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“Trenton, this isn’t a barn, it’s an estate for animals!” Amazed, Ariana stared at the enormous structure that housed Trenton’s livestock. “Why, you have enough room here for hundreds of sheep, six dozen pigs, scores of chickens, and an army of dogs and cats.”
“And several dozen cows,” Trenton contributed.
“Why? What do you do with all of them?”
“Feed them well. And hopefully, as a result, obtain good-quality milk, dairy, wool …”
“I know what livestock provide,” she interrupted. “But you live here alone. Do you offer all these products for trade?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Is that one of your family businesses?”
“No.”
“Then …”
“The sheared wool is sent to England, where it is woven into cloth. Then it is delivered, along with milk and eggs, to the farmers that live on Wight.”
It took Ariana a minute to understand. “You mean you give these things to them?”
Trenton’s brows arched. “Is that so astonishing? I have a great deal of money. Most of the farm laborers here are quite poor, their homes old and neglected. I can provide them with the assistance they need.”
Pride swelled in Ariana’s chest. “You never told me this.”
“You never asked.”
“And I presume you restructure their homes as well?”
“I do what I can.”
She touched his arm. “What a wonderful man you are.”
He stared down at her caressing fingers, his mouth thinning into a grim line. “I’m not a wonderful man, Ariana. I’m bitter and cold and unfeeling. As I’ve continually warned you, don’t envision me as some romantic hero.”
“I don’t.” She stepped closer, conviction striking sudden and swift, born with all the impact of her earlier fear. “I see you as you are: a man with a great deal of pain locked up inside him … and a great deal of anger. I feel your rage, and I’m afraid. But I sense your goodness, and I’m renewed, for somehow I know it will triumph in the battle that tears you apart.”
“I could be a murderer,” he reminded her harshly.
The naked anguish in his tone obliterated her last vestige of doubt, “You could be.” She lay her hand against his jaw. “But you’re not.”
Roughly, he pulled her to him. “Damn you, Ariana,” he muttered into the scented cloud of her hair. “Why do you make me want to be the man you believe I am?”
She didn’t answer, only pressed her lips to the open expanse of his shirt.
He shuddered, his arms tightening reflexively around her. Pinpoints of feeling, long ago numbed, sprang to life, leaving him raw, exposed … terrified.
“Damn,” he hissed again, control evaporating in a heartbeat. He raised Ariana’s beautiful, flushed face to his, searching the trusting light in her eyes. “Misty angel … my exquisite, ethereal dreamer… why do you make me feel hope where none exists?”
Her answer crystallized with a life of its own. “I love you,” she whispered.
Trenton groaned, seizing her mouth with all the force of a drowning man. “My shelter from the storm,” he said gruffly against her lips. “Erase the darkness, if only for now. Surround me with your goodness, your faith. Love me, misty angel… love me.”
He crushed her in his arms, taking her tongue, her breath, devouring her with a passion that sprang more from the soul than the body. He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her neck, her throat, his body leaping painfully as Ariana pressed hungrily against him, eager and unafraid.
“I’ve dreamed of making love to you here,” he breathed into her parted lips.
“At Spraystone?” she managed, barely able to speak.
