Page 56 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
Would serve Mother bloody well if I disappeared like Morwick’s father out here.
Climbing up one large rock Petra turned in a circle, reassured somewhat to see Brushbriar in the distance, though she had no intention of returning anytime soon.
The boulder was at the edge of an outcropping with a wonderful view of the surrounding woods and hills. Taking a deep breath, Petra inhaled the scent of the moors and told herself to remain calm. Her brief rebellion had come to an abrupt halt. The upper hand had always belonged to her mother. Father may have had good intentions, but he always deferred to Mother.
The betrothal is signed. My dowry sits in Simon’s bank. No wonder he’d had no inclination to spend time with her or continue to court her. There was no need to. She already belonged to him, like one of his stupid spaniels. What a fool she was. Priding herself on changing and becoming more assertive. Defying her mother. In the end, she was still the dressmaker’s dummy, ready to be hoisted about at Mother’s whim, as she had for her entire life. Her fingers flew to her throat, the suffocating feeling so real Petra nearly choked.
Brendan.
For a moment it hurt to breathe.
Petra put her head in her hands and looked out across the moors, wondering just what the bloody hell she should do.
I can’t marry Simon.
Unfortunately, unless she did something scandalous or Simon changed his mind, there was little Petra could do to change her impending marriage. She absolutely refused to go to Brendan for help, especially since he’d accused her once before of being a damsel in distress to attract his attention. Besides, despite what happened between them last night, Brendan had a very skewed opinion of what loving someone did to a person. He’d told her no different last night, only trying to make her understand. Should she go to her brother for help? If nothing else, Arabella would take great pleasure in defying her mother. Besides, Arabella owed Petra a favor. Her anxiety eased somewhat. She just had to get to London first.
Her stomach grumbled. Loudly. How long had she been here? Surely she’d missed the noon meal, and Petra now regretted not taking a scone or piece of toast from her mother’s breakfast tray before storming out. She was hungry. Starving, actually, recalling she’d left the ballroom before the buffet had been served.
Standing up, she stretched, hearing the popping of her neck and spine. When she hopped off the boulder a sharp tearing sound met her ears.
“Dear God.” She tugged to free her skirt which had managed to wedge itself into a tiny crack in the rock. “I have ruined half my wardrobe on this journey. Nearly every dress I own has a tear in the skirt.” Petra took a deep breath as the panic returned. What was she going to do? Deflated, she flopped back on the boulder, her appetite gone.
“You bastard.” A male grunt followed the words. “I’ve got hold of you now.”
Petra turned her head in both directions but saw no one. The moors before her were empty. Her distress was making her hear things. She stood again and wiped her hands against her skirts, resolving to go back to Brushbriar.
“Blasted bitch.”
Petra jumped at the curse, assuming for a moment it was directed at her. She stepped off the boulder. The echo of pebbles and rock being dislodged met her ears along with the sound of heavy breathing.
Could an animal be trapped somewhere nearby?
Yes, of course. The area is known for cursing goats.
Another grunt. “Damn you.” More rock pinging about.
Petra followed the sounds, stepping cautiously until she found herself at the edge of a narrow crevice which split through the field of gritstone.
“Bloody, fuc—”
“Morwick?” She interrupted his disparagement of the crevice and peered over the edge. “Are you down there?”
A large hand appeared just below her feet, and Petra stepped back. The hand was followed by another, then a mass of unruly ebony hair and broad shoulders.
Bare,completely shirtless shoulders.
Petra’s heart fluttered madly and it was not from absolutecertaintyMorwick wasn’t padding his coats.
Powerful muscles, glistening with sweat, twisted and bunched, struggling to lift Brendan’s weight. His forearms strained with effort, fingers digging into the earth.
Good Lord. Petra paced back and forth. Should she help him? Make a rope out of…she looked down at her torn dress…skirts? “Should I—”
Another loud grunt interrupted her question, followed by a muttered curse that made her ears pink before Morwick pulled himself up and over the side of the crevice. He was wearing only a worn pair of overly tight leather breeches and a scuffed pair of boots. His battered rucksack hanging from one shoulder. As he crawled over the top, he released the pack and tossed it in Petra’s direction before flopping over on his back, eyes closed.
Petra had never really seen amanwithout a shirt. Her brother once, but that had been when she was little more than a child. Besides, brothers didn’t count. Her gaze ran over the hard planes of his torso, glistening with moisture, the flat stomach and the crease of his hipbones. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trickling down to his navel. Muscles rippled up and down with each breath he took.
A slow burn pulsed beneath Petra’s skin, similar to her feelings of the night before. He was beautiful, a large, rather savage animal sprawled at her feet. She had the urge to kneel and press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. Touch the hair trailing down to his navel. Petra couldn’t look away.
