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What a nuisance. Every other day, Sculthorpe had occupied himself with shooting or fishing, yet on this sunny, windy afternoon—ideal weather for a man to be outside killing things—he had declared his intention to haunt the house.
So Arabella had fabricated an errand and stepped outside, and kept on stepping until she ended up here.
The abbey ruins looked philosophical in the autumn light, the remaining arches and ivy-clad walls indifferent to time. Odd how some walls stood for centuries, while others crumbled and fell. She had always admired the persistence of Longhope Abbey, which had stood so long it gave the parish its name.You’ll not get rid ofme, it said.
She stripped off her gloves and trailed her fingers over the stone. She and Oliver used to play here, clambering over the rocks and daring each other to visit the crypt. And picking blackberries, of course, grinning at each other with purple mouths.
One autumn, the year after they lost Oliver, the visiting children had competed to see who could pick the most. Arabella had won, but at a cost: stained fingers, messy hair, torn dress. Mama had sent her to tidy herself, sternly reminding her she was a lady, saying Papa must not see her like that. But Papa had seen her. His lip had curled with disgust, as he looked her over and said, “Call yourself my daughter. Unnatural child. What a disgrace.”
So she had perfected the art of picking blackberries without getting snagged or scratched or stained. She did not harvest very many, but moderation was prized in a lady, whereas winning was not.
And here was a blackberry bush that still held fruit, plump, purple, and glossy in the sun. They would all have to be picked by Michaelmas. According to lore, that was the day the Archangel Michael had cast Lucifer from heaven, and Lucifer landed on a thorny blackberry bush, spat on it, and cursed.
Identifying a suitable berry—one not quite ripe, to spare her the messy juice—Arabella snaked her hand through the brambles and tugged off the fruit. Closing her eyes, she popped the berry into her mouth. Its early sweetness pleased her tongue, even as its tartness radiated along her jaw.
She swallowed. Savored the moment. Opened her eyes.
Guy.
He was watching her, impervious to the wind whipping his greatcoat around his boots. The sunlight hit him sideways, and thrushes fluttered in the orange leaves behind his head.
In the days since his arrival, they had not spoken again; she had not so much as looked at him directly. Now, she could not look away. Nor could she move, not with every inch of her skin feeling more than it ought, as if the wind and sun themselves were stealing under her clothes and into her blood.
No matter: He would walk away. He would hasten to avoid her, as he had every other day of the past week.
He didn’t.
Instead, he advanced, stopping too close.
“Poaching blackberries?” he said.
She swallowed away the dryness in her mouth, the lingering taste of sour and sweet. “You?”
“Guilty as charged.”
He held up a hand, his fingers stained purple. Then that hand seized hers, his fingers warm despite the wind. He took her other hand and examined them both.
“Remarkable,” he said. “I witnessed you picking and eating a berry, yet your skin carries nary a mark. Unless you only eat unripe blackberries. You prefer the sour ones?”
“I am already sufficiently sweet.”
He laughed, the sound reminiscent of his hands skimming over her body: fearless, playful, and with an exhilarating edge.
“I could think of a thousand words to describe you, Arabella, and ‘sweet’ would not be one of them.”
“And you prefer the sweet ones.”
“The sweet, amiable ones,” he agreed.
“The ones who flatter you with their adoration and warm you with their smiles.”
“The ones who do not scheme and manipulate and play games.”
Their hands were still linked; they seemed to realize it at the same time. He did not resist when she turned his hands over to examine his palms. She pressed a thumb into the muscle. The calluses were fraying, and the blackberry-stained fingers bore fresh scratches, not enough to draw blood, just to chafe the skin. The hands of a man who lived boldly, an adventurer, sensual and sure.
How had these hands so transformed her? How had they reached inside her, to rouse those messy emotions that she had not even known were there?
“Your calluses are peeling away.” She ran a thumb over them. “Soon your hands will not be so rough.”
