Dark Side of the Sun

by Addison Cain

  Her jaw dropped. “Draw my attention? Are you mad? If your cruelty to her was supposed to punish me then you must be blind as well if you failed to notice that I am not the one crying right now. Miss Jenkins is.”

  The cocky smirk turned to a sneer. “Oh, but you are affected. Look at you all flushed and wound tight in your sick compassion for revolting strangers. Even now you regret her wounded feelings... Miss Jenkins would laugh should the roles be reversed.”

  Signaling for Mamioro to stop, she yelled at his back. “You are impossible!”

  He jerked, circling her horse, blocking the wind that made Arabella’s eyes squint. “You clung to me in your sleep.”

  Arabella did what she had been unable to do that morning—looked him dead in the eye. “Enough...”

  Reaching forward, warm fingers tucked a windblown curl into her bonnet, Gregory taunting, “Does the White Woman desire a kiss? Will it soothe her raging spirits?”

  Slapped his hand away, she hissed, “Stop mocking me!”

  He leaned down with a dark, self-satisfied smirk. “There is one way to end this.”

  Before she could argue, his lips crashed down and claimed hers with such passion she would have lost her seat if not for the arm he snaked around her middle. Never once in her life had a man kissed her in such a way, with such desperation and soul shaking eagerness. Everything she had known from others had only been debasing and grotesque. Clinging to him so she would not fall, Arabella’s gloved fingers curled around the back of his neck. Forcefully she exercised her own frustration, consuming even as she was consumed, until he somehow stilled her, lulling her into a gentle, slow moving caress.

  Gregory breathed heavy at her ear. “Should I have kissed you last night, White Woman? Is that what would have made you smile at me today as you smiled at that simpering fool?” He did not wait for an answer, simply began to run his lips over her neck, sucking gently as he worked the buttons at her breast.

  “Was I not gentle?” he growled, petulant and sullen, kissing a path where her redingote parted above her breasts. “Was I not patient?”

  Arabella did not know what possessed her, but her hand came to his cheek urging him to raise his eyes to her. Staring down at such beauty, she found his mouth swollen and slightly open, utterly enticing. “You are so warm I can hardly bear it.”

  Gripping her nape, he kissed her hard. “I should have finished what we began last night. I should not have been merciful.”

  “Finished?”

  One question and he knew she did not understand—she had been no virgin, and by her own admission her dead husband had used her badly.

  The words came, tempting and low, from the man fingering the small swell of breast exposed above her dress. “There is so much more. So many ways I could please you.”

  Those words brought a twinge between her thighs. “How did you know which room was mine?”

  “That was once my mother’s room. Seeing how very fond you are of her portrait, I was not at all surprised to see you took to her bedchamber as well.”

  A soft smile came to her lips. He did share the blonde beauty’s black eyes. “I did not know she was your mother.”

  “Does that alter your opinion of the painting?” He hooked his finger under her bodice as if to pull her closer.

  Something in his acerbic tone reminded her of another he spoke to in such a way. Gregory was playing with her just as he played with Lilly.

  “You are angry again, Imp,” he chuckled at her fallen expression.

  Arabella pressed her swollen lips into a firm line, feeling she had made some terrible misstep. Mamioro sensed his mistress’s temper and shied to the side, separating her from Mr. Harrow.

  “And now you are going to run away?” Gregory outright laughed, the entirety of his expression cruelly amused.

  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?

  “Gregory,” Arabella turned her head away from the prodigious affection. “You must stop.”

  “Why?” A deep rumbling chuckle shook her bodily when she yelped from the sharp pinch of teeth on her lower lip. The flat of his tongue came to lap at the wound before he stole another kiss.

  “As you said… it is growing dark.”

  Rubbing against her wantonly, Gregory teased. “You are only saying so because you think I will let you go. Perhaps if you had kissed me, I would have.”

  When he descended again, ready to capture the lovely swollen mouth of his prize, Arabella pressed her fingers to his lips and whispered, “Please.”

  Staring as if he might find the secrets of the universe in her naked expression, Gregory growled. “Come, White Woman. You have had your kiss, you are no longer hissing, and now I must put you away before you frighten the local farmers with your wanderings or snatch children in the night.”

  Chapter 8

  W armed in the kitchen, Payne saw that his Arabella sat at the table, deep in thought as she mindlessly ate. She had been distant, troubled since riding through the gate.

  Payne had come to her, calm as still water. Payne had stood at the door to welcome her, watching Gregory Harrow ride off into the night. And Payne had held up a lamp by which Arabella might find her way through the yard.

  And now he sat at her side, quiet and content so she might be those things too.

  Magdala broke through the silence. “The harvest market begins in three days’ time, Lady Iliffe.”

  “Yes, I know,” Arabella answered. “The Jenkins invited me this morning. I declined.”

  “You must attend. Many things must be bought.” The housekeeper had groused for years at their mistress’s eccentric ways. Now that she had begun to shape Arabella into the form of a lady, the Spaniard was even more determined in the pursuit. “...and you must be seen.”

  Arabella took a long pull of wine and acquiesced. “I will parade around and sneer properly.”

  It was so unlike her, but Payne was proud to see her trying to live as she should.

  Magdala too was pleased with the response. “As Payne must attend you, Hugh will assist me. The question of Mary…”

  Arabella understood. She glanced at the unblinking maid and offered a true smile. “I would be honored to have Mary’s company.” The boy at the table earned her attention next. “And, Hugh,” she winked. “When errands are finished, you must have fun, but try not to spend all your wages in one day.”

  Excited at the prospect, the lad answered. “Ye-ee--ess, my Lady.”

  Pushing her finished dinner to the side, Arabella said, “Go fetch your book and we will read.”

  Hugh had his favorite already set aside in a nook near the kitchen’s hearth. This had been their ritual from the first week. A quiet lesson, from a woman who had not learned to read or write until Payne had painstakingly taught her, to a boy who picked up his letters far faster than she ever had.

  “Luuh-luh-Lady Iliffe,” Hugh stammered, pointing down at a difficult word in the exercise book. “This wuuuord?”

  “Ruination,” Arabella answered, forcing a smile for the boy as she brushed his hair back from his brow. “It means-”

  “I know what it means.” He did not stutter once, Hugh bearing an expression that said he knew far more than that word’s simple meaning.

  “And what about redemption, Hugh? Do you know what that means?”

  The boy did not answer, but he snuggled closer to the coolness of her body, burrowing as near as he dared. Placing her cheek on his crown, Arabella’s finger skimmed the page to show him what to read next, waiting patiently for him to fight his tongue.

  By the hearth, Payne sat puffing on a pipe stuffed with fine tobacco. Watching her with the boy, he could not help but notice how much she’d changed in three years. His Arabella was so altered, the fullness to her cheek finally having returned. There were no longer any marks or gashes, even her posture had become that of a person and less of the crouched monstrosity that had been pulled out of hell.

  Every line of her face was imprinted inside him, every elusive strain of her voice.

  And it was that voice he had first known her by—the choked desperate gasps of air that frightened him when a few stones fell from his cellar bedroom’s wall all those years ago. She did not speak, sucking in each inhalation through the bored hole between their cells. A horrible stink immediately came with her, the thick cloying scent of filth and death—the very smell that clung to the Dutch slave ships of his childhood. How quickly he had scampered back, the hugeness of his body recoiling as if he were still only a boy in fear of the whip. It was the whimpered sobs, the soul wrenching scrape of nails against rock as gaunt fingertips clawed at the little opening, clutching and pulling, and finding not one more stone would budge that moved him.

  “You have light...” the monster croaked, disbelieving and desperate.

  Afraid, he took her his tiny stump of burning candle, finding he could deny that voice nothing. As the glowing halo approached, the demon in the dark began to weep, those same frail fingertips reaching toward the flame.

  She seemed almost surprised when the small fire burned her bleeding fingertip.

  It was not long before his wick wa
s spent, the two of them cast into darkness. All night he pressed his ear to the gap in the stone as the wretch spoke a blend of languages that hardly made sense. She was feverish and giddy. He gave her his meager scraps, offered her his paltry cup, watching as she dipped her fingers in then pulled them back to suck.

  Every night he would pull the stone away from his side of the wall and listen in the dark. Many times he only heard weak screams until there was nothing but the sick sound of slapping flesh and the loud grunts of a man using her. When it was over, if she could, she had crawled to him. Payne hardly spoke, but he would reach his dark fingers though the stone and her bird-thin bones would touch his.

  He was a man of few words, had never found speech useful as no one listened to a slave, but he spoke for her. Payne told the tales of his homeland, the same stories his own mother had shared long ago while the girl devoured whatever food he had stolen from the kitchens.

  The small opening between them was too narrow to look upon his neighbor beyond the shine of eyes the candle might show in the dark. But he knew... the shade of green was the same from the painting downstairs, the same eyes that had lost vitality years ago. The captive was Iliffe’s wife.

  There was never talk of it amongst cowed servants, but only the blind would have been unaware of what had been done to her. Since Benjamin Iliffe had brought her home, the once beautiful lady had grown sickly, her screams a thing common in the night hours.

  Yet no one questioned when the woman was gone. Packed off to Italy, Iliffe had said. That had been six months before the rock fell out of his wall. Six months she’d been in a windowless prison with no light. Six months of the Baron’s sickest game yet.

  Her husband would forget about her for days at a time, starve her, deny her water. But Payne gave her everything in his power. Her weeping was his weeping, her suffering his own.

  When a fever finally took her and she would no longer approach, he grew wild, paced and felt full of fear. British slaves had yet to be emancipated, his options were limited. If he fled to find help, who would feed her? Who would believe? But if he stayed she would surely die. He had torn at his hair, attacked the rock wall between them in an absolute frenzy as he begged any god to do something for the woman behind the stones.