Verity and the Villain Read online

  “I did not throw her in the river,” Trent ground out wishing he could toss Miles into the river. He stuck his arms through his shirt, disliking the way Miles eyed his biceps and chest as if weighing the odds of success in a brawl. “She slipped. On a fish.”

  Miles lowered his head. “Charming.”

  Trent raised his voice. “She is charming—”

  “I wasn’t talking about her, and I don’t want you talking about her.”

  He curled his fists into balls. “I can talk about her.”

  “Not to me. Not like that.”

  Trent took a step back, and a twig broke beneath his foot. He glanced over his shoulder. Steele had disappeared. “Please excuse me, Carol, but you are not the person I want to talk to right now.” Trent pushed past Miles in the direction where he hoped to find Verity.

  #

  The shock of seeing him rendered her muscles useless. She couldn’t avert her gaze. Raven hair, high forehead, blue eyes that widened with recognition. Steele jolted as if with memory and moved her way.

  A bird called out as Verity ran through the woods. The wind whipped trees and shrubs into her path. She tried to listen for the river to get her bearings, but the river, so audible moments ago, was now drowned out by her labored breath, falling footsteps, and the beating of her heart. She moved deeper into the trees. Running lopsided, one shoe off and one shoe on, reminded her of the nursery rhyme of Brother John, and the rhythm chanted in her mind as she ran.

  She’d been a city creature all of her life. The forest was as foreign as the moon; its creatures as alien as dinosaurs—and nearly as frightening. In her mind, she saw revolving images of Drake, Dorrie, and Orson, each bleeding, all menacing.

  A crack rang through the forest. Thunder? Or a gunshot? As she ran, her soaked dress caught on branches, tears streamed down her face. She tripped over a tree root, righted herself, and allowed a small glance over her shoulder. She couldn’t see Mr. Steele and yet, she couldn’t stop. Pressing forward, somewhat disoriented, she stopped when a blinding pain slammed across her forehead.

  I really have to stop waking like this, she thought. This was the second time on the same day that she’d found herself face down in the dirt, terrified. This cannot continue, she reasoned, pushing up onto her elbows, hesitant, and afraid of an assailant. As she tried to look around, a wave of dizziness sent bile up her throat. “Oh dear,” she moaned, laying her head back onto her hands as a band of pain tightened around her temples. She curled her knees into her belly before attempting to stand. She rubbed her dizzy head, thinking of Steele. Had he even recognized her? Had he chased her? Had he considered her dead and left her for wolves? She mustered her strength and a tiny ounce of courage. With the help of a tree trunk, she managed to get to her feet.

  Why hadn’t she confided in Trent? Why hadn’t she told him about the night in New York when she’d left Steele for dead? She’d confided in Georgina, why not Trent? Was it because she was in love with him? Because she valued his good opinion? Had she thought that he wouldn’t understand? How could he understand? How could any man understand the fear of a lone woman? Given Trent’s height, strength and his willingness—if not eagerness—to fight, he’d never understand her sense of vulnerability. He never had to carry forged iron umbrellas.

  A rabbit skittered across the path. Frightened, she jumped and her feet went out from under her. She landed hard on her bottom. Struggling to regain control of her shaking body, she managed to push the sodden strands of hair away from her face and tuck them behind her ears. Then she bowed her head.

  With no other options, with no avenues for help, Verity began to silently beg. “Oh God, forgive me for not listening to Father Klum. If you’ll help me return to the ranch, safe, dry, and no longer pursued, I promise I’ll attend all of his sermons. I’ll donate all my chocolate money to the poor. I’m so very tired of being chased.” So very tired. I must get up, she thought, I can’t lie here damp and cold. Slumping to the ground, she laid her head back into her hands.

  #

  He didn’t regret kissing her, who, after all, would? But he still felt a twinge of guilt. While he felt nearly consumed in his desire for her, she, obviously, didn’t feel the same and so, as he hurried through the woods, he felt a confusion of shame, longing, and worry. The path clung to the riverbank and in the distance, caught in a snarl of fallen branches at the river’s edge, Trent spotted Verity’s shoe. He felt sick.

  And then he saw the bright blue frill of her skirt lying in the mud. Her hair fanned over her face, her legs curled into her skirts, her arms tucked beneath her body for warmth. His heart stopped for a moment before he raced to her.

  He knelt down and worried where to touch her without causing pain. “Verity,” he whispered, reaching out and brushing her hair off her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

  She didn’t respond. Her face was white, her lips blue. He strangled back a sob as he gently lifted her into his arms. She felt weightless and as her head rolled back, he was stunned by the fragility of her neck. An angry welt was rising on her forehead. Why had she seemed so indomitable to him? She’d been so strong, so full of purpose. She’d always had such an agenda, why hadn’t he seen her frailty? How delicate she’d always been, not just now, as she shivered against him, but even as she’d wielded her ridiculous umbrella, she’d been just a tiny thing in a giant outrage.

  He pressed her to him, willing his heat to warm her. She murmured something and her eyelids fluttered.

  “What is it, Verity?” Trent smoothed back her hair, examining the purpling bruise on her face.

  “Thank you,” she said through chattering teeth, “for coming for me.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” he said, smiling despite his fears. He cradled her like a child and she huddled against him, shivering.

  “I was mean,” she said through bluing lips. “I’ve promised God I’ll never be mean again.”

  She must have really hit her head, he thought, wondering if he could use this promise in the future. He knew they were a mile or so from the farmhouse and less than a quarter of a mile from the groundskeeper’s cottage.

  “I’m so cold,” Verity said, her teeth chattering.

  “I know, sweet, you’ll be warm soon.” He turned toward the cottage.

  Verity shook her head.

  “No?” Trent asked, looking down at her, struck again by her pale skin and bright eyes.

  “Perhaps never.”

  “Don’t say that, darling. Don’t.”

  Verity fell silent and Trent couldn’t help watching her as he walked as quickly as he could to the cottage. In his arms, she grew quieter, the shivering abated. He jostled her. “Verity?”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured.

  “Verity, you have to stay awake.”

  She turned her face into his chest. “No. I’m going to sleep now.”

  “No, my sweet, you’re not.” He stopped and brushed her hair away from her face, exposing the welt that had seemed to have doubled since he’d last looked. “You have to stay awake.” Panic made his voice ragged. “If you sleep, I’m afraid you won’t be able to wake.”

  She turned her face against his chest. “Silly,” she said.

  He shook her, feeling mean and scared. “VERITY! You can’t fall asleep!”

  “I’m so very tired.”

  “I know, but you can’t—” to his relief, he saw the cottage over the knoll. It stood in the shelter of maples and pines. The river curled behind it and in the far distance, he could see Mount Rainier. He could go for help, but then he thought of Steele and the thought of leaving Verity alone terrified him. He’d have to warm her first and then go for help.

  When he pounded the door, Verity didn’t flinch. Fear welled in his chest. He kicked the door with his boot.

  “Higgins!” he called for the groundskeeper and then remembered that Higgins would be at the main house with the guests. Trent swore softly and then tried the door. It swung open and a breath of warm air swelled out.
/>   Trent had never given Higgins much thought. The gardener, a mild man usually accompanied by shovels and a wheelbarrow, had always smelled of dung and peppermint. The dung he’d understood, seeing that the ranch had a large number of gardens to be mucked, but the peppermint he really hadn’t considered. The cottage reeked of Christmas.

  Trent pushed into the room and slammed the door behind him. Ashes smoldered in the grate. A sofa stood before the fire, and Trent laid Verity on it, tucking his coat around her shoulders. She buried into its warmth, still shaking.

  “Just a minute, my sweet,” he said, wondering if she could hear his promise.

  After a moment, he had the fire roaring. Through an open door, he spied a large quilt folded at the end of a bed. “Forgive me, Higgins,” he muttered as he retrieved the quilt.

  For a second, he stood, considering. He wondered what his gram or Chloe would say. He wondered if they’d come looking for them when they didn’t return with the promised fish or huckleberries.

  He knew what he had to do, and yet he hesitated. In the many times he’d imagined stripping off Verity’s clothes, he’d never seen it going quite this way.

  #

  Verity woke to find a cup pressing against her lips. The cup’s rim scalded. She tried to turn her head, but a hand held her fast. “No,” she said. The liquid had a pungent odor, like Christmas. Peppermint.

  She’d spent the last Christmas with her father and now she’d never spend another with him. Unless.

  “Verity, stay with me.” The hand bobbled her head and the tea splashed on her throat. Trent. Verity smiled.

  “Did I hurt you?” A piece of cloth mopped at her throat. She wanted to tell him she couldn’t feel. She knew she was cold and that the tea had been hot, but somehow none of that mattered. She faded into a dream.

  The sheep bleated and the bear growled low at a peacock wandering too close to his cage.

  “It seems unkind to allow these flocks to congregate around the bear,” Steele said.

  “I think it unkind to keep the poor thing in a cage,” Verity said, sizing up the animal that rather resembled a furry tree stump. “Although, he looks remarkably well-fed. I’m sure he’s not tempted by a few smelly sheep.”

  “Temptation. I understand temptation.”

  “Are you fond of mutton?” she asked. “Should I warn the sheep?”

  He ran a finger down her arm, sending a cold shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, particularly undone buttons.” He took her wrist and pulled her to him. He smelled of soap, heavy with lye. His mustache poked her lips when he kissed her. She felt nothing, but a panicky need to escape.

  “I will make you a lucky girl,” he said in her ear.

  Lucky girl. I will not be your lucky girl, she screamed, raising the poker over her head and crashing it onto his skull. The blue sky faded into dark; the shadows flickered with the fire’s changing light. The moon sent its rays into the tiny apartment and ice filmed the windows.

  She was cold. Despite the fires, despite the sun, she couldn’t be warm.

  #

  When Trent heard Verity scream, he abandoned the teapot. Repeatedly, she called Steele’s name, and then she said, very distinctly, “I will not be your lucky girl!”

  And suddenly, Trent understood. He heard everything she said and everything the words implied. Combined with his conversation with Steele, it all, suddenly, made sense.

  He had to marry her. He didn’t stop to question anything. He only knew he had to marry her. Immediately. She was in serious danger. She’d somehow thwarted Steele in New York and staged her own suicide. She’d sailed around the western hemisphere on her own. Imagine her terror at encountering Steele again. No wonder she’d been plotting and scheming to shut down Steele’s brothel. She probably thought that if she could take out Lucky Island she’d be rid of him.

  Steele wouldn’t be foiled so easily. Trent could only guarantee her safety if he kept her with him, always. He wouldn’t consider how ridiculous it was for him to believe he could keep a constant vigil over her. He didn’t care that she might have an opinion on her marital state. None of that mattered. If she woke, when she woke, they’d be married.

  For a moment he abandoned the cool rag he pressed against Verity’s forehead and went to Higgin’s bedroom where he found a soft pair of breeches and a large white shirt. Thankfully, the groundskeeper was about his size. He’d have to repay him. Trent stepped out of his own sodden clothes and into Higgins’. He let himself imagine sharing the cottage with Verity, returning at day’s end to her, stripping out of his clothes before her without thought or embarrassment, without lust.

  His imagination faltered. Who could step out of his clothes beside her and casually talk of the weather, the horses, or the garden? Who could think of anything other than being with her?

  He needed to go and get help and yet, he couldn’t leave her. Perhaps a miracle would send Higgins back to the cottage. Trent attempted to change his clothes without taking his eyes off of her. She slept, still and silent and he didn’t know which was worse, the nightmare or the deadly sleep. When he tightened the belt of the trousers, she stirred. He shoved his arms into the shirt and hurried to her side.

  He reached for the cloth he’d been soaking in cool water and mopped her forehead. “Verity, my sweet girl, can you hear me?”

  She muttered in her sleep and shifted positions. Trent tucked the quilt around her shoulders and attempted something he’d sworn he would never do.

  CHAPTER 19

  Broth requires only two things: water and something flavorful to boil, such as an onion, a bouquet of herbs, a piece of meat, or even a bone.

  From The Recipes of Verity Faye

  Verity woke with a spoon in her mouth. She blew out the soup before even opening her eyes and showered Trent. “What?” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering open.

  Trent smiled, the crease of worry between his eyebrows easing. “Soup.”

  In her sleep, she’d imagined him close, but on waking, his nearness surprised her. She felt his body heat as he crouched beside the sofa, his face inches from hers, his shoulders leaning in, his hand bearing a spoonful of the smelly soup. She needed to wake, but she couldn’t rouse herself from the quilts and the strange lethargy that filled her. Before she could wonder how she’d come to be wrapped in blankets in front of a fire in a small cottage, another spoonful of the nastiness slipped in her mouth. She sputtered and then turned away. “Please, no more.”

  Trent laughed while dipping the spoon into the broth. “I will have my way.”

  Verity pulled the quilt over her face and found, on closer inspection that she wore only her chemise. Horrified, she popped her head out of the quilt. “Did you take off my clothes?”

  Trent had the grace to blush. “Somebody had to do it.”

  Glancing around the tiny room, she spied her steaming dress and stockings laid out before the fire. “And you volunteered?”

  “Verity, I was scared. Worried you’d catch your death in those freezing, sopping clothes.”

  “And now you’re trying to poison me?”

  He laughed, obviously relieved that she was not only reviving, but also forgiving. He dipped the spoon back into the soup. “Just a bit more.”

  Verity shook her head and then stopped, surprised by stabbing pain the movement sent rifling through her body. “No,” she said, clenching her teeth. “That’s the worst soup ever.”

  Trent considered the broth. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Verity sat up and the quilt slipped off her shoulder. She covered herself. “You are? You want me to be miserable?”

  “No, actually, I want you to be happy, and for a moment I just wanted you to be. I was afraid I’d lost you.”

  Verity blinked. “If you want me to be happy, you’ll stop trying to drown me with soup.”

  Trent leaned back and looked into the bowl. “This is my gram’s famous beef broth. It’s renowned for its healing ability. People in town come for it wheneve
r they have an ill loved-one. Once when Hoss had torn a—”

  “Hoss, your horse?” Verity sat up, but this time remembered to clutch the quilt around her shoulders. “You’re feeding me horse soup?”

  “Nonsense, it’s for people and for horses.”

  “And dogs and cats?”

  “And the occasional raccoon.” Trent refilled the spoon. “You must admit you’re feeling better. I was so worried. I didn’t think Higgins would have all the ingredients, but then I discovered he had a pot already in his icebox. Fortunately, he must have been under the weather recently.”

  “How fortunate.” She settled into the crook of the sofa, as far as possible from the loaded spoon, and pulled the quilt so it covered her mouth.

  “Gram always says that if it tastes good, it won’t work.”

  “And to think I’d liked your grandmother.” The quilt muffled her words.

  Trent held the spoon on the other side of the quilt. “It’s not as tasty as your pies, of course.”

  Verity sat straight up and her head swam. “I’m supposed to make pies!”

  Trent pushed her back down. His hand felt warm against her skin and for a moment, his hand lingered against her. “Gram will understand.”

  Verity’s heart thundered as recollections raced through her mind. She’d seen Steele, he’d seen her, she’d argued with Trent. He kissed her. Again. And even though the kiss should have been a small consideration, given all that had happened and all that could yet come to pass, the kiss, at this instant, seemed the largest thing of all. Verity sat back into the quilt and pulled it around her like a shield. She couldn’t let this happen. Steele knew where she was, he’d recognized her, she couldn’t afford to stay One. More. Minute. She looked down at the quilt. “No, I don’t think she will.”