4

Warmth.

Perfect, delicious warmth.

Arabella woke slowly. She felt like she'd curled up in a very pleasant corner of a garden, late on a sunny afternoon.

As she opened her eyes, she realized she was lying on a plush rug before a crackling fire. Wrapped in the softest, most heavenly blankets.

She was warm, blissfully warm.

Where was she? As she sat up, the blanket fell away, revealing her bare legs. She stared at them, puzzled. Why was she wearing only a shirt—a man's shirt?

A creeping numbness that she recognized as a form of panic washed over Arabella as she attempted to recall what had happened. She'd gotten lost in a storm, and then she fell, and then ... hands, a knife, an impatient voice . . . I have no plan to ravish anyone this evening . . . .

"You were chilled to the marrow. The only dry clothes available were mine. The job was done as quickly as could be managed."

She knew that level, deliberate voice. Her heart caught in her throat.

She turned, noting that she found herself in a cozy, well-appointed one-room cabin, with a bed in one corner, overflowing bookshelf, and a writing desk near a settee and well-worn chairs.

In one of the chairs sat the Beast of Blackflint.

He held an open book in his lap, a glass of port balanced on one knee. Wearing a shirt like the one she wore, half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up. Light breeches. His feet were bare.

For a long, suspended moment, she simply looked at him. Registering his calm expression. Relaxed posture. His watchfulness.

Registering that she'd been found by the man she'd been trying to escape.

A man rumored capable of virtually anything.

"I assure you," he said, quieter, reading her expression. "Lingering over a shivering, barely-conscious woman is not to my taste. You have not been misused in any way." Now, something crossed over his face, fleetingly. "Save the dangers to which you subjected yourself. I am not optimistic that you'd have lasted the night if I hadn't found you when I did."

The buzz of anxiety had receded enough that Arabella was able to take stock of herself. There were no marks upon her. No part of her felt handled or disturbed. In fact, her body remained languid, pleased by the warmth of the fire. He must have gotten a look at her unclothed body, at least a bit at a time, during the proceedings, and that thought was exceedingly mortifying. But his tone made it clear that it he'd been profoundly unhappy to find himself in so unseemly a position with her.

It seemed the man was telling the truth. That she had been safe.

Up until now, at any rate.

The duke seemed in no rush to say anything further. Arabella found that sitting here, regarding the man as he regarded her, she was, for the first time, able to see what the man actually looked like. That eyepatch, that scar had drawn all her fascination—and she'd only really seen him from afar in her younger days. Now she could appreciate the stark cheekbones, the elegant eyebrows in their permanent angle of mild disdain, the hint of a divot in the center of his chin. He was actually quite handsome, she realized with a shock.

She realized he was waiting for her to speak.

What the devil did one say to one's savior, who also happened to be the man from whom one had been fleeing?

"Good evening, Your Grace," she managed, and the words sounded at once surreal and very stupid.

"Are you well?" he asked, neutrally.

She nodded. "I think so. And I thank you," she added quickly.

He raised an eyebrow. "For what? I destroyed your plans."

She did not know what to say. He was so quiet, so still. But she could discern something roiling underneath. He must be furious. Of course he was furious.

"I let our guests know that the excitement of the evening had caused your head to ache, and conveyed your regrets for withdrawing before dessert was served. They send their ardent wishes for your speedy recovery."

"Thank you," she said again, though it was ridiculous to say it.

"Your father was aware that you'd . . . wandered off. He was, of course, deeply distressed over it, as well as eager to maintain discretion. I reassured him that locating you, sheltering you during the storm, and returning you safely would be a simple enough task. As I told him, I know every inch of these lands, by day and by dark. So there was never a real chance of you slipping through."

Never a real chance. She felt a sharp pang of regret. Her escape attempt had been so futile all along.

She realized that he was waiting for her to respond. Repeating the words thank you seemed farcical. "I ... I don't know what to say."

"You were running away."

What could she do but nod? There was no other plausible excuse, at least not one she could conjure in this moment, for disappearing into the night with a bag of clothing and every shilling she had.

"Running from me."

Should she apologize? Would that only make it worse?

When she did not reply, he rose. And briskly crossed the room to her.

He stood over her. Bare feet very near her own. He loomed, staring down at her with a detachment that felt dangerous.

And then, abruptly, he knelt beside her. And looked her in the eye. "Miss Denton." His voice was sharp now. She swallowed. Nodded. "Did you run because you fear me?"

She mutely shook her head.

He tilted his head. "I don't believe you."

"I am afraid of you," she admitted. "Everyone is afraid of you. But that is not why I ran."

He leaned back on his heels. "Your lover, then?" He anticipated her startled response with a shrug. "Who is it, by the way? Is it the man fisting his own cock, or the one with his head buried between some other chit's legs?"

Arabella heard herself gasp—in shock of the words, and horror of what they meant. What he must have found.

"Playing the innocent would waste your time." He nodded to the floor near his seat, and there she saw the evidence she knew she would see. Her sketchbook.

Oh God, she thought. I doomed myself the day I decided not to burn that book.

He took her chin in his hand, between thumb and forefinger, not gently. He turned her head to his, and held it there. Now, she could do nothing but meet his deep green gaze, let it penetrate straight to the core of her.

What is under that eyepatch? S he wondered in a rush of hysterical emotion that somehow made her want to laugh. She suppressed it, exhaled sharply to get a hold of herself.

"I do not appreciate being lied to," he said softly.

"I haven't—"

"You presented yourself as a suitable bride. Well-mannered. A virgin. You had me believe you were shy." He shook his head . "Do you know what I was thinking, sitting next to you at dinner, watching your pale little hand fuss with your fork, your big, worried eyes steal looks at me?"

She shook her head, tried to pull away from his hand.

He did not let go. "I was thinking, ‘I will need to be so gentle with this skittish little slip.' I was imagining our wedding night, how careful I would have to be, not to frighten you, or hurt you."

"Your Grace, I am a—"

"Oh, I know what you are, and how you like to be treated."

And before she could reply, protest, anything, he moved toward her. To kiss her, she realized.

She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks, pounding in her ears. Her heart was a panicked sparrow.

But he stopped. His mouth not three inches from hers.

He held there. His breathing was angry. The fingers holding her chin were angry. The kiss he'd been an instant from delivering was obviously meant to be cruel.

"I have never," he breathed, fury threaded through every deceptively soft syllable, "kissed a woman without very clear invitation. And I won't be provoked to it now." He moved a fraction closer. "But I trust. You receive. My meaning."

She did. She wanted to shove him away. She wanted to slap him across the face.

But somehow, all her attention, all the jangled energy of her body, felt compelled to his mouth. Against her better judgment, her choice, her will , she could attend to nothing but the exquisite awareness that their mouths were so close she could feel the heat of his lips. Feel every subtle movement of his breath.

All the fine hairs rose on the back of her neck, on her arms. The surge she'd felt—she'd have called it fear—seemed to be spreading through her body. And pooling in all her limbs.

The duke was feeling something too, she could see. His brow furrowed. His mouth dipped yet closer—and then he pulled back an inch, scowling, as though he could not quite understand what was happening.

He let go of her chin. But did not move away. He was waiting for her to do so.

She didn't. Couldn't. Felt as held into place as she had when his hand was on her.

His eye was darting over her features, now. Trying to figure out why she hadn't moved.

His lips hovered, breath held. He was giving her one last chance.

She did not take it.

And then he pressed his mouth to hers.

She heard her breath catch as his mouth parted over hers, his tongue sliding over the seam, insisting, opening her lips, slipping inside. Shock pulsed through her. This invasion, entirely new. His tongue . Moving into her like she was a thing he owned.

He loathes you. He means to punish you. Push him away. She put her hands on his shoulders, gripped the hard muscle.

But when his tongue glided over hers—softer than she expected—a shiver ran over her, stopping her hands.

All at once, she wanted to lean in. Match his brutality with her own. Her pulse pounded with the need of it, like this kiss was air, food. She'd almost died in the cold tonight, and this was the very opposite, was life, was heat. To her dismay, even the fury of it felt energizing, medicinal.

He's not wrong about me. I am wanton at heart, regardless of my maidenhood.

She hated herself for it. For wanting to run her hands along his arms, to discover more. He had caught her. He would force her to marry and throw her in a bucolic prison for the rest of her life. What in blazes is wrong with you, Arabella?

When Nick kissed Arabella, he was surprised to feel the fury abruptly draining from him. Replaced by a tide of pure, aching want .

Her touch on his shoulders, beginning to move, to feel him, stirred electricity in his blood.

The tip of her tongue tentatively met his, and he groaned. He felt the blood rush into his cock.

And now the kiss was not an accusation. Was not rage or betrayal.

It was need. It was two mouths discovering that they speak the same language. Two bodies awakening and clamoring to merge.

His hand moved into her hair, unbound and curly and warm from the fire. He only knew he needed to feel more of her. His other hand found her waist in his linen shirt, slid up to the high curve of her small breast, cupping it in his hand, his thumb finding her nipple, brushing over it, once, twice, feeling it harden and respond. She made a sound of surprise that gave way to something breathless.

Through the fabric, he pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger—and she hissed, and leaned into him. As if her hands had been emboldened by his, she felt along his arms, across his chest, discovering him, curious, a little tentative.

It was the tentativeness—and the sound she'd made when he'd slid his tongue into her mouth, and the one she made when he took her breast in his hand. Her body stiffening ... and then, slowly, melting. Shock and wonder at once.

He could not shake the uneasy feeling that this was new to her.

He broke the kiss abruptly.

She sat back, stunned.

He watched her try to recover composure. Watched her lift her fingers unconsciously to her now-swollen lips, touching them with dazed curiosity.

In that moment, she looked very much like the innocent he'd imagined her to be.

Even more so when she met his gaze, her eyes wide, glistening.

And so he wasn't entirely able to dismiss it when she said in an unsteady voice, "As I was trying to say, Your Grace. I am a virgin." Her eyes drifted to the sketchbook on the floor. "Perhaps you will allow me to explain."