Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,82

stand. She’d want revenge. Mother laughed and told me I was weak. Well, she isn’t laughing now.”

“Are you hungry?” Marissa took his hand.

“Yes.” He bent down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, inhaling the warm vanilla scent. “But I think my appetite is for something besides chicken. Elderly widow, perhaps.”

It had been all Trent could do to stay a moment longer with Pendleton, listening to his fears and regret. Still, he had the presence of mind to make the same request of Trent that Lydia had: implore Marissa to cease in her attack. After all, if Pendleton didn’t marry Miss Higgins, Trent would become impoverished as well. Didn’t he care about his daughters? Did he wish to spend the rest of his life digging in the dirt just to put food on the table?

She arched against him, her fingers moving beneath his coat to slide it off his shoulders.

“Marissa bought up all my markers. The legal fees to defend our ownership of the mine are only adding to my debt. She owns me, Haddon. I fear she means to put me in debtor’s prison. Or worse.”

They undressed each other slowly while their dinner grew cold. Trent’s fingers traced every curve and hollow, memorizing the feel and scent of her. The way she tasted beneath his tongue. Those beautiful creases at the corners of her eyes.

If she were threatened or hurt, what would Trent do?

More importantly, what would he do now?

He’d spent several sleepless nights trying to answer those questions.

She was laughing, pulling him in the direction of the sofa before falling against the worn cushions, her arms held out to him.

“Should I put out the fire? The lamp? Plunge us into total darkness?” he teased. “Perhaps cover you with the blanket and use only these strategically placed holes?” Trent held up the poorly knit blanket her niece had made her so long ago.

“No.”

Marissa’s shyness had dissipated, at least for now, secure in the promise he’d made to her. She was no longer hiding from him, at least not in this.

Trent’s heart contracted sharply. Would she have ever told him of Pendleton?

Marissa giggled but her eyes on Trent were serious. “We have an understanding,” she whispered.

“We do.” He pulled her on top of him, entering her with exquisite care, groaning with pleasure at the way her body clasped his. The dark curtain of her hair fell around them until all he could see was Marissa as they moved together in unison. As they always had. The two halves of their hearts seeking to find each other and be whole.

Trent willed for this moment to last forever.

“I love you,” he whispered, looking into her eyes as his release shattered through him. “I love you.”

25

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered completely. Unfortunately, your reputation hasn’t.” Arabella sauntered into Marissa’s parlor.

Putting aside her book, Marissa discarded the spectacles on her nose, somewhat relieved for the interruption. She’d read the same page at least a half-dozen times, far too absorbed in Haddon to be able to concentrate on anything other than him.

He loves me.

Looking up at her niece she said, “So Adelia tells me, much to her delight.” Haddon had fed her cold chicken as they shared whisky from a single glass after making love on this very sofa. He’d held her for hours afterward, stroking her hair as she dozed and watched the fire.

I love him.

“You seem unconcerned about the gossip swirling about you, Aunt,” Arabella said primly. “It isn’t like you to invite scandal.”

She raised a brow. “You didn’t exactly rush to my aid. Didn’t Haddon ask you to come and retrieve me from his home?”

Arabella shrugged. “I didn’t wish to move you lest I cause you more injury.”

“Haddon and I have reached an understanding.” Marissa patted the space on the sofa next to her. “Come sit.”

Arabella walked past the sofa, ignoring Marissa’s invitation to roam about the parlor. “You are happy.” Her niece’s hand twitched against the folds of her skirts, a sure sign Arabella was distressed about something. “The flowers are lovely.” Her niece waved her hand to the enormous vase of roses covering a small side table. “You adore roses. I’m sure they’re from him.”

“They are.” Marissa frowned. “Arabella, sit. What is wrong?” If Lily, Arabella’s infant daughter was ill, she wouldn’t have left her daughter’s side to visit Marissa but would have instead sent word.

Arabella stopped her perusal of the roses. “I told Greenhouse we would want tea. You may wish for