by Addison Cain
“And what are you going to do?” Apathy was replaced with apprehension. Arabella sat up, half trapped under the weight of a tutting man.
The bodice of her worn dress hung open, the sleeve hanging to her elbow. At the look on her face, Gregory set a kiss to her bare shoulder, his fingers teasing the fabric to her waist. “Anything I want.”
He pressed her down and with a huff of air her back hit the ground. Arabella gave up. She let him touch her anywhere he wished, kept her eyes shut tight, and refused to think. Such time was taken in the movement of his hands on her body. Where his palms ran, her skin tingled, muscles relaxing even as her heart raced.
Every inch of flesh he uncovered Gregory licked, sucked, bit, or kissed. He had her trembling, her breath hitching with simple pleasures long before he began to hitch up her skirt.
There was something in the weight of his body, how he moved his hips against her, that took away what had left her unhappy. Whatever words he growled into her skin were lost in the feeling of him, her answering moans forgotten the moment they passed her lips.
He shifted lower. A noise caught in her throat, one she could hardly name when he caught up the tip of her breast between his teeth.
Coal black hair tangled in her fingertips. Arabella clung, welcoming the heat.
The pull of his mouth and the tug of her nipple sparked down her spine to that place between her legs. It grew like an ache, throbbing and building between her thighs, and yet it sang to her, urging her to spread her legs and let him settle in a way that would leave her at his mercy.
Husky, he whispered over her, “Look at me, Arabella.”
The instant she opened her eyes, his fingers crept down her belly. She wanted to roll back her head, to feel the way he spread her slickness and teased her lower lips, but his eyes commanded her total attention. Jaw loose, she panted like a dog, keening when a single finger pushed inside.
He did not make her speak to him, not so long as she kept her lust drugged gaze on his face. Instead he worked in and out of her, his thumb atop the small bundle that made her squirm. Circling that nub, flicking it in time with the roll of her hips, a man bearing the beauty and morals of Lucifer brought Arabella closer and closer to the edge.
At the moment her insides clenched in refusal, when her knees were shaking and her mouth was wide open, Gregory pulled his touch away. Grinning like a wolf licking blood from his muzzle, down went his head, and higher went her skirt.
He had his tongue lapping her cunny before she knew what was coming. Her instinct to fight him off solved nothing. Pinning her hands beside her hips, Gregory’s shoulders forced her thighs obscenely open. He feasted at his leisure.
Her screams were lost in the night, for there were no farms near enough to catch the wail of the White Woman. Knot in her belly tightening until her back bowed, Arabella found there was no throwing him off. Not when her hips moved in time with his flicking tongue, not when she was imploring him for God knows what.
When it tore through her, when he sucked at her nub and lashed it with his tongue, she howled like a banshee. Still he did not stop. Lapping her up, the flat of his tongue laved her, rasping over every inch until the fight went out of her body and she was his to do with as he pleased.
Crawling over her splayed figure, he took her lips and let her taste what he’d taken such pleasure in.
When some fragment of sanity returned, when her vision cleared, she panted, “What did you do to me?”
Laughing darkly he set his mouth to her ear and said, “Something I hope you’ll do to me someday.” Gregory wasted no time working his trousers down his hips and setting the head of his cock against the swollen flesh he’d just tasted. “But right now it is not your mouth I need.”
He was not as calm as his voice might suggest. Thick and heavy he pushed deep inside her. One surge and he’d growled, tensing to the point his muscles shook. Unknowingly, Arabella squeezed around his girth, and the man lost control. He rut so hard and fast, all she could manage was to cling to the demon hell-bent on sucking the breath from lungs.
Gregory fucked ruthlessly, took everything he needed, and in that pounding, wild coupling Arabella came alive. When that consuming feeling began to creep up, when what stretched her open and made her tender began to grow she called to him as if he might save her.
Like one possessed, Gregory reared, his cock kicked inside her and began to spill.
She felt every pulse, squeezing around him as if to drain him dry, and it was not enough... not until he put his fingers to her nipple and pinched roughly. Arabella’s body turned on her when pleasure and pain twisted into one, coming apart for Gregory just as he demanded.
Between wild breaths, his lips pressed to the valley between her breasts, his tongue lapping the salt of sweat. He kissed her collarbones, her neck, her jaw, before leaning up to find her eyes. They were full, confused and mystified, wounded and comforted.
Tracing her mouth with his, Gregory grew victorious. “That is the full measure of a woman’s pleasure, Imp. I gave that to you.”
Boneless, mind blank, Arabella lay upon the heather, caught in the arms of the devil, and smiled.
* * *
Waking in scented grasses, under the roving hands of a man hotter than a furnace, Arabella groaned. The world smelled of wool and leather, of horse and sweat, the woman taking deep breaths each time large fingers kneaded the right spot on her spine.
Unnaturally content, her arm thrown around his middle, they shared his greatcoat, each ignoring the accumulating mist. They had slept like vagabonds under the stars... or she had. Arabella was uncertain if Gregory had ceased stroking her once.
“What a lazy Imp you are.”
That gentle murmur did not belong to the man she knew. Raising her head, she found inky eyes waiting. Her fingers crept like a spider to where his shirt spread open, the cravat having been tossed aside the second, softer, time he’d ridden her. Ever so cautiously, Arabella spread fabric to see he was not pale beneath the many layers called for by English civility. She traced every inch she could reach, running her fingertips up the muscled line of his neck to the stubble on his jaw, smirking lightly at the texture.
“Romani men do not shave as often as the English do.” Tracing the lines of his face, the angle of his jaw, the straight nose and expressive brow, she admired his beauty. “Seeing you this way... you could almost be one of them.”
“Would it please you if I was?”
She paused in her exploration and met his eyes, considering her answer. “I do not think it would please you.”
“My mother flung herself from a window shortly after my birth. No soul knows who fathered me... I very well could be.”
She heard deeper disquiet concealed with the conversational conceit of one who feigned not to care. “My mother left when I was small. She was not Romani, and my father drank a great deal. For all I know, she has a new family, pale children that would not disgrace her as I would have... had she taken me with her.”
The tight brows returned, the man’s face dark. “What was her name?”
Shaking her head, Arabella explained. “When someone leaves, it’s as if they never were. They are never spoken of. The most I remember of her was her hair.”
Grunting, Mr. Harrow’s fingers spread wide and gathered a bunch of waves to admire. “Red?”
The memory was a nice one. Arabella smiled softly. “Fairer than mine. Pretty.”
Carding his fingers through a streak of crimson, Gregory toyed with the loose strands. “This is the Imp I know. Barefoot, hair wild...” He looked down where her bodice hung at her neck for a full view of breast. “...wanton.”
His teasing made her laugh. “I was never wanton.”
“I stand to disagree.” Playfulness fading, arms like fetters tightened around her, Gregory grew hard. “Arabella, if you go back to the caravans, I will set them ablaze. There will be no fireside chats or bartering with vagrant men. Do you understand me?”
There w
ere so many replies cooking on her tongue, so many ways she thought to bite. Instead, she stared hard at those impossible eyes, looking at the man holding her in the heather and knowing he was capable of every last threat.
So was she. “Speak to me that way again, Gregory, and Crescent Barrows will lie vacant in the blink of an eye. Where I’d go, you’d never find me.”
Her temper did not move him. “You say London knows what you are. That wave will crash here in gossip and tale-telling. But to be seen in the gowns you despise, covered in spangles and feathers when it comes, is a far cry different than rubbing locals’ faces in the fraudulent liar you are.”
Growing flushed with anger, hating what she’d heard, Arabella hissed, “What lies?”
Gregory was not one to back down. “I would make their lives ash, Arabella. Leave them scattered on the winds, broken. Do not take another sack of coin to the gypsy camp. Foolish charity will destroy you.”
“I did not go to the caravans out of charity.”
He was having none of her elusive phrasing or attempts to scramble away. “You invite more trouble than you prevent throwing coin at strangers.”
Trouble? What did he know of trouble? Green eyes snapped to his, weighted with horrific experiences a man could only imagine. “You want to know why I married Baron Iliffe? My father sold me to him.”
His expression softened. His grip reduced in strength and altered in implication. Dragging his attention over her face, brought wickedness to his eye—but it was not the playful kind.
Point made, a large hand caught hers to hold up what shined on her finger. “What is this, I wonder?”
Irritated by the change of subject, Arabella grumbled, “A gift Lilly foisted on me at the fair. I forgot it was there.”
He toyed with the silver band. “You are very difficult to please, but so effortless to taunt. How easily she pokes at you. And you let her do it.” Fingering the cheap bauble, Gregory pinched the band and slipped it off her finger, transferring it onto his pinky to inspect in the dawn. “I shall keep it.”
The dull metal looked far richer against the tanness of his hands, but that did not stop her from reaching for it. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
Making a fist so Arabella could not slip it off, Gregory asked, “What if I were to wear it in front of her?”
Arabella tried in vain to pry his fingers open. “I won’t be a party to your petty games. Give it back.”
“No.”
Shoving the chuckling man off, Arabella stood and kicked him roundly. “Keep it! And may the curse take you!”
Chapter 11
C rescent Barrows’s knocker sounded off the warped door, echoing with a dull bang as if the manor were full of only shadows and dust. The clatter of Magdala’s clogs loud on the flagstones soon put that image to rest. She opened the portal and invited the landlord inside.
“Where is your mistress?” Handing his hat and gloves to the woman, Gregory scowled.
Magdala answered with her usual severity. “My lady is out, Mr. Harrow.”
“Out?” he enunciated the word as if it were foreign. “And just where would out be?”
Magdala did not answer, heading toward the great hall for the gentleman to follow. “Would you care for a cup of tea while you warm yourself by the fire?”
“I have no interest in your tea.” He looked around the room for some sign of the missing Imp. “My interest solely lies in where Lady Iliffe is hiding.”
Magdala motioned to the room’s best chair and said not a word.
“Shall I guess then?” Mr. Harrow sat back with a suggestive smile.
Gregory had called after he had given her time to think over her temper and his threats, after he had washed and dressed, but found she had not returned from the moors. So the man had gone straight to the caravans. The Imp was not there either, and the Romani were already packing up to leave. There was no sign of her on the grasslands, no black smear of her horse running to and fro. Nothing for two days.
“Seeing as I called yesterday and made it clear I wished to see her today, imagine my surprise when I find that she is still not in... It leads me to believe that she is hiding from me, or that in regards to the Imp’s location, you. do. not. know.”
An agitated breath came from the woman. “It is her ladyship’s way.”
Closing his eyes as if being tried by the most obnoxious of children, he took a deep breath. “It is her way.” Black eyes flashed open and leveled venom at the housekeeper. “And just what way is that?”
If not for the tiny pinch of her skirt, it would have been almost impossible to see Magdala’s concealed disquiet. “When the mood has passed, she will grow hungry and return.”
“From where, pray?” He sucked his teeth before a wicked grin, spread his lips. “I have changed my mind. I will have some of your delightful tea. And you shall have the silent one make up a room for me—the southwest suite overlooking the courtyard. Furthermore, I prefer pork for dinner.” All was spoken with derision, Mr. Harrow lifting the nearest discarded book, and settling in like lord and master. “And since you seem to be unable to control your little mistress, when she gets back I will put her over my knee and beat some sense into her.”
Shoulders stiff, her face angry, Magdala left the room.
Supper came. Roast chicken was served to the gentleman sitting by the fire, the angry landlord still at vigil. He counted the servants. All were there: the brawny, dark one. Magdala. The silent, thin Mary. Even Hugh slunk around with his books and papers once chores were done. But they seemed unsettled, out of balance with no mistress in the house.
Expecting to hear Mamioro’s hooves on the gravel at any moment, all retired, except Mr. Harrow, the man pacing as if the sheer will he exercised would manifest Arabella.
It did not.
When the hour was well past midnight, he set the finished book aside and glanced to see the portrait of his mother. There was not a trace of that woman in him, not a single line or detail. He should know. When he was young he had stared at the picture often enough.
He hated that portrait.
His drudge up the stairs echoed off stone walls. He found his bedchamber, pulled off his boots, cravat, jacket, and waistcoat, and reclined upon the mattress. Having forgotten the noise of shrill wind tripping across the corner of the stone manor, having forgotten the never-ending rattle against the panes, he closed his eyes.
Just as sleep was about to take him, hooves clattered in the yard, the sound almost lost in the ruckus. Gregory shot out of bed, eyes at the window to see her dismount.
Feet bare of boots, he crept silently, knowing where to step to avoid the creak of old wood and how to slip quickly to evade the beatings of his uncle should he have been seen in his younger days.
Arabella entered the house as if nothing were amiss. Setting the fastenings of her cape free and tossing it onto the bench, she went straight to the fire of the great hall. The African servant showed himself at once, as if he too had known the second she had returned.
Tossing herself in the large leather chair, she ignored the gentle rebuke in Payne’s rumbling voice. “It is late.”
“Dear Payne.” Soft green eyes matched the look of apologetic admiration on her face.
Clenching his jaw in the dark, recognizing her familiarity with the man, Mr. Harrow watched a woman who hesitated to touch men, who hesitated to touch even himself, allow her servant to take her hand.
The burly African had more to say. “You worry Magdala when you do not return overnight, Arabella.”
“Everything I do worries Magdala.”
Payne spoke gently yet admonished like a father. “And just where have you been?”
“I went to the caravans and spoke with the Romani.” Smirking, Arabella tried to keep the mood light. “They offered me a handsome husband, though he was not eager to have a baroness for wife.”
There was more than concern in Payne’s question. “And you have been with this man f
or three nights?”
“No. I paid fifty pounds to Ion. In exchange, he is to go to London and act as spy. He will report on William Dalton’s doings.” Letting out a tired breath, Arabella confessed to where she’d been. “For the past two days I’ve been watching the roads. The caravans went north, Ion went south. I needed to see for myself before I might believe...”
Payne kneeled before her, lowering slowly. “You should have taken me with you, Arabella.”
“It is safe enough on Mr. Harrow’s land. No one would dare cross it out in the open as I do. I wasn’t seen.” She leaned closer, eyes wide as she pled for his understanding. “After all these years, maybe you were right, Payne.” Arabella held his hands tight. “There might be a way to survive.”
Payne broke in, offering the easy alternative to subterfuge in place of violence. “Dalton may be satisfied if your dower were to end. Marry the handsome gypsy. Return to your people.”
Arabella shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I could never.”
“Then marry an Englishman.” The man argued so earnestly, so lovingly, his lady smiled. “Have children, be happy.”
“You know that is impossible.” Arabella stood and began pacing. “I could not provide for you if I lost my widow’s dower from the Iliffe estate. Hugh could not go to school. And who would take Mary? Married, I would be completely in a man’s power again... Furthermore, once the public discovered where I came from, the things he did, it would ruin any family I tied myself to.”
“If a man loved you, he would fight for you.”
Struck, she looked at her friend and scowled deeply. “Do you really think one of them would ever love me if they knew how many noblemen had used me? If they heard even one depraved story? ...and we both know they’re all true.”
From the look on Payne’s face, the subtle stiffening of his brow, it was clear he was angry with her phrasing. “But they’re not true. I was there. Benjamin Iliffe was a monster.”
Nodding, Arabella went to her friend. “But you ended it. You pulled me out of the dark.”
