Page 15 of Wickedly Yours
Arabella smoothed the skirts of her dark gray traveling dress. It was slightly wrinkled, but clean and high-necked which would hide the worst of the bruises left from Corbett’s fingers. With her hair brushed and braided along with a change of clothes, it was easier to pretend the last few days of her life had only been a bad dream. Or a nightmare. She certainly felt very different from the woman who had agreed to marry Corbett out of revenge.
“I am.”
Malden stared back at her, a concerned look lingering in the depths of his hazel eyes. He looked large and protective, and Arabella had the urge to throw herself against the breadth of his chest and snuggle against him for safety.
She turned away, slightly embarrassed by her train of thought. It was natural, she told herself, to feel some sense of…connectionwith Malden.
The knife slid into Corbett’s flesh as if his neck were no more than a pad of butter.
She’d said those words to herself as she watched Corbett flail against the knife protruding from his neck.
Corbett is dead.
Hands shaking, she pulled on her gloves as Malden watched her, his brows knit together in concern. “I am anxious to return to London.” His attention to her well-being made her uncomfortable as no man, outside of her brother, had ever truly given a care for her welfare. Arabella reminded herself that she did not like Lord Malden, regardless of his aid.
“As am I.” Malden moved closer.
Her skin immediately prickled as he neared. His clothes were still in deplorable condition and he was in desperate need of a shave. The soap he’d used to wash smelled fresh and clean although it did little to wipe away the horse smell lingering about his broad shoulders. His eyes were hazel and tilted at the ends, something she’d never noticed before. Nor had she ever taken note of the high cheekbones and slash of his nose. He had the look of a Viking. Or at least, what she imagined a Viking to look like. The dark brown hair curling around his ears was the exact shade of fine French brandy.
Dear God.
Completely unsettled, she walked around Malden and headed outside to the courtyard. A large comfortable looking conveyance with matched bays awaited them.
A snort sounded behind her. “Lady Cupps-Foster insisted you’d be overcome with gratefulness should I come to your aid. I knew better.” He held out his arm to assist her into the coach, his lips twitching as if he held back a smile.
“You do not know me at all.” An odd pressure filled her chest. The same as she’d had when he’d rushed in to save her from Corbett. “My apologies if I appear ungrateful. I am most appreciative for your intervention, Lord Malden.” She allowed him to help her into the coach.
“Rowan,” he said softly. “And I will call you Arabella.”
No, that would not do. She wished to only think of him as Malden. “I do not think—"
“Arabella,” he drew her name out. “I have ridden all over England in the last few days looking for you. I’m tired. Filthy—"
“Yes.” She wrinkled her nose deliberately. “You smell of horse. Perhaps you should ride instead of joining me in the coach.”
His lips tightened just a bit, drawing her eyes to his sensual mouth. Something dark flashed in his eyes. “I’ve earned the right to call you Arabella, and Iwill. You’ve had a very traumatic experience, though since you are not weeping hysterically or fainting in my arms, I have to assume you are sufficiently well. I’m not sorry Corbett is dead. Had he not broken his neck I would have done it for him.” He climbed in behind her. “Soplease, stop hissing like a cat.” He took the seat across from her and crossed his arms. “And I’m bloody tired. If you don’t like the smell of me perhapsyoucould ride up top with the coachman.”
Before she could utter a scathing retort, he’d closed his eyes.
11
Arabellasnored.
Not loudly, mind you, but just enough to be annoying. He’d been in the throes of the most amazing dream. Arabella was dressed only in the red chemise, and her hair was down, spilling over both of them as he moved between her legs. He awoke aroused with his stomach grumbling.
Jesus.
Another unladylike rumble met his ears.
Staid.Cold. Those were words anyone would use to describe her. How odd Arabella would wear such a scandalous garment beneath her matronly attire. He’d always suspected she hid something behind her tightly braided hair and sour disposition. Not just the chemise. Rowan had glimpsed the curve of her breasts, full and high, beneath the ripped dress. When she’d stabbed Corbett, he’d witnessed the sleek, pale expanse of her back.
Now he couldn’t stop thinking of whatmoreher proper clothing hid.
Sexual desire was not the same for everyone. What attracted one person might leave another cold. Rowan appreciated passion. A challenging intellect wrapped around a sensuous nature.Red underthings.
He looked at Arabella, sleeping rather peacefully, blissfully unaware that every fiber of his being told him to claim her like spoils after a war.
Wickedness.
