Page 16 of A Match Made in Heather

And then there was Garrick.

When he wasn’t attempting to antagonize her into leaving, he kept staring at her as if he wanted to strip her naked. With his teeth.

But on horseback, she experienced the same freedom she had as a girl. She hadn’t felt that in far too long, and not at all beneath the constraints of her life in Edinburgh. The responsibilities of caring for her mother seemed to drain all her energy, and Edinburgh suffocated her. So did her engagement. But here in the highlands, with the wide blue sky stretching above her, she could breathe and be free again.

Excitement pulsed through her. If she kept Highburn, she could return here whenever she wanted and recapture the happiness that had filled her when she was younger, when life was still good and love still possible.

Love . . .Garrick.

Separating the two proved impossible. Her head knew she had to stay away from him, but her heart longed to love him. And her body . . . oh, her traitorous body! She physically ached whenever he was near, with a simmering heat that left her throbbing wickedly. Even now the thought of being in his arms gave her such yearnings that she trembled.

The sound of approaching hooves snagged her attention. She glanced over her shoulder, and her heart somersaulted at the sight of Garrick galloping toward her.

He looked magnificent as his black horse drew near. His maroon redingote was drawn tight across his broad shoulders, and beneath tight buckskin breeches, his muscular thighs flexed as they gripped the saddle. Fluid and confident, he rode as if he were one with the horse as it slowed to a canter beside her.

“Race me,” he called out.

“I was enjoying a quiet ride alone.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?” he taunted with a grin, just as he used to do.

God help her, but she couldn’t resist—“Never!”

She urged her horse into a gallop, giving him his head as his strides lengthened across the turf. Despite the uncomfortable sidesaddle and the cumbersome full skirt of her riding habit that billowed around her legs, she lowered herself as small as possible on the gelding’s back as she pushed him to go faster. She couldn’t outrun Garrick, but the race was thrill enough.

Nudging his horse closer, he reached over and gave a small tug at her chignon. Not to pull her hair to hurt her, but just enough to start the knot unraveling. The wind whipped at her locks, and her thick curls pulled free of their pins, scattering them across the ground. Her hair streamed out behind her, and she had no choice but to let it fly like a banner in the wind.

They raced down into the valley and along a stream. Both horses panted hard, but they sensed the delight of their riders and tossed their heads to keep running. They pulled up only when they reached the handful of abandoned cottages at the far end of the glen.

Arabel jumped from her horse. With her heart racing, she tossed her long skirt over her arm and ran toward one of the cottages. Garrick followed close on her heels.

He caught her just as she reached the door, grabbing her around the waist from behind and lifting her into the air as he twirled her in a circle. As she turned in his arms to face him, she laughed with such abandon that she could only cling breathlessly to him as he walked her back against the cottage, trapping her there between the wall and his large body.

She gazed up at him, and the rush of blood in her ears turned deafening. Each breath came in a soft pant.

Placing his hands flat against the wall on either side of her shoulders, he lowered his head until his mouth hovered so close to hers that his breath tickled her lips. His green eyes shined, heated and devilish.

“I win,” he announced in a hoarse rasp, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

“Never!” With a laugh, she ducked beneath his arm and slipped into the cottage.

She halted mid-step just inside the doorway, the laughter choking on her lips as she stared around her. Broken pieces of furniture covered with a layer of dust, pottery bowls and mugs still intact on the shelves, a worn rug in front of the cold hearth, curtains hanging at the window—all of it sitting there as if waiting for its family to return.

She felt him approach slowly behind her, coming near but not touching, as if sensing the sudden change in her. All her happiness and exhilaration from only moments before vanished, leaving a grim sobriety that cut her to the quick.

“I thought—” She swallowed hard to push down the knot clenching her throat. “I thought these cottages were abandoned.”

“They are,” he confirmed quietly.

She moved slowly around the room, taking it all in but afraid to touch any of the objects which had been left behind. She felt like an intruder in someone else’s life. “It looks as if they left so quickly that they couldn’t pack.”

“They might very well have,” he answered soberly. “Families who stay in cottages like these live on the edge. They’re always one day’s wages from being foreclosed upon, one harvest from starvation. They might have been driven out by the landlord or by creditors, or forced into the poorhouse.” Contempt colored his voice as he bit out, “And the lords in the manor house, with their lavish dinners and blazing fires, their well-paid doctors at the ready at the first cough—they think that if the poor are sick and starving it’s only because they’re lazy and won’t work harder.”

“You’re one of those lords now,” she reminded him gently.

He muttered beneath his breath, “I’llneverbe one of them.”

Struck by the tone of his voice, she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her heart stuttered at the sight of him, here in the cottage, surrounded by everyday objects and simple furnishings.