Stricken, Magdala demanded he go after her.
There was nothing he could do. “I can’t catch her. Best let her run until she tires.”
* * *
That night, icy, driving rain came to Crescent Barrows, but their lady did not return.
In desperation Magdala went to Mr. Harrow.
The sweep of pejorative eyes was nothing to the venom in his voice when he found her at his door. “Well, if it is not the Imp’s hen. Come inside, Mrs. Magdala.” Gesturing at a chair in his parlor, he gave a snide smile. “Before my housekeeper comes tottering in with tea to eavesdrop, why don’t you tell me the ridiculous reason that must exist for you to come here and disturb my peace.”
“I know you are dallying with her.” Magdala spoke with uncustomary passion.
With a full, evil smirk, Mr. Harrow batted his eyelashes.
Second guessing herself, Magdala shook her head and prepared to stand. “I should not have come here.”
Assertion rang off the small room’s wall. Gregory grew mean. “Sit. Down.”
Whatever game he had been playing was over, his expression now nothing but sinister.
Magdala obeyed, confessing, “Lady Iliffe ran off hours ago.”
Parroting her words from a month ago, he mocked, “It is her way.”
“No.” Outright worry lined Magdala’s face. “This is different. She is upset, unwell...”
Harrow growled, leaning toward her. “You will tell me why. You will tell me everything.”
“I cannot,” she sniffed, “and even if I could, there is no time. It is dark, raining, and cold... the baroness is exposed. She did not even take a cloak. Where does she go?”
Mr. Harrow’s elderly kitchen maid entered with the tea just as Gregory stood. Pushing past the laboring maid, he left the room, his coat flaring behind him. The old women could keep one another company, and both of them could burn for all he cared.
Out in the rain, he crossed to the stables, climbing atop his piebald gelding. Amidst the rain soaked wilderness, with all the mud, it was impossible to see a trace of hoof prints. Yelling out for her and hearing nothing but wind in response, he drove forward.
Cautious of sinkholes, his horse picked a path toward their rocky outcrop. By the light of his single lantern, the inky shine of Mamioro’s coat was invisible, but the sodden flap of the lady’s frock glimmered like a pale beacon.
Arabella sat astride the demon horse, her face pressed to the monster’s neck where she sobbed so grievously her voice had been lost.
Feverish and exhausted, she could hardly resist when arms came around her and pulled her from her beast. Still, she screamed as loud as a sore throat would allow. “No! I want to stay here. Leave me be!”
Smoothing back saturated tendrils of blood-red hair stuck to her forehead, Gregory covered her shivering body with his great coat. Breathing into her hair, warming her arms with rapid rubs of his hands he said. “You foolish, stupid mess of a girl, do not weep so.”
But she did not stop, and still she tried to reach out for her horse.
Limp and soaked through, she hung like a rag, too lost in delirium to fight. He dragged her back to Crescent Barrows, her demon horse following behind, nickering often in complaint and nipping at Gregory’s arm. He kicked at the beast, racing over slippery grasses until the light of the hated stone warren broke through the storm. With Hugh looking on in worry, and Mary standing dumbly to the side, Gregory rushed Arabella, Baroness of Iliffe toward the fire.
Magdala took charge. “Hugh, ride for the doctor. Mary, boil water.”
The boy fled. Mary moved toward the kitchens.
Mr. Harrow refused to let her go when the dark skinned Payne reached for his mistress. He did not win the fight, not after the hard ride with a struggling captive, not after the way Payne growled, “You are wet. You cannot warm her.”
The brawny servant disappeared upstairs with the woman in his arms.
When Gregory went to follow, Magdala gripped the sodden man’s arm. “You cannot be here when the doctor arrives. Return to your home. Lingering will cause gossip. The neighborhood will talk.”
Furious, Gregory rounded on the woman. “What care I if they talk?”