so. And with her trial pending in the morning, it would be downright idiotic to suggest going herself, however much she wanted to.

She felt irrational, foolish and mulishly idiotic. Just not so much that she would actually say so.

He must have understood, because he smiled and tipped her chin so that her lips were inches from his.

“Kate,” he said. “I’m not leaving you. I am merely willing to forgo a great deal of sleep in the next few hours. This time, I am going to slay your dragons and leave them for dead. You can count on me.”

Trust him. He lifted her off him and then stood, adjusting his clothing. Something in Kate’s stomach jarred loose.

A great deal had changed since his return to England. She had thought trust was an evanescent thing, impossible to cabin. But whatever the stuff that their marriage was made of, it was not some dry and weightless thing any longer. It had taken root inside her, and it wasn’t going to blow away.

“Ned.”

He turned back toward her again, his face wary.

“Be safe,” she said.

A smile spread across his face, as if she’d given him an unexpected gift.

She wrapped her arms around her waist. It was as if she could feel his hands against her skin, even as he stood yards away. He looked up at her and grinned one last time. She memorized that expression, every last line of it. The memory of his smile was as good as an embrace, even as he walked away.

THE SHEPHERD’S COTTAGE where Louisa was staying was three hours’ hard ride from London on a good night. This night, Ned realized, wasn’t good. It was desperately dark out; only a sliver of moon lit the way, and even that pale lantern shone fitfully behind ragged, breathy clouds. Tiny, icy spicules of rain cut into Ned’s face as he rode out of the stables.

His mare’s hooves clopped dully, muffled by the rain. The streetlamps edging the cobbled roads of London cast globes of light, dividing the world into stark regions of harsh yellow and impossible shadow. But after half an hour, as he urged his horse on, even that dim illumination faded into nothingness behind him. The moon slipped closer to the horizon. He could make out nothing about him but the dim moonlit track, two muddy wheel-ruts carved through dying autumn grass. It rustled in the wind, rattling in the rain. His horse fell into a relentless canter; the wind rushed by his face, cold and numbing. It didn’t matter. There was no direction but forward; no possibility except success.