Before she could stop herself her lip quivered. With a click of her tongue she urged Mamioro into a sudden gallop. The beast responded, only too happy to run wild over the rocky ground. Swearing she could still hear arrogant laughter in the wind around her, Arabella cringed, only comforted in the knowledge that Mr. Harrow’s lesser mount would never be able to surpass a horse as fine as Mamioro.
One sharp turn and her headlong gallop turned towards distant, jutting boulders. Tearing up earth, rushing over scrubs, Arabella rode until the familiar rocky outcrop waited before her.
Tearing out of the saddle and tying up her skirts, her fingers clawed into the rock face. Dirtying her clothing in the climb, hardly caring, she crawled up the cliff. The wind was temperamental, first calm and gentle, then blasting her dress so roughly against her body that she had to struggle not to trip until the gale had passed. Even so, Arabella began to pace the length of the boulder, determined to stay until her customary corpse-like chill returned and her fretting passed.
Low lying fog shifted nearer, Arabella imagining the White Woman walking free, wearing a face that could be a thousand faces. Rolling clouds of pale gossamer moved through the wind, closer to Arabella’s rock, scaling the side of it like a great white spider. The baroness glanced down, eager for what was coming, picturing the White Woman smiling softly as if all the secrets of the world were hers, every line of her face unbelievably familiar and welcoming. The phantom called to her, a ghostly pale hand rising to beckon her nearer, offering oblivion. All Arabella need do was grasp the proffered limb and there would be no more nightmares, no more running, no more emptiness.
A strange sound behind her and the fantasy evaporated. Arabella awoke from her stupor to find herself at the very edge of the cliff, toes dangling over the side. Ever so slowly she stepped back, moving toward the opposite side of the boulder to see what caused Mamioro to loudly nicker.
When a pair of black eyes flashed not two feet below, Arabella stumbled back with a shriek. A second later, Mr. Harrow found the final foothold and pulled himself up, stalking toward her. Instinctually backing away, she made it less than two paces before he had his hands upon her. Jaw set, batting aside her flailing resistance, he spun the half wild Imp about. Her back made an impact against his chest, the air whooshing out of her lungs. He had her, Gregory’s largeness wrapped around her like chains she could not shift.
With a huff, he sat down, taking her with him until the shrew was settled between his thighs.
Staring over the bluff, she found herself engulfed in the man, his bent knees surrounding where hers tangled in her skirt, his arms holding her indecently against him. Where she was panting, enraged, Gregory was motionless, calm, ignoring her cursing and demands.
Unwelcome fingers traced down her chest to where the fastenings of her coat had been pulled apart, Gregory closing her redingote no matter her cross jerking. When she was covered to her throat he cautiously released one of his arms at a time to spread his own greatcoat around her, cocooning them in black.
It had been frustrating enough to be pinned against his frame, but when the heat of his coat stole her chill, she let out an exasperated sigh, certain with every fiber of her being the bastard was smirking.
Her breath began to move in time with that of the man holding her. She softened her arms; he did as well. It was only if she made a move that might lead to her attempting to shift away that Gregory’s muscles flexed and she was made to be still again.
At length he spoke. “You look rather pretty in your frock.”
Glaring over her shoulder with an expression that said she was quite certain he was insane, she found the newly familiar heat of his lips far too close for her liking. Before she could swing her head forward Gregory clasped her jaw and looked over her face.
Black eyes went to her mouth. “If I were to kiss you right now, holding you as I am, I wonder just how you would punish me for it later.”
He did as he pleased, skimming the smallest brush of pressure against her lips with his. It ended before it began, his nose going straight to her hair, a pleased grumble emitting from the man.
Nudged so she might look back at the view, eventu
ally the moors wove their spell and Arabella fell into the trance until vivid pinks turned to soft purples. The sun lowered over the heath.
“If I allow you to stay any longer, we will have to climb down in the dark.”
Startled at the sound of a man’s voice, Arabella blinked and realized that they were no longer sitting, that she was draped atop his sprawling form, her cheek pressed to his chest… and that he had been petting her in long, pleasant strokes.
A part of her wanted to stretch, to groan and settle back to sleepily watch the sky, to forget that he was there. Instead she leaned up, finding he lounged with an arm behind his head, a soft smile on his smug mouth. He looked gratified, Gregory’s typical scowl having faded into a tranquil, guarded expression. Arabella raised a finger and traced where the furrow between his brows had vanished. She took in the angles of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the sideburns and arched curve of his upper lip. All the while thinking he was too beautiful to be a man, that he was a demon sent to torment her, and that she was a fool.
Drawing a breath as if to speak, Arabella hesitated, and instead she looked back toward the sunset. A lazy stroke up her spine pulled her closer until he had her by the scruff of the neck, kneading softly and silently inviting her to kiss him.
She didn’t. Instead, emerald eyes closed and Arabella rested into the strength of his arm.
“Arabella,” he admonished, drawing her higher until his lips began to brush back and forth over her own. “You are a wicked Imp, but I have no scruples. If you will not give me what is mine, then I shall take it.”
Rolling the woman beneath him, Gregory silenced her muffled argument.
Every part of him she could feel: the muscle of this thigh, the weight and breadth of his chest, his pinioning arms, but mostly she could feel that part of him that had been inside her the previous night. Again it had lengthened, thickened, and prodded near where she was tingling and warm.
When had her legs parted? When had she brought her heels to rest on his thighs?
At the first hint of her confusion, Gregory undulated his heft, directing the weight of his body to rub against her in a way that made Arabella whimper. He did it again, and again, green eyes drooping shut, her head falling back on a long exhale.
Her breasts, her breath, felt constricted behind the underpinnings and layer of chemise, gown, and redingote. Tangled in him, the rock face to her back, the moon rising above her, a great itch, a great need began to grow.
It was confusing how he could feel so velvet against her and how she could be so nervous. His tongue danced in her mouth; he tasted of honey. She even indulged in fingering his hair, in knowing his kiss, and returning it.
Where had she gone wrong?