Magdala obeyed, leaving Arabella in the hands of the brute who poked and prodded as he picked at the black tip of a burrowed spike.
“Devil's Thorn carries its name for a reason. You will make yourself ill if you do not properly clean these wounds.” Condescension seemed to be his specialty in tone and in look. “For a wild Imp who recklessly runs about the moors, you are foolish for not learning what to avoid... grabbing at thorns with your bare hands like a simpleton.”
“Do not speak to me as if I were a child.” Arabella muttered, working to tug her arm free. “A few stinging scrapes are nothing.”
He ignored her, gripping her hand with the strength she lacked. “You are acting like one... hiding in your house, behaving like a she-wolf, and abusing the man who is trying to assist you.”
“I do not need your help!”
With his lips drawn back, Harrow leaned right up in her face and snarled, “Do you not see that several thorns have broken off under your skin? Hold still or they will be driven deeper!”
He roughly yanked her arm straight, tugging up the drooping sleeve of her chemise until the old fabric tore. Before Arabella might begin to claw, screech, and bite, she saw he was right. Up and down her arm deeper cuts sluggishly bled... and they stung. Now that they had her attention, they stung horribly.
Magdala returned, kneeling at his side to dip a fresh strip of linen in steaming water while the man picked protruding edges of poisonous matter from her lady's arm. “Relax, my lady. The gentleman is only trying to help you.”
“Gentleman? Magdala, do not absolve his bad temper by believing it is the product of my tongue...” Arabella curled a lip at her would be doctor. “Perhaps you should enlighten her to the truth, Mr. Harrow.”
He had the gall to look smug as he dug out a particularly embedded needle-sharp barb. “Mrs. Magdala, my temperament is nefarious. It is also true that when your lady speaks I long to wrap my hands around her throat. She would do well to stay silent.”
Arabella burst out laughing, causing him to cluck when her arm moved and he lost the final thorn. “I do believe you've lost your only supporter in this household, Mr. Harrow. Now she will see past your handsome face and false manners.”
He looked up, black eyes pools of spilled ink. But there was something there behind his gaze, something troubling. Arabella grew uncomfortable. She remained motionless, her arm in his grip, silent as Magdala swabbed the last of the blood before vinegar was splashed on her skin to sanitize the open wounds.
Caught in those pitch eyes, Arabella gave no hiss of pain. The sting was gone.
“Is that not better?” a voice rich and deep asked.
Looking down at the trailing scratches, Arabella let out a hum.
“Are you not going to thank me?”
At the sound of his conceit, she was herself again. “For your cleverness in offering boiled water and vinegar to clean simple wounds, and for your determination to pick out little bits of bracken personally, I will say... it is your own fault this happened. Had you prepared the property as a respectable landlord should, I would not have been tangling with thorny vines. Had you done your duty, all would be well.” Pink lips curved into a beautiful smile, Arabella asking in a mock gentle voice, “There, was that not prettily said?”
Leaning back on his heels, Mr. Harrow chuckled. “Very prettily said. And though you are wild, unkempt, and dressed like a beggar, I find you handsome as well, silver-tongued Imp.”
A furious blush came to her cheeks. “Take your payment and go.”
The man rose to his feet, Arabella followed suit, stalking toward the stairs without a cursory goodbye.
When the sounds of her steps echoed above, black eyes peered down at the well-groomed housekeeper gathering spoiled linen, noting that the servant's dress was of finer stuff than the baroness’s. With a parody of a smile he asked, “Will she come down before nightfall, pray?”
Magdala, her air righteous and stiff, explained, “Though I appreciate your help tending my ladyship, it would be best if you leave her in peace to recover.”
He sneered again, indifferent in hiding his ill humor. “Now that the thorns have been removed, her wounds will only sting. She will be fine by morning.”
The way the woman looked at him—as if he were the stupidest man she had ever looked upon—made his eyes narrow.
Unsmiling, the thin-lipped woman ignored his scrutiny, stood tall, and spoke in a heavy accent. “Would you care for more wine before you make your way, sir?”
Chapter 5
S poradic summer storms rolled over the moors. They lingered, sequestering Crescent Barrows above the fog soaked heath below. Despite the damp it was warm—the oozing warmth of almost too thick air. Arabella found herself nothing but grateful for the uncomfortable weather. Rain delivered reprieve from potential neighborhood visitors and what must have grown to be fantastic gossip about the shrieking baroness who shoved servants and berated gentlemen.
There had been no callers, not even Mr. Harrow dropping by to plague her. But she should have known better.
An invasion began before the weather cleared. Uninvited workers arrived and began to rip the devil's thorn from her courtyard. The task of tidying the overgrowth took two days. Two days where Arabella was trapped inside, unable to ride out on Mamioro without being seen.
Confinement left long hours by the fire dedicated to brooding. Eventually pensive deliberation turned to anger.