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.”