As he crossed to Arabella, she let the quilt fall from her shoulders. Marcus halted in his tracks, his breath caught in his throat. Firelight betrayed her beauty through the filmy cambric of her chemise, while her hair spilled down in a glorious, rippling mane of flame.

When he moved to stand before her, she gave a soft laugh.

“What is so amusing?” he asked.

“This. Our pretense of being husband and wife.” She reached up to touch his lips with her fingertips. “Isn’t this what you have wanted all along, Marcus? To be able to call me your wife?”

It was exactly what he wanted. As he stared down at her, his anger and frustration eased away, to be replaced by desire and fierce tenderness. He was still a little stunned by the realization that he loved Arabella. But he knew now that it wasn’t a passing fancy or a reckless obsession.

This feeling was deeper, more profound. Arabella was the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his days. He felt a burning need for her deep inside him. A heat and hunger that craved to be sated…

Holding her gaze, Marcus stepped even closer. He intended to brand her with his possession. To make her accept that she belonged to him. To make her feel the same primal need he felt.

With that silent vow, he reached for Arabella, divesting her of her chemise and drawing her naked into his arms. For a long moment he simply held her against him, the chill of their bodies mingling, the heat of their gazes melding.

He could win her body, he had little doubt; it was her heart he wanted now.

His own heart beginning to pound, Marcus lowered his mouth to kiss her gently, a sweet mating of skin, of breath, that gave little sign of the savage desire that raged through him. Yet as his lips met hers, a new emotion assailed him.

He had never experienced this particular novelty before, making love to the woman he loved. And it was a remarkable feeling.

Keeping their mouths fused, Marcus drew her to the bed and fell back upon the sheets, pulling her with him.

Arabella willingly sank into his embrace, her body fitting itself to his magnificent form as if she were made for him. Aching with need, she returned Marcus’s kiss measure for measure, her fingers clutching in his hair as she blindly sought the rapture he promised.

Making love to him again was unquestionably a mistake, yet she couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of being with him one last time. She wanted him with a longing that was almost frightening.

When the need grew too intense to bear, he took control back, rolling over her and pinning her arms above her head as he spread her thighs with his own. She opened eagerly to him as he thrust deep inside her.

Her heart pounding, she gazed up at him in the golden firelight, at his handsome face that had grown dark with desire. “I have no willpower when I am with you,” Arabella whispered hoarsely.

“A damn good thing,” he rasped, satisfied, “since I have none with you either.”

He began to move then, vital and strong, filling her with his passion, with his hunger. In only moments she was sobbing…and then the climax came, as beautiful and as shattering as any of their lovemaking that had gone before. She cried out with ecstasy as she convulsed around him, while Marcus shuddered and groaned with the same overwhelming force.

Afterward, Arabella lay panting beneath him, unable to move. She wanted him to stay inside her like this forever, wanted this bliss to last. Marcus filled the emptiness inside her, made her feel complete.

At length, though, he eased onto his side and drew her backto in the curve of his body. His arms came possessively around her from behind and held her tenderly as he twined his legs with hers. Arabella could feel the powerful beat of his heart at her back, while her own heart thudded with the chaotic emotions churning inside her.

She was frightened to realize how right it felt to be with Marcus. Arabella shut her eyes. She wanted him far too much, wanted to be with him far too much. It was deplorable, how glad she had been to see him. It was even more deplorable that she almost regretted their wager was nearly over.

She pulled a sharp breath and shivered.

“Are you cold?” Marcus’s husky voice broke the silence between them.

“No…not any longer.”

He was stroking her bare arm, his touch soothing and comforting now rather than arousing. His protective tenderness was even more dangerous than his passion, she realized, for it made her acknowledge the tenderness that tugged at her own heart.

She urgently needed to find Sybil, Arabella knew. There was no way she could hold out against Marcus if she had to travel alone with him all the way to Scotland, for continuing this tender intimacy would leave her utterly defenseless and more vulnerable than ever.


As Arabella had hoped, they set out in the Freemantle coach at first light the next morning, in pursuit of the elopers. Speed was of the essence, since Marcus believed Sybil and Onslow had likely been far enough ahead yesterday to have missed the worst of the storm.

Much to Arabella’s frustration, though, her coachman could only achieve a snail’s pace. After the downpour, the roads were a morass of mud, and even Winifred’s well-sprung coach had difficulty keeping purchase as it rattled and splashed and bucked over innumerable ruts and potholes. The day was chill and gray, adding to Arabella’s anxious mood.

She also felt a little stab of alarm when shortly after leaving the inn, Marcus drew a brace of pistols from his saddlebags to check the priming.

“Marcus,” she said uneasily, “you don’t mean to challenge Onslow to a duel, do you?” Her father had been killed in a duel, and she shuddered to think of resorting to such violence.

“No, I won’t call him out,” Marcus returned wryly. “A duel would draw too much attention to the situation. We need to prevent a scandal, not cause one.”

A grimace claimed Arabella’s features. “Yes, exactly.”

“I don’t intend to use these, but I want to be prepared for any eventuality.”

She clung to the strap as the coach bounced over another rut. “Good. I don’t want to even consider shooting him. However, if we are forced to make Onslow see reason, I admit I would be more than happy for you to use your fists.”

Marcus sent her an amused glance. “Out for blood, are we?”

“Quite,” she muttered.

“I expected you to be more enraged by that troublesome Newstead chit. She’s likely the instigator of the elopement, wouldn’t you say?”

Arabella sighed. “That is highly possible. Sybil is outrageously spoiled and thoughtless. But I don’t consider her irredeemable. I will have to bring her back safe and sound, and with no one the wiser as to her elopement. Particularly her papa.”

“We will find them eventually,” Marcus reassured her.

“I only hope it is in time,” Arabella said fervently, trying to stem her anxiety.

Miraculously, her hope was answered an hour later when they came across a closed carriage on the side of the road, canted at an unnatural angle from having lost a wheel. Praying the vehicle belonged to Onslow, Arabella held her breath while Marcus investigated. There were no signs of horses or coachman or passengers, although the boot held a valise containing three lace handkerchief’s bearing Sybil’s initials.

Arabella didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed.

“They might have walked to the next posting inn,” Marcus suggested, “in search of a wainwright to repair the wheel.”

She shook her head. “I cannot see Sybil traipsing along the road any distance. She likely would have waited here in the carriage for the servants to handle the problem.”

“If so, she would have been caught in the storm…” Marcus glanced around, searching the countryside. “There.” Beyond a grassy field stood the ruins of an old hay barn with the roof half missing. “They might have taken shelter in that abandoned barn.”

Arabella sent him an admiring glance as he retrieved his pistols from the coach, knowing she never would have thought to look in a wayside barn for the elopers. Nor had she thought to come armed. She was indeed very grateful to have Marcus along.

He handed one pistol to her coachman and carried the other himself as he took Arabella’s arm to help her negotiate the uneven, slippery ground. With the grooms following, he led the way across the field toward the crumbling barn.

They were still some dozen yards away when Arabella heard voices raised in argument. A surge of relief washed through her as she recognized Sybil’s plaintive utterances. Gesturing for her coachman and grooms to wait, Arabella glanced up at Marcus. “Let me speak to her first, please?”

“Very well,” he agreed, although he remained close behind her and kept his pistol at the ready.

She quickened her pace but came to a halt when she reached the large barn door that hung drunkenly on its hinges.

In the gloomy interior, she could see Onslow pacing the floor impatiently. Sybil was nowhere in sight, but her shrill voice floated over the edge of the loft above, declaring both her presence and her unhappiness as she carried on about what a cruel man Mr. Onslow was.

Onslow gave a visible start when he spied Arabella, but to her surprise, an unmistakable look of relief swept over his face. He came up short, however, when he saw Marcus standing directly behind her, holding a pistol.

His face paled, but then he squared his shoulders and strode determinedly forward. “Miss Loring,” he said fervently, “you cannot know how grateful I am to see you.”

At his greeting, Sybil’s tirade stopped abruptly; a heartbeat later, she peered over the loft’s edge, searching the gray gloom below. “Oh, Miss Loring! Thank heavens you have come to rescue me. That villain abducted me!”