by Addison Cain
Lizzy giggled.
The proper goodbyes were made. With the entire family in attendance, a groom led a stamping and agitated Mamioro to his mistress. At one click of her tongue and his sharply spoken name, the beast stilled.
The horse’s great head nuzzled the baroness fondly.
With a final goodbye, Arabella prepared to mount and instantly felt unwelcome hands come to her waist. She was practically thrown onto the broad backed stallion. Righting herself in the sidesaddle, she corrected her balance before she might fall off, glaring down at the cause of her troubles. “You of all people know I do not need assistance when it comes to my horse, Mr. Harrow.”
“It was merely a courtesy, your ladyship.” Gripping the bridle, Mr. Harrow smirked, a glimmer in his eyes that dared her to challenge him openly.
She ignored it. Looking to the family, she concealed her aggravation and nodded a goodbye. When the flashing emerald of her gaze went back to the man restraining her horse, she commanded, “You may loose the bridle.”
Mr. Harrow grinned, every bit the menacing scoundrel she knew he was. “Fog is coming. Keep to the roads.”
Mamioro, eager to be gone and just as agitated as his mistress by the man’s attempt to subdue, snorted and tried to bite. When Mr. Harrow jerked the reins in correction, the great beast reared, tearing the straps free.
The family cried out but Arabella’s seat never faltered. When the beast landed, she hissed at the one responsible. “I have warned you before, Mr. Harrow. He is dangerous when provoked.”
Schooling her features into a smile, she looked to her startled hosts and thanked them again for the hospitality. Then she was off, signaling to the stallion that it was time to depart. Over excited, Mamioro fought to gallop, misbehaving and making a fuss, but Arabella kept him in check until clear of the drive.
“Edmund.” Mrs. Jenkins frowned at the retreating figure racing in the distance. “She has no groom. That horse is beastly. What if she were to be thrown?”
* * *
Arabella cut across the moors, and when she was far enough out where none could see her, stopped her mount and swung her leg over Mamioro’s head so that she was sitting astride. With no concern for her skirt, she let her foot hang free and undid a few of the frog closures at her neck, the snowy white fabric of her ruffled undershirt on display.
With such a beautiful twilight, she lingered in the slow moving fingers of mist. It wasn’t until the sun had set and the fog having grown too thick to enjoy the views, that she finally climbed the twisting path to her home.
“Your ladyship,” Magdala called from the portal, spying her mistress nearing the gate. “You have guests.”
In the courtyard, she found Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Harrow stepping out to greet her.
An amused, rich purr mocked, “Look at her face. I warned you she would not take kindly to the intrusion.”
Ignoring the pestering growl of the dark haired man, Edmund stepped forward. “Lady Iliffe, it is past dark... were you lost? Do you need care?”
A red brow rose. Mamioro, feeling her annoyance, sidestepped and became difficult. “Mr. Jenkins, I have no need for... care. And no, I did not get lost. I was enjoying the landscape.”
She could see that both Gregory and Edmund recognized the outline of her legs astride her steed, one snickering, the other suddenly uncomfortable with the impropriety of the situation. Dismounting on the opposite side of her uninvited company Arabella maintained her modesty and with the horse between them tried to compose her face. After a deep breath she patted the steed in communication to go to the stables.
Watching Mamioro trot off, she grumbled at the intruder, “You will have to forgive me, Mr. Jenkins. Having only recently taken governance of Crescent Barrows, I am not prepared to entertain. But please, step back inside and take a glass of port—during which time you can enlighten me as to how I have garnered the honor of your unexpected visit.”
Seeing that she was clearly unhappy, Edmund tried to appease her. “Lady Iliffe, my mother beheld you riding off on that wild thing and was frightened you might get injured. She bade me come to make sure you arrived home safely. And how glad I am to see you are indeed the horsewoman Mr. Harrow assured us you were.”
Gathering the longer side of her skirt, Arabella ignored the compliment and led the men inside. “After you take refreshment you must return to your mother and assure her I am well.”
“I must beg your hospitality in this fog.” Edmund smiled, confident she would invite him to stay. “I do not have your talent for finding a path in such circumstances.”
Thankfully the men were following behind her so only Magdala saw the look of annoyance on her face.
“Your ladyship.” Magdala bowed deeply. “I am ashamed to tell you, but there have been no guestrooms opened since our arrival. It was my folly, but perhaps I can begin now... however it would be several hours.”
Warm with gratitude at the woman’s timing and willingness to make herself the heel, Arabella mouthed the words thank you at the well-told lie. Turning with an apologetic and slightly frantic expression, the baroness said, “I apologize, Mr. Jenkins, especially after the exceptional hospitality your family has shown me, but I would not wish to sully your reputation by allowing you to sleep in a house filled with ghosts.” Her attention turned to the blackguard, ready to get even for his aggressiveness with her horse and the mess it had brought her. “Mr. Harrow, can you see to Mr. Jenkins this evening? I would be most appreciative. Rest there and break your fast here come morning.”
With a snide curl in his lip, Mr. Harrow looked down at Edmund as if he had been nothing but a troublesome bore. His acceptance was flat. “Of course.”
Her relief was not for show. “Then let us sit and take our ease while Payne prepares the carriage.”
“No. We will ride,” Mr. Harrow snorted, stomping toward his favored chair. “When the fog is thick, hard winds come next. Chances of overturning in a gale are high.”
Seeing his agitation, she motioned for Edmund to take the other seat. Pouring two draughts of port from a nearby decanter, she took a small cut crystal glass to each of her guests, then poured a third for herself. Edmund’s poorly veiled shock that their hostess would drink liquor intended only for men was not acknowledged.
Mr. Harrow’s earlier amusement had disintegrated into irritability. “What did you find on the moors that drew your attention for so long?”
Pleased the brute was finally showing his true colors, Arabella wickedly smiled. “Mist so thick you could taste it on your breath. Did you see how it sits like a sea just below the Barrows?”
“I saw fog.” The same fog that assured he was saddled with the fastidious goodness of their blond neighbor.
“You would only see fog...”
The port was thrown back, Mr. Harrow glaring at her with eyes full of poison. “Let us retreat, Mr. Jenkins. The hour grows late and the baroness must be tired after her extensive explorations in the dark.”
Without waiting for acknowledgment from the interloper, Mr. Harrow left the room. Standing, Edmund offered a deep bow and kind smile before saying goodbye. The door shut and the men were gone.
* * *
Restless, toying with a lace sleeve of the ridiculous dressing gown the housekeeper had foisted upon her after she’d undressed, Arabella read by the massive hearth in the great hall. Her third glass of port at her lips, it was as Mr. Harrow had warned. A powerful wind kicked up, unnatural howls roaring around the stone warren. So loud was the wail, that when the entrance of her manor opened, the whine of the door was unheard.
It was not until Arabella turned to set her empty glass aside that her eyes narrowed. A tall specter stood in the dark.
Coming to her feet, her entire form seemed to blaze from the firelight behind her. “I thought I was rid of you!”
The looming mist-damp male raged at her, heavy footsteps stalking nearer. “Your impetuous temper has saddled me with a sniveling fool!”
“B
lame no one but yourself. If you had not yanked on my horse, Mamioro would never have reared! It is your own fault you have an unwelcome houseguest.”
“I did you a favor. I have placed a man I abhor under my roof!”
“A man you abhor?” She simpered, lips curled in disgust. “Edmund is sweet and harmless... whatever cause you have to hate him is no doubt baseless.”
Sneering, Mr. Harrow crossed the distance between them. “Is that how you tolerate him so easily? You foolishly believe he is harmless?”
Every trace of her disgust came through. “Why should you hate him yet make love to his sister?”
Deep, rich laughter came in reply. His tongue wet the fullness of his lower lip, Mr. Harrow knowing just what would disarm her. With her bound curls a tumble over her breast he pinched a tress between his fingers and gave it a little tug. “Why should I care for Miss Jenkins’s happiness?”
Standing on her toes in an attempt to equal his great height, Arabella’s finger came to his chest. She poked him as she spat, “Whatever you are doing is wrong! Husbands are meant to love their wives, not torment them!”
The mockery of his smirk twisted into an angry sneer. With a vicious hiss he demanded an explanation, “As Baron Iliffe tormented you?”
Feeling as if she had been struck, Arabella looked away so the devil would not see the pain his words had caused. When her voice came, it was forcibly calm, falsely steady. “Is it their land you seek? Her dowry? Revenge? Why encourage a woman you barely tolerate?”
The man continued to look at her, to stare down, ringing that bit of caught hair between his fingers. “It is a means to an end. You will find, Arabella...” He watched her stiffen at the sound of her given name and raised a finger to her chin, admonishing in a lowly growled command, “Do not look away when we speak.”
She did not want to give him the pleasure of her obedience, and yanked her chin out of his hand and pushed back. He countered, his gaze turning predatory. They moved as if in a dance, their bodies in symmetry until the heat of the fire warned her not to take another step back.
A scorching finger trailed along her jaw, harsh words spoken as Harrow’s thumb and forefinger came to hold her chin and forcibly regain her attention. “You would champion a woman who clearly dislikes you, who mocked you at every turn of phrase and will work to discredit you if given the chance?”
Of course she would. “Lilly is young and naïve. It would be nothing for you to consume a thing with such shallow feelings. Why be the catalyst of her destruction and misery? What purpose would it serve?”
From the way his eyes darted over her face, Arabella had the distinct impression he had not heard a word she’d said. There was a tugging at her hair, the ribbon that held the curls pulled free. The sensation made her eyes flash down to find the large hand of her persecutor tangling in the red mass.
Instantly panicked, her voice fell lower than a breath. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve wanted to touch your hair, Imp.” The declaration was not assertive or aggressive, it was smoothly alluring. “So I am.”
Stupidly, she watched him continue to finger the strands, and could not understand what was so spellbinding in the act. “Stop it at once.”
A low chuckle sounded, his beautiful face smiling as if the woman had said something absurd. “No.”
“No?” her attention darted up from his curving lips to those fathomless eyes.
Arabella knew every trace of her expression was one of confusion, that her lower lip was trembling.
He soaked it in, absolutely unconcerned. “Breathe, Arabella.”
A sharp intake of air passed her lips, the feeling of much needed oxygen coupled with the odd tingling sensation at her scalp. The man, his closeness, gave off the heat of brimstone compared to the coolness of the fire behind her. “Mr. Harrow, please. I am too hot.”
His reply was to lean forward, to smooth his cheek along hers, and whisper at the shell of her ear, “Would you not rather call me Gregory?”
His fingers grew bolder, tangling, pulling just enough to make her whimper and tilt her head back. With the soft curve of her throat exposed, Gregory ran his nose up the smooth flesh, folding his body around her.
The feeling of lips at her throat, the sounds he made, and an animal noise came from the woman. Her eyes were locked on the high ceiling where she tried to count the beams, but Arabella could not focus... because she felt him. She felt hands that were warm, that cupped the base of her skull, that traced the line of her spine.
The richness of Harrow’s voice moved straight through her when he chided, “You are frightened.”
Blinking in her stupor, two matching trails of tears fell down her cheeks. Frightened? She was terrified.
Releasing his hold on her hair, Gregory pulled her attention back to his face, hushed her, and delicately used his thumb to wipe the salty drips away. “Shhhhh.”
The very second he stepped back, she thought it was over. But the sensation of relief vanished when Arabella realized he had drawn her body along with his. The devil’s eyes never broke from hers, even as he settled back in the soft comfort of the large leather chair.
Holding her gaze steady, he guided her legs astride his lap.
At once the languorous slow moving hands were back. Warm, full lips almost brushed hers as Gregory caressed the nape of her neck, her shoulders, kneaded the swell of a hip, leaving her mind nothing but a mad fervor that mirrored the sound of the screaming wind against the house. His exploration went on for ages and over time coaxed the tension from her muscles, removed the frightened wideness of her eyes and replaced it with lowered lashes and softly parted lips.
She did not know what to do, unable to make herself move.
The sensations in her skin were absolutely foreign, heady. When Gregory’s fingertips slid up the naked skin of her leg, bringing the hem of her nightgown higher, a strangled noise came from Arabella’s throat. It pleased him, and she was rewarded with the lightest scraping of his nails against her sensitive hip.
When her eyes finally closed, the woman lost, his hand worked at the flap of his breeches. The arm cradling her lower back lifted her body high enough for Gregory to delve under the ruffles and lace. A touch, light as a feather, swept between her legs. A smear of feeling, and she tensed, bucked, and felt heavily drugged. Temple to his shoulder, certain too much wine, too many troubles had brought forth such a hallucination, Arabella found she did not know her body or why such feelings existed.
There was no shyness in the way he parted her folds, how fingertips tripped and toyed until she could feel a heartbeat growing between her legs.
Harrow’s touch retreated. After fumbling between them something hard and smooth, something larger than fluttering fingers touched the place where all the growing intoxication seemed to center. Gripping the length of his cock, Gregory ran the swollen crown over drenched softness, enjoying the way Arabella’s lashes flared, pleased with her sudden hitched breath. A furious burst of feeling rocked her as the instrument in his fist found where it sought to burrow. With an appreciative growl, Gregory urged her to lower, ignoring her slight resistance, until the throbbing head of his cock breached a passage so warm it melted for him.
Stretching her, filling her, arms slipped around her middle and he bore her down, Gregory taking on an expression of impassioned pain at her internal clench.
It seemed too much.
Instinctively, Arabella tried to rise, her eyes hooded and desperate. His arm tightened, the man’s muscles bulging to slowly force her back until impaled fully. A small gasp and more girth pressed forward, spearing more soundly than the initial small push— conquering and stretching, linking their bodies in a way that caused her to both try and force the trespasser out and draw him deeper.
The connection was far too intense, Arabella felt him grow harder, the throb of his blood pumping in rhythm with hers.
Lost green eyes, shined perfectly confused and aroused when Gregory rolled his hips and
offered a pleased groan. His deepening thrusts started gently, Arabella making little noises of pleasure, her body naturally following the movement of the pulsing invasion.
He continued his explorations, parting the fabric tied in a satin bow at her throat. When warm heat slipped behind the lace and enveloped her breast, when full flesh was squeezed, her aching nipple fondled, that was all it took for her knees to buckle and the resistance to end. She sank onto the remaining length of his thick cock, held him inside her from base to tip, and only squirmed a little.
Smiling the grin of a victorious warrior, Gregory relished the strangle of her walls working to accommodate his claim. He cooed to her and cupped her cheek, tracing her parted lips with his thumb.
When she moaned, he let out a hot breath against her mouth, flexed the arm that held her to him, and began to rock his hips. Fisting her hands in the fabric of his sleeves, she held on, panting, unsure if she felt pain or pleasure—unsure why she wanted more, or why she had so great a need to grind her body down hard against such a man.
Gregory explained it all when his hand left her face and found its way to where they were joined. Fingertips explored where she was stretched full of him, teasing further at her folds until he brushed something that made her whole body jolt. The bastard smiled at her, the swipe of his thumb skimming over the swollen bud of flesh again. Mystification, sudden insatiable need, and madness took over.
Lost in the touch, pressing her breasts to his chest, her hips swirled to the movement of his thumb.
Gregory bounced her body on his lap, endlessly toying with the pert part of her sex which thrummed to life, enjoying every little mew and cry she made in response. When Arabella could hardly bear another moment of such intoxicating touch, when her very soul seemed on the brink of being torn from her chest, full lips brushed hers, the devil commanding, “Tell me I please you, Arabella.”