A Match Made in Heather

by Anna Harrington

  “Be still,” he commanded, his voice hitching with a hint of brogue.

  Arching herself away from him, Arabel went quiet, with only the soft pants of her breath breaking the silence.

  “You once asked me why I took your innocence,” he murmured, his eyes staring darkly into hers.

  Her mind raced as fast as her heart. He remembered that, after all these years? Impossible. But when he reached up to her face, to cup her cheek for a brief moment before trailing his hand down her body, her mind went blank. All she knew was the heat of his dark gaze pinning her in place, the solidity of his hard body hovering just above hers.

  “Because it wasn’t enough to only look at you,” he continued in a deep purr that seeped through her, leaving hot tingles in its wake. He splayed his fingers across her throat, and a devilish smile tugged at his lips as he traced his fingertips over her racing pulse. “Not enough to hear your laughter, or even to be graced with one of your smiles.”

  His hand caressed downward over her chest as it rose and fell rapidly with each panting breath. All of her pulsed, electric. When his fingers reached the first button of her riding dress and slipped it free, that small tug slammed through her like a lightning bolt.

  “I had to be with you, Arabel. Had to have your attention focused solely on me.” Another button slipped free as his hand worked its way with agonizing slowness down her front. “But even that wasn’t enough.”

  “Garrick,” she pleaded in a whisper, although she couldn’t have said if she were pleading for him to let her go or pull her closer.

  Knowing what her body wanted, he granted what she craved and lowered his head to kiss her. A soft whimper escaped her.

  When he moved away, she followed, arching up as if pulled by a magnet. His eyes gleamed at that, but he remained just out of reach, except for his hand, which continued its path down her front, loosening each button and leaving her breathless.

  “As untamed as the highlands, as sweet as the heather . . .” When the last button slipped free, he pushed open the bodice of her dress to sweep his hand over the short corset beneath. “To be that close to you yet not be able to touch—” His fingers pulled the zigzagged laces free until her stays loosened and gaped open over her breasts. “Madness.”

  He took the fingers of his glove between his teeth and pulled it off, then slowly slipped his hand beneath the corset and chemise to cup her breast. She bit back a soft cry of need and frustration at the heat of his bare hand against her, but she couldn’t keep from arching her back to bring his hand harder against her, or stop the small shudder of pleasure that shot through her when he teased at her nipple with his thumb.

  “The scent of you lingering on my clothes, the taste of you on my lips . . . I craved you, Arabel.” He pushed down her stays to reveal a single breast, peaked and aching. “I yearned for you.”

  He lowered his head to take her breast into his mouth.

  With each suckle of his lips and flick of his teasing tongue across her nipple, the throbbing heat between her thighs grew stronger. She’d not forgotten how exquisite the sensation of having his mouth on her body, or how he’d made her want him. But it had never been like this, never this relentless and overwhelming. Never this much agonizing heat, lapping flames at her toes and burning her up from the inside out.

  “It wasn’t enough to be near you, Arabel. I had to be close to you, as close as possible.” He whispered into her ear, “I had to be inside you.”

  When his mouth returned to hers, capturing hers in a plundering kiss that left her breathless, all of her shook helplessly from the intensity of the man he’d become. Her arms lifted to encircle his neck of their own accord, to dig her fingers into his silky hair and pull his head down as her lips parted beneath his in permission to ravish her kiss.

  He tore his mouth away and laid a blistering trail of hot kisses down her neck. “Even that wasn’t enough,” he murmured as he tongued the racing pulse in the hollow of her throat. “I wanted your love, Arabel. Because I loved you.” His mouth returned to hers, and he murmured against her lips between kisses, “I loved you more than life itself. And make no mistake.” He sucked at her bottom lip and drew a soft moan from her. “I would have waited forever for you if I could have.”

  “Garrick.” She closed her eyes and surrendered to the mounting need he flamed through her.

  His hand moved down the side of her body in hard, firm strokes over her curves as he kissed her. Nothing about him was gentle. Not the way he roughly massaged her breast against his palm, not the way he raked his other hand down over the tops of her thighs. Not the way he thrust his tongue between her lips in a fast, barely controlled rhythm that ripped her breath away with its erotic promise for more and left her panting beneath his hungry assault.

  But she was just as hungry, aroused both by the wicked confession of his words and by the way he knew how to excite her with the exact right amount of roughness tempered by tenderness. Her fingers dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders, and when his hand grabbed the hem of her skirt and yanked it up her legs, she shuddered with a need born of ten years of pain and frustration, of doubt and loss.

  The yards of tartan in her full skirt made it impossible for him to bare her from the waist down, but he shoved enough aside to be able to slip his hand beneath and caress along her inner thigh. A cry of longing poured from her. He kissed her greedily, drinking in the sound.

  “I have never been happier in my life than when you said you loved me,” he murmured against her lips. “You loved me for the man I was. You wanted me.”

  The emotion in his voice pierced through the fog of arousal that intoxicated her. Sucking a deep breath to fight for control of her heart, she reached down to grab him by the wrist and still his hand.

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes, and the raw arousal on his face ripped her breath away. “But now you want revenge.”

  “Not against you, Arabel,” he assured her. “Not anymore.”

  “Then against my family,” she whispered, and the hardness that flashed across his handsome face told her she was right. “Let me have Highburn. It means nothing to you, but it’s everything to me.”

  He stared down at her, and his expression became inscrutable, like a veil coming down over his face. “I can’t do that.”

  Slowly, he pulled his hand free and smoothed down her skirt. When he began to move away, she cupped his face in her hands to hold him still.

  “Then let me go,” she pleaded. Hot tears of humiliation formed at her lashes that she’d been weak enough to end up in his arms.

  “I can’t seem to do that either,” he said quietly.

  With a cry of frustration, she shoved at his shoulders and scrambled out from beneath him. She stumbled backwards across the cottage to put as much distance between them as possible.

  She stared at him, her lips parting as confusion danced with anger and humiliation inside her. How dare he return and spin her world on end like this! After all they’d been through, after all the years that had passed—Oh, she was a fool to think that the past was behind them!

  “I won’t let you have Highburn,” she vowed as she struggled with shaking hands to lace up her corset’s ties and button up her dress. “I don’t care what happened between us—”

  “Liar.”

  The soft accusation seared through her, and she flinched. “The past is gone, Garrick,” she shot back, with angry frustration reverberating in her voice. “No matter which one of us was wrong or right in the decisions we made, whatever future we thought we had together ended that night. I’ve moved on.” She forced herself to meet his hard gaze, hoping he couldn’t see that for the lie it was. A part of her deep in her heart would never be over him. “It’s time you did the same.”

  * * *

  “Lord Townsend.” Davidson shot to his feet as Garrick stormed into his office. “A pleasure to see—”

  “Castle Highburn,” he declared without preamble. He placed his palms on the desk and leaned ove
r it toward the startled solicitor. “How do I sell it? Now.”

  That was the only way out of this insanity. Sell it, wash his hands of it and of her—

  “You cannot.” Davidson blinked as he took in the dust-covered riding clothes Garrick still wore in his rush to get to the office. He gestured for Garrick to have a seat, but he remained standing, much to the nervous solicitor’s growing unease. “The residency clause isn’t yet met. The only way to be rid of the property is to abandon it, which passes it to Miss Rowland by default.”

  A bitter taste coated his tongue. “By surrender, you mean.”

  “One could put it that way, I suppose.”

  That’s exactly would it would be. A surrender of both the property and his revenge, and then she and the Rowlands would win, because once more they would have driven him away.

  Never.

  He rubbed at the knot at the back of his neck. It wasn’t Highburn itself that mattered to him. It was control over the property and over clan Rowland that was at stake. If he couldn’t sell it, then—

  “Can I give it to Arabel?” Giving it away might just be the solution, because it would be his property to bestow. Acknowledgement that he controlled what was never meant to be his, that the Rowlands would only possess it because of the goodness of his vengeful heart.

  A spoil of war rather than a surrender. A small distinction, but one that made all the difference.

  “Give?” Davidson blinked, as if Garrick had gone mad. Perhaps he had. He’d certainly been out of his mind in the cottage, when he’d been halfway to seducing Arabel. “You cannot do that either, I’m afraid. You have to wait until the month is passed before you can do anything except abandon the property. By then, you might as well sell it.”

  By then, being near Arabel would have driven him insane.

  Even through his frustrated anger, he felt the snare closing in. There was no way to escape Arabel except by leaving, and if he did that, the Rowlands would win. He’d be damned before he let that happen.

  “Are you planning on leaving, then,” Davidson inquired, “before the end of the month?”

  To be chased away like a dog with its tail between its legs . . . Like hell he would. “No,” he answered, shuttering his face against the emotions churning inside him. “It seems my plans will keep me right here.”

  Day Twelve

  With a frustrated groan, Garrick rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy of his bed, once again sleepless.

  Once again thinking of Arabel.

  Since he’d arrived at Highburn, he’d endlessly turned over in his mind the conversation—and argument—they’d had that night ten years ago. He’d sifted through each word, every look and emotion, trying to find answers to what they both could have done differently. And he’d discovered . . .

  Nothing. He’d been adamant that they had to leave that night, and she’d felt compelled to stay with her family. And then the Rowlands made certain they’d never be together.

  That was why he now insisted on keeping Highburn. Not because of the hell her family had cast him into, the months of struggling, stealing, and starving before he found his way into the army, followed by years of fighting just to survive. Not one bit of that mattered anymore. No, the reason he now burned with hatred for the Rowlands came down to one unforgivable act.

  They had taken Arabel from him.

  For that alone, they deserved to have their beloved Highburn razed to the ground, just as Arabel had accused him of wanting to do. But the way he’d kissed her in the cottage, how she’d responded so eagerly . . . Was it truly revenge that kept him here?

  Revenge certainly hadn’t sent him into that momentary fit of insanity that had him kissing her in the cottage. And he’d wanted to do a lot more than just kiss. If she hadn’t stopped him—

  Christ.

  He punched his pillow and rolled over. Nineteen days left. At this rate, he’d be in Bedlam by September.

  A loud squeaking screech shattered the silence and shot him straight out of bed. The strangled sound shivered down his spine with the same teeth-clenching pulse of metal grinding against metal. It came again, reverberating through the house and echoing off the stone walls and wooden paneling.

  He yanked on his trousers as the noise grew louder and impossibly more pained. And painful. He winced at a high-pitched squeal. Good God.

  He threw open the door, rushed into the hall—

  And came face to face with Arabel.

  Startled, she gave a soft gasp, her eyes widening to find him there. For a long moment, neither moved, their surprised stares locked on the other.

  Then Garrick slowly lowered his gaze to trail it leisurely over her.

  Standing there in her sleeveless night rail, so ethereal in the moonlight shadows, she resembled a ghost. But then, hadn’t she been haunting him for years? Even now, appearing all warm and bed-rumpled, her hair deliciously mussed in a riot of thick curls, he could barely believe she hadn’t stepped out of his dreams. At eighteen, she’d been beautiful, with a vivacity that swirled around her like a cloud and a youthful exuberance that captured everyone’s attention. But now, with her curves softened into full womanhood and a quiet confidence in her own allure, she was simply breathtaking.

  When his gaze returned to her face, he saw her jerk her eyes up from his bare chest. But she couldn’t hide the dark heat in her expression, or the sudden hitch of her breath at being caught staring. Shamelessly, he wished she would lower her eyes again, to look her fill of him.

  Instead, she looked away, and the moment broke.

  “I thought I heard a noise,” she explained.

  He fought back a grin at her understatement. “I thought I heard someone killing a cat.”

  She nervously folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think it’s—”

  “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. Yet the devil inside him couldn’t help adding, “But I’d be happy to tuck you back into bed, if you’d like.”

  She heaved out a hard sigh of frustration. “Garrick, please—”

  Another bone-jarring screech shot through the house with enough force to peel paint.

  Panicked, Arabel ran downstairs toward the sound. Garrick followed. Whatever was going on, he was gentleman enough to protect her, although he wasn’t gentleman enough not to notice the way the moonlight turned her night rail translucent and revealed every tantalizing curve beneath.

  They hurried into the drawing room and halted. Garrick blinked, surprised speechless at the sight that greeted them, while Arabel’s eyes opened nearly as wide as her mouth.

  In her dressing robe and lace nightcap, Matilda Rowland stood with a set of bagpipes slung awkwardly over her shoulder and her arms wrapped around them, squeezing at the bag in great, fast pumps. Between each squeeze, she inhaled a deep breath and blew into the pipe, which let out a squeaking, screeching squawk loud enough to wake the dead. No melody, no attempt at a constant note. From what Garrick could surmise, her goal was simply to blare out the noise as loudly as possible. And succeeding.

  Lady Rowland smiled. “So yer both awake, then, are ye? Lovely!”

  When she sucked in a lungful of air to launch into another screech, Arabel rushed forward. “Auntie,” she said gently, putting her hand on the pipe and pushing it out of range of her aunt’s mouth. “It’s past midnight. Whatever are you doing?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she answered curtly.

  “I see.” Arabel glanced over her shoulder at Garrick, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the exasperated expression on her face . . . And keeping the rest of us from sleeping as well. “Well, why don’t we all go back upstairs and try again?”

  When the old woman slid a glance from Arabel to Garrick, he could have sworn he saw a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “You two go on, then, if you want.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the general direction of the stairs. “I’ll just stay here and keep playing—”

  “No!” Garrick and Arabel shouted in unison.r />
  “I mean,” Arabel softened her voice, “perhaps there’s something else you can do that would make you sleepy. Nice quiet needlepoint, perhaps. Or I can ring for Jamieson to bring you a pot of chocolate.”

  She fussed with the pipes. “If you two return to yer rooms, I don’t see the point in—”

  “Why don’t we stay down here and keep you company, then?” Garrick suggested, knowing fully well that was what the old woman wanted. The question was why.

  “But we came so quickly at the noise—I mean, your playing—that we’re not properly attired,” Arabel argued. When he swung his attention to her and raked his gaze over her, at first only to taunt her but then because he couldn’t help staring, she crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed. A damned shame that. “Lord Townsend and I need to dress—”

  “I’ll play while you’re gone.” Matilda drew a deep breath and darted her mouth toward the pipe.

  Pinning Arabel with a warning glance not to go anywhere, Garrick took the pipes from Lady Rowland’s arms just as she began to blow. Then he set them down—high up on top the curio cabinet and far out of her reach.

  The old woman cackled with amusement.

  “I didn’t realize that you played the pipes, Auntie,” Arabel commented as she led Matilda to a high-backed chair by the fireplace.

  Matilda snorted. “I don’t, lass!”

  Garrick fought the twitching of his lips when Arabel rolled her eyes. If his presence at Highburn didn’t drive her away before the month was over, her Aunt Matilda surely would.

  “Join me by the fire, Townsend,” Matilda ordered. “Sit down, sit down!”

  He glanced around, only to realize that the room was filled with trunks and boxes ready for the move to the dower house. Every flat surface was heaped high with her things, including every chair and settee.