“We would be honored, your ladyship.”
He said it with such honest welcome that she wondered if he was as much of a fool as Gregory claimed.
Seeking to lighten the mood, she blended teasing with sincere warning. “Then let me do you a friendly turn and warn you against wandering these moors again. Mr. Harrow is a right devil when he finds a soul on his lands. Besides,” signaling for Mamioro to turn, Arabella trotted off, grateful Gregory had not seen the man and would never know of the visit, “I have already found and chased away all the snipe.”
Edmund did not give chase. He was wise enough to know his point had been made and that Arabella required time to consider.
She was grateful for that, for the chance to wander. Yet when Mamioro was given freedom to go where he pleased, every minute took her nearer to Harrow’s homestead.
Seated atop her horse, she watched his dwelling, a loving hand stroking a pitch mane. The wind grew colder, picking up in little bursts that made the autumn grass lay flat toward the earth. She noticed little of her discomfort, too keen on the scent of wood smoke mixed in the mist—a summoning finger divulging a warm fire was near should she wish to take the chill from her bones.
Inside that dwelling was a man. The weight of his eyes were upon her—black eyes she could not see, only feel—a monster rumbling at the door, waiting for her to scratch at the wood and seek entry to its den. Running the rope of her hair through her fist, Arabella thought to leave, turning her head in the direction of her home.
Trapped, she did not know which way she wanted to go.
There were scraps of memory—his face hovering over hers when he took her from her horse, the way Gregory hushed her and warmed her body.
Shy of seeing him, lost, again Arabella eyes were drawn toward Gregory’s door.
He stood upon the threshold as if materialized from thin air.
He watched her. For a man with no smile on his face, his very bearing one of menace, there was something mesmerizing in the very look of him. There always had been.
Arabella knew he wanted her to come to him, had shown himself for that very reason. With the gentlest of nudges, Mamioro followed command, treading slowly up the path that led to his door. Once the beast cleared the gate, Gregory stepped forward to fetch her, his hands about her waist to draw the woman down.
As she slid from her horse, a line formed between his brows. “Why did you hesitate on the moor?”
“I am unsure.” And she was. She was utterly unsure what she was even doing there.
“Come inside.” He let his fingers run down the strange decoration of her thick braid while repeating the offer. “You are welcome here, wicked Imp.”
The offer was tempting, but when she was more intent to look upon him than answer, he wrapped her arm around hi
s elbow and urged her toward his home.
The only prior time she had stepped inside his dwelling, Arabella had barged in with such a temper that little attention was paid. Now her eyes had time to linger. It was a modest homestead for a man of his wealth and property—dim, full of richly stained wood, cave-like, and very warm. Two of his mongrels were lying on the parlor rug, shooed by their master the moment his eyes set upon them.
Arabella dug in her heels. “Mamioro must be stabled before he kills another of your dogs.”
Gregory snarled as if the very thought of her budging infuriated him. “No, you will stay here.” With a softer tone, a forced smile came to his lips. “You are cold and pale, rest by my fire.”
She did. Sinking back into a comfortable chair—the guest chair and not the one she had rudely claimed on her first visit—mistrustful down to her core.
Why such a feeling was upon her she did not know. He’d given no outright cause for concern, Gregory Harrow was even acting the gentleman... being oddly considerate.
When the man placed a quilt upon her lap, Arabella’s secret suspicion became all out doubt on her face. “What is wrong with you?”
He merely sat back in his chair and offered a smirk, half pleased and fully arrogant. “Come, my love.” The smirk grew devilish. “Shall I have the old woman bring tea?”
Frowning, Arabella pouted at the fire. “Why do I feel I am being punished?”
An extended purr came from his throat, Gregory too damned pleased with himself. The pleasure was followed with a malicious leer, one that grew under glittering black eyes. He raised his voice, shouting for the housekeeper to bring tea for himself and his guest. When finished barking orders, he set his elbows on the armrests, steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them.
Crooning, drinking her in, he asked, “Tell me, Arabella, why do you feel like you are being punished? Am I not acting obliging?”
She scowled deeper. “Very obliging.”
“I found you in the storm.” He pointed to his chest, speaking as if reciting a tale of heroic action. “I carried you home, desired to stay at your bedside. I would have, no matter the chattering of your renegades, but Mary cast me out.”