by Addison Cain
“You, boy!” Harrow barked, bounding out the door. “Where is your mistress?”
Startled, pale lips struggled to form the words, “Shhhe... sheeee's out.”
“Where?”
The boy shook his head, eyes wide as plates.
There was something pitifully familiar in the cowering servant.
Sizing up the useless sack of bones, eyeballing the boy's new clothing, Harrow flat out laughed. “Well if it isn't the wretch from Harding. How on earth did you come by a place here, you little thief?”
Jaw agape, lips opening and closing like a fish, until Hugh stuttered so badly his frantic explanation made no sense. On and on he tried to inarticulately defend himself until the youth’s eyes welled.
Payne interceded just as the boy ran off. “Would you care to take some tea, Mr. Harrow?”
* * *
Thunder boomed, Arabella pressing onward until her mount's flanks foamed. She was so angry her hands were bloodless, her ears plagued by the sound of Hugh's weeping. For hours she’d tried to convince the youth he would not be cast off because her guest found fault with him. The child could not bring himself to believe her.
All because of one blackguard.
At her insistence, Mamioro jumped the gate to land in the courtyard outside Harrow's homestead. Dogs set to barking, nipping at flank and heel, before the pack was sent running from a few well-placed kicks once she’d slid from her horse. Uncaring for civility, eager to return the courtesy of Mr. Harrow's earlier visit, Arabella burst into his house.
A weathered kitchen maid rushed forward, searching out the cause of all the racket. “Gypsy robbers!”
“Silence, woman.” Snarling, Arabella shoved the crone and her insults aside. “Where is your master?”
She could hear him already cursing at the loud disturbance and followed the braying down a wood paneled hall. A polished door flung inward, the man himself set to emerge.
Arabella seethed the instant he was in her sight. “You had no right frightening my stable boy! Hugh's life has been hard enough without some arrogant bully’s abuse. Considering your position, you should be setting the example as a gentleman.”
One look at her and arms crossed over Harrow’s broad chest. Cold contempt, malevolent challenge, replaced Harrow’s anger. “And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do on my own land, Imp? You are not mistress here, and when the old woman arrives, I will make it clear just what kind of circus the housekeeper has acquired.”
Fists clenched, Arabella shrieked, “I am the baroness, you addlebrained dolt!”
She heard the venom of her outburst, immediately cringing for her foolish tongue. Without looking over her shoulder, she knew the old servant had not missed her blunder or the title, already imagining the tales the kitchen maid would tell any who might listen.
Mr. Harrow clicked his tongue, smirking at her mortification. “Temper, temper, wee baroness.”
After a slow breath, Arabella tried again. “I am well aware you are a man of standing in this province, but you are as blind as you are wicked if you don't see that boy deserves a chance to be more than the beggar the gentry of the countryside take turns kicking.”
Black eyes began to glow; Mr. Harrow’s smile dripped menace. “Look at you standing there with your fur up like a hissing kitten. Would a cup of tea calm you, your ladyship?”
“So you can be civil...” If he expected a tantrum, he was going to be sorely disappointed. “Yes, Mr. Harrow, a cup of tea would be divine.”
Barking towards the startled housemaid, Harrow ordered, “Tea!”
The old woman scurried off.
In match to Arabella's false civility, Mr. Harrow straightened until his carriage was that of a gentleman, and gestured as if to guide her to a comfortable chair before the fire.
“Your cloak, your ladyship?” Large hands came out to take the sodden garment before her fingers found the frogs.
The simple covering was removed, exposing scarlet hair hanging loose to her waist, the tangled waves doing much to hide the meager stuff of her dress. Purposefully taking the largest chair for herself, Arabella sat back and smoothed the rough homespun fabric of her skirt as if it were the finest silk.
When a dog’s shrill whine was followed with instant silence in the yard, she cocked a brow, her words honeyed. “I do believe my horse just killed one of your mongrels.”
It was his turn to hide rage, but the angry glint in his eyes displayed enough.
Offering a mocking smile, she said, “Perhaps a cup of tea will help calm you.”
They sat in silence, each staring. She grew sick of his face, Arabella the first to look away. There was no feminine needlepoint in the cluttered space, no sign of any lady of the house. The room itself was masculine to the extreme—heavy leather furniture, books stacked about in haphazard piles, dusty.
The rattle of china and the nervous, old maid appeared with a heavy silver tray. Arabella waved the woman off so she might pour herself, uncaring if such a thing was absolutely against custom.
The old woman balked until the master of the house roared, “Be gone!”
With a quick step, the kitchen maid showed just how spry she could be.
Once the door closed, and privacy became theirs, Arabella prepared his tea following the request for no adornment of sugar or milk. Handing over cup and saucer she offered a glorious, and completely insincere, smile. Preparing her own in the same fashion, she once again settled comfortably back into the soft leather and took a sip of bitter brew.
“So I see your aggression is not just heaped upon solitary women you find in the wilderness and frightened orphans... you also abuse your servants.” Arabella smirked and took another sip. “Well, lord of the manor, are you not impressive.”
The way Mr. Harrow’s lips curved brought a chill to Arabella's bravado. In fact, the longer she sat in his presence the more she wanted out of it.
He didn’t answer her mockery. Awkward quietness stretched, both pretending to enjoy refreshment, the sound of the china and the crackling of the fire the only noise in the room.
Cup drained, Arabella set it back on the tray, preparing to stand.
Harrow interrupted her attempted escape. “Now that you have had your tea, shall we discuss my transgressions?”
Settling back, hands folded in her lap, she said, “You were cruel to Hugh.”
“Your precious stable boy is a thief.”
“I have seen a man lend money to his drunken neighbor. A man who knew full well that neighbor was being cheated by the diceman.” Arabella's point was made. “You assured that he would fail, lose his money, and be in debt to you. Now, define thief?”
“Spying, were you?” Mr. Harrow sprawled, elbow to the armrest, his chin resting upon his palm. “If fools wish to squander their lands by taking out loans they cannot afford and then waste the funds on gambling, that is their choice.”
“I know vindictiveness when I see it. You wanted your neighbor brought low.”
“I did.” He smiled, prideful. “But even you cannot say I stole from him. Nor did I encourage his less savory habit.”
“You manipulated him, offered drink.”
“True. Though I never once suggested he gamble.” Harrow leaned closer and tutted. “And still that does not make me a thief... I only gave what he asked for and took what I won. Your stuttering delinquent is a different matter.”
Gritting her teeth in an effort to keep from grumbling, Arabella admitted, “Nimble fingers are good for tending horses. As for thievery... the boy was starving. I would have stolen under the same circumstances.”
Harrow purred, “No doubt you would, Imp.”
She should not have come. She should not have believed such a man could be made contrite. All this visit had accomplished was the creation of a major hindrance in her plans. “Your servant...”
“...will tell the county she served tea to a baroness.” Harrow grinned. “I'm certain the tale will be colorful.”
Harrow saw the woman worry, a line deepening between her brows, so he offered a warning. “When your neighbors come to call, try not to dress like a hellion or behave like a banshee.”
“Enough.” Arabella stood, grabbed for her cloak, and gave him her back as she fastened the thing. “Should you stupidly think to darken my door again, understand you will be turned away unless you apologize to the boy.”
A rumble sounded near her ear. “I will do no such thing.”
Jumping at the feel of breath on her cheek, Arabella found him so close their bodies brushed with her turn. Swallowing, she stepped back. “Then I... must admit it will be a very distant acquaintance. Good evening, Mr. Harrow. Thank you for the tea.”
Harrow's smirk slid soft as velvet across a cruel mouth, the large man countering her sad retreat. “Have I startled you, Imp?”
Misjudging direction, the edge of a table dug into the back of her thighs, making her look both foolish and desperate when she almost overturned the thing. Freezing at the feel of fingers on her chin, the feather soft touch infinitely unnerving, Arabella stood meek as Harrow drew her face up for inspection.
With the baroness so alarmed, everything was left open for a man like him to read. Gregory Harrow savored each flicker of expression, offering a beastly grin as he ever so slowly leaned closer. “If you behave as a savage, you will be treated as one. Take the warning to heart.”
She couldn't speak, the horrible hanging moment stealing her voice. He gave her a reprieve, Harrow pulling back. But, had he been a wolf, he would have been licking his chops.
The villain took her hand, raising her wrist to his lips whilst offering the final taunt. “Thank you for calling, your ladyship.”
She did not know what possessed her, it all happened so fast, but her hand flew. She struck him with such strength the table rocked behind her and some small object crashed to the floor. More shocked than he, struggling to calm her breath, Arabella found a devil glaring down as if ready to rip out her throat.
Panicked, shoving past before he might see her lip quiver or the brute might mock her for her tears, she fled.
He did not follow.
Chapter 4
S quinting from the rare show of sun, Arabella grappled with another monstrous vine eating up the hedgerow. Cursing the foulest language she knew, ignoring thorns that pricked and stung, she set her weight against it and heaved. The long tangle gave way. She tripped, falling flat on her rump, out of breath but victorious. Tempted to lie back upon the dirt and nurse her sore rear, Arabella rallied instead, tossing the offensive weed over her shoulder only to catch sight of a black greatcoat flapping amidst the shade of her house.
Not ten paces away, Mr. Harrow leaned against the stone, arms folded over his chest. He did not smile, not one hint of greeting was offered... he just watched, motionless.
How long had he been there?
It was hard to tell what mood held him quiet and scowling, his black hair hanging over shadowed eyes. Her expression was far more available—vexation. It had been only three days since her visit to his home. Three days since she'd ruined her chances at peace in the county by shouting out her title in front of a servant.
Catching her hair when the wind made it wild, Arabella pushed it over her shoulder and pointed her gaze toward the stables where Hugh worked, wordlessly reminding Mr. Harrow he was not welcome until he apologized to the boy.
When she looked back to see if he’d understood, the shadowy quality of a passing cloud and the mean curl of Harrow’s lip made the man look almost... amused.
“Boy!” he bellowed, narrowing his eyes at the pale lad too busy mucking out a stall to have noticed him.
Scrambling over, the youth wiped his hands on his apron, trying not to look alarmed.
Dismally bored, the landlord dared him to disagree. “Your mistress would believe that I owe you an apology for my behavior the last time I visited my property.” A black gaze matched Harrow's sneer. “Claimed I was cruel in pointing out the lady had a known thief in her service. Do you agree?”
“Na ...ahhoo-nnnoo... No, Siiiir,” Hugh answered, his eyes trained upon the packed dirt under his feet.
“Ahhhhh.” Wicked, Harrow glanced back to the baroness and found her jaw clenched so tightly her lips were white. He kept his tone conversational. “But you should know, boy, as a good servant, it is not what you think that matters, but what she thinks. And as a gentleman, I must abide by it. So, you cur, I beg your pardon for my speech in pointing out the truth of your well-known transgressions.”
Even with the distance between them, Mr. Harrow could hear the growl in her throat. Leering he asked, “There, your ladyship, was that not prettily said?”
Arabella placed a comforting hand on young Hugh's boney shoulder. “Be aware that it must have cost Mr. Harrow a fraction of his staggering pride to even admit a hint of wrongdoing. Thank you, Hugh. You're dismissed.”
At her word, Hugh dashed back to his chores and left the two adversaries in the yard.
Folding her expression into derision, Arabella asked, “Tell me, how many days did you pick and choose the words of that warped apology?”
The languid way he leaned against her house ceased, the man bearing down upon her instead. “Less than a few seconds, your ladyship. You see, I have come for the rent. Seeing as I want for refreshment, I was willing to acquiesce to your demand so I may take my rest and darken your door... which is actually my door.”
She was almost tempted to laugh. “Then by all means, won't you please come inside?”
They entered the manor as if they did not find one another detestable.
In the great hall Arabella found Mary standing too close to the fire. Hurrying forward, physically turning the unblinking maid in the direction of the kitchens, she asked for tea.
Mary obeyed, an automaton with a scorched skirt.
Preparing to defend her maid’s behavior, Arabella turned but found the portrait of the blonde beauty hung above the mantle was all that held Mr. Harrow's attention. He was as engrossed with the painting as Mary had been with the fire.
“I found her in the study... she is beautiful.”
Turning from the hearth, Mr. Harrow took a seat. “So I was told. She was also miserably bitter in life.”
Pleased the man had not removed his greatcoat, Arabella took it as a sign he did not intend to linger. From a nearby writing table, the prepared banknotes were collected and handed over.
“I will take a glass of wine.”
She didn’t flinch at his demand, only stiffened. “As you will.” After pouring two measures of red, she took the chair across from him. “Next month I will have the rent delivered and save you the trouble of calling.”
“I prefer to collect from my tenants in person.”
Sipping her goblet, Arabella countered, “Then Payne or Mrs. Magdala will attend you.”
“You shall attend me.”
Not at all happy he thought to command her, Arabella warned, “Mr. Harrow, I seldom linger waiting for callers. Do not anticipate my presence.”
“Why is that, Imp? Do you prefer running wild, climbing stones and looming over strangers?” he teased, his mood so changeful it made her scowl at his sudden, broad grin.
Disinterested in speaking further, Arabella fidgeted with her sleeve, oblivious the white of her chemise grew stained with small, blooming marks of blood. “I prefer it to strangers looming over me.”
Glass set aside, Harrow stood, imposing and proud before her. An instant later he made a mockery of a genteel gesture, lowering to a knee in a bow.
He'd been so swift, Arabella had no room to stand or chance to move away. Her only defense was to press his shoulder so he might not lean nearer. “Step back and take your
seat!”
“Do you wish to strike me again?” Indulged obsidian eyes glimmered. “Shall I explain what will happen if you do?”
Determined to hold her ground, to not shrink further into the softness of her leather chair, she answered, “You will strike me in return.”
He said nothing, only stared, letting her discover he moved where he willed when he willed it. Again she pushed his shoulder, her elbow locked. He moved slowly, caught her wrist, and made her move her hand. His skin wasn't soft like a London man's, and though he was large, he didn't squeeze with his calloused paws as she imagined he could. Instead, a warm thumb circled her palm, leaving a track of tingling skin that stung so powerfully Arabella's fingers curled, her nails digging little moon shaped bites into his skin.
“There is no reason to claw me.” He was bored again, tugging up Arabella’s drooping sleeve to expose the cause of her bleeding. “You there, Mrs. Magdala,” Harrow turned his head toward the housekeeper spying from the hall. “Fetch a bowl of freshly boiled water and a bottle of vinegar.”
Magdala obeyed, leaving Arabella in the hands of the brute who poked and prodded as he picked at the black tip of a burrowed spike.
“Devil's Thorn carries its name for a reason. You will make yourself ill if you do not properly clean these wounds.” Condescension seemed to be his specialty in tone and in look. “For a wild Imp who recklessly runs about the moors, you are foolish for not learning what to avoid... grabbing at thorns with your bare hands like a simpleton.”
“Do not speak to me as if I were a child.” Arabella muttered, working to tug her arm free. “A few stinging scrapes are nothing.”
He ignored her, gripping her hand with the strength she lacked. “You are acting like one... hiding in your house, behaving like a she-wolf, and abusing the man who is trying to assist you.”
“I do not need your help!”
With his lips drawn back, Harrow leaned right up in her face and snarled, “Do you not see that several thorns have broken off under your skin? Hold still or they will be driven deeper!”
