All About Passion

Chapter 5

The old man’s prophecy held true, but they cut it very fine. The state of the roads as they pushed north deteriorated; the rains had been heavier here. They crossed the Lambourn River, swollen and running high, via a stone bridge; if the crossing had been a ford, they would never have made it. It was too dark to see much of Lambourn village beyond a cluster of roofs off to one side, huddling between the river and the escarpment of the downs.

The escarpment lowered over them as the road swung left, following the river, gradually rising above it. It was almost full dark when they slowed and turned between huge gateposts, their wrought-iron gates set wide. The crest in the gate on Francesca’s side, illuminated briefly by the coach lamps, had a wolf’s head as the principal device.

She leaned closer to the window, peering through the gloom. The Dower House had been on the coach’s other side; she’d barely glimpsed it. They rattled along a well-graded drive, the horses at last picking up speed. Parkland dotted with huge oaks stretched as far as she could see.

The coach slowed. The tension that had steadily built all day knotted tight; her stomach was a hard ball pressing into her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The coach halted. The door opened. A footman stood ready to assist them to the ground. Flickering light from flares lit the scene.

Francesca went first. The footman handed her down to a flagged forecourt. Releasing her skirts, she looked around.

Lambourn Castle, her new home, was exactly as she’d imagined it. The Palladian facade stetched away on either side. Tall windows were set into the pale stone at regular intervals, some with curtains drawn, others with lights glowing. The second story was topped by a stone frieze, which she knew hid the old battlements behind it. Directly before her, a sweep of steps led up to the imposing entrance, the pedimented porch held aloft by tall columns flanking double doors.

Those doors stood wide; warm light streamed out. Two tallish, older ladies stood silhouetted just outside the doors. Francesca gathered her skirts and climbed the steps.

One of the ladies came sweeping up the instant she reached the porch. “My dear Francesca, welcome to your new home! I’m Elizabeth, dear, Gyles’s mama.”

Enveloped in a scented embrace, Francesca closed her eyes against a rush of tears and returned the embrace eagerly. “I’m delighted to finally meet you, ma’am.”

Releasing her, Lady Elizabeth held her away, shrewd grey eyes much like her son’s quickly taking stock, then the countess’s face lit. “My dear, Gyles has surprised me-I hadn’t credited him with such good sense.”

Francesca returned Lady Elizabeth’s smile, then turned to meet the second lady, of similar age to the countess and equally elegant but with brown hair rather than the countess’s pale curls.

The lady took her hand, then drew her closer to kiss her cheek. “I’m Henrietta Walpole, my dear-Gyles’s paternal aunt. Gyles calls me Henni, and I’ll expect you to as well. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” Henni patted her hand, then released it. “You’ll do wonderfully.”

“And this,” Lady Elizabeth waved to a portly gentleman emerging from the hall, “is Horace, Henni’s husband.”

In her letters, Lady Elizabeth had explained that Henni and Horace had lived at the Castle since Gyles’s father’s death. Horace had been Gyles’s guardian until he’d reached his majority; Henni was his favorite aunt. Francesca had been keyed up to make a good impression, and was relieved that Henni had accepted her so readily. As Horace strolled up, she saw surprise sweep his face as he took in the sight of her.

Her breath caught in her throat. Then Horace returned his bemused gaze to her face, and smiled. Broadly.

“Well, then!” He took her hand and bussed her cheek. “You’re a pretty little thing-suppose I should know better than to imagine m’nephew’s taste would run in any other vein.”

The comment earned him censorious looks from Lady Elizabeth and Henni, of which he remained oblivious, too engrossed in smiling at Francesca.

Smiling in return, she looked expectantly past him. There was a very correct butler standing in the doorway, but… no one else. The front hall stretched away, tiled floors gleaming, woodwork glowing, doors to either side, a footman here and there, but it was otherwise empty. She heard voices as Charles, Ester, and Franni climbed the steps. Lady Elizabeth’s arm came around her; the countess steered her toward the welcoming warmth of the hall.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that Gyles could not be here to greet you.” Lady Elizabeth had lowered her head and her voice; her words were just for Francesca. “An emergency arose on the estate late this afternoon, and Gyles had to ride out to deal with it. He’d expected to be here to meet you, and hoped to be back in time, but…”

Francesca glanced up in time to see Lady Elizabeth grimace. The older woman’s eyes met hers, then Lady Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s not what any of us wanted.”

Lady Elizabeth turned to greet Charles, Ester, and Franni; Francesca realized her mother-in-law-to-be was giving her a moment to absorb the unexpected blow. For a gentleman of Chillingworth’s standing not to be present to greet his betrothed on her arrival for their wedding…

Francesca dimly heard Lady Elizabeth making her son’s excuses to Charles. She forced herself to straighten her shoulders and turn to her uncle with a reassuring smile, conveying the impression that she found Chillingworth’s absence disappointing but not distressing. For that she earned a grateful look from the countess. The greetings continued, then they passed into the house. Lady Elizabeth introduced Francesca to the elderly butler, Irving-“Irving the Younger is the butler at the London house-you’ll meet him when you go up to town,” and to a dapper little man who stood in Irving’s imposing shadow.

“This is Wallace, my dear. He’s Chillingworth’s majordomo and has been with my son for many years. If there’s anything you need, now or in the future, Wallace will arrange it.”

Not much taller than she was, Wallace bowed low.

“Now!” Lady Elizabeth turned to address them all. “With your arrival being delayed and you having to sit cramped in the coach for so long, we thought we’d spare you the ordeal of having to greet all the others gathered for the wedding. Everyone’s here, but we’ve asked them to remain apart”-she gestured into the great house, to the maze of reception rooms that doubtless lay beyond the hall-“to let you get your bearings. Time enough to meet everyone tomorrow. However, if you do wish to be introduced tonight, you have only to say the word. Otherwise, your rooms are ready, there’s plenty of hot water, and dinner will be brought up whenever you desire.”

Lady Elizabeth’s gaze came to rest on Francesca. She glanced at Charles. “It has been a long few days. I would rather retire, if that’s possible.” Being introduced to a host of distant relatives, as well as tonnish peers and their sharp-eyed wives, without her fiance by her side, was not an ordeal she’d come prepared to face.

Charles and Ester murmured their agreement. Franni said nothing; she was gazing wide-eyed about the hall.

“Of course! That’s what we expected. You’ll need your rest-tomorrow’s the important day, after all, and we’ll all need to be at our best.” With reassurances and admonishments to ask for anything they needed, Lady Elizabeth ushered them upstairs. They parted in the gallery. Henni went with Ester and Franni; Horace strolled off with Charles. The countess, imparting inconsequential information, accompanied Francesca down corridors and through another gallery, eventually leading her into a pleasant chamber, warmed by a blazing fire, with wide windows looking north over the downs.

“I know it’s only for one night, but I wanted you to have peace and quiet, and have enough space for donning your bridal gown tomorrow. Also, getting from here to the chapel, you won’t have to cross Gyles’s path.”

Surveying the comfortable chamber, Francesca smiled. “It’s lovely-thank you.”

She was aware of the shrewdness behind Lady Elizabeth’s gaze. “Would you rather eat or bathe first?”

“A bath, please.” Francesca smiled at the little maid who darted up to help her with her coat. “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”

Lady Elizabeth gave orders; the maid bobbed and hurried out. As soon as the door shut, Lady Elizabeth sank down on the bed and grimaced at Francesca. “My dear, thank you. You’re taking this awfully well. I could wring Gyles’s neck, but…”-she lifted her hands palms up-“he did have to go. It was too serious to leave to his foreman.”

“What happened?” Francesca sat in a chair by the hearth, grateful for the warmth of the fire.

“A bridge collapsed. Upriver a little way, but on the estate. Gyles had to go and actually see it to decide what was best to be done. The bridge is the only link to part of the estate. There are families stranded and so on-lots of decisions, small and large, for Gyles to make.”

“I see.” She did. She’d been trained to be a gentleman’s wife; she knew about the responsibilities large estates entailed. Francesca glanced at the window. “Will he be safe riding back in the dark?”

The countess smiled. “He’s been riding the downs since he could get atop a horse, and indeed, the downs are quite safe for riding, even in poor light. You needn’t worry-he’ll be here, safe and sound, and quite impatient to marry you come morning.”

Francesca cast a shy glance at the countess. Lady Elizabeth caught it and nodded. “Oh, yes, he’s been decidedly testy all day-and was exceedingly grim about having to go out and risk not being here when you arrived. Still, it will only whet his appetite for tomorrow.” She rose as the maid returned with footmen carrying steaming pails.

When the bath had been readied and only the maid remained, Lady Elizabeth crossed to Francesca, who rose. The countess kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll leave you now, but if you need anything, or wish to speak with me again, whatever the hour, you only need ring and Millie here will answer, and she’ll come and fetch me. Now, are you sure you have everything you need?”

Touched, Francesca nodded.

“Very well, then. Good night.”

“Good night.” Francesca watched Lady Elizabeth leave, then beckoned to the maid to assist her with her gown.

Once she’d bathed, she felt much more relaxed, much more forgiving; she could hardly blame him for the rain, or its effects, after all. Leaning back in the tub, she instructed Millie in unpacking her trunks and laying out all she would need for the morrow. Her eyes round with awe, Millie carefully shook out the ivory silk wedding gown.

“Ooh, ma’am, it’s just beautiful!”

The gown had been reverently pressed and packed by the staff at Rawlings Hall; it only needed a good shake and a night hanging up to be absolutely perfect. “Leave it in the wardrobe. Everything else I need for tomorrow should be packed next.”

Millie emerged from the wardrobe and shut the door with a soft sigh. “A rare sight you’ll be in that, ma’am, pardon my saying so.” She returned to Francesca’s trunks. “I’ll just get out your wedding finery, and your nightgown and brushes, and we’ll move all the rest to the countess’s suite tomorrow morning, if that’s all right?”

Francesca nodded. A ripple of nervousness shivered over her skin. Tomorrow morning, she’d become his countess. His. The sensation behind the shiver intensified. She sat up and reached for the towel. Millie came running.

Later, wrapped in a bedgown, she sat by the fire and ate the simple but elegant dinner Millie had brought up on a tray. Then she dismissed the little maid, turned down the lamps, and thought about climbing into bed. Instead, she found herself drawn to the window, to the wide vista of the downs. The high, largely treeless plateau stretched away in gently rolling waves as far as her eyes could see. The sky was almost clear; the only remnants of yesterday’s storms were the tattered clouds that streamed before the wind.

The moon was rising, sending a wash of silvery light over the scene.

The downs possessed a wild beauty that called to her-she’d suspected that would be the case. A sense of freedom, of nature unfettered, unrestrained, rose from the barren landscape.

And tempted her.

Tonight would be her last night alone-the last night she would have only herself to answer to. Tomorrow would bring her a husband, and she already knew-or could guess-his feelings about her riding wild through the night.

She wasn’t sleepy. The long hours in the coach, hours of increasing tension, the disappointment, the anticlimax at finding him not here to greet her when she’d spent so many hours dreaming of how it would be-dreaming of the look in his eyes when next he saw her-had left her disaffected, more restless, more edgy than ever before.

Her riding habit was in her second trunk. She wrestled it free, then unearthed her riding boots, gloves and crop. The hat she could do without.

Ten minutes saw her dressed and booted, sliding through the huge house. She heard deep voices-she turned in the opposite direction. She found a secondary stair and took it down to the ground floor, then followed a corridor and found a parlor with French doors opening onto the terrace. Leaving the doors closed but unlocked, she headed for the stable block she’d glimpsed through the trees.

The trees were old oaks and beeches; they welcomed her into their shadows. She strode along, secure in the knowledge no one could see her from the house. The stable block proved to be interestingly large, two long stables and a coach barn built around a courtyard. She slipped into the nearest stable, and started down the aisle, gauging the nature of the horse in each box. She passed three hunters, even larger and more powerful than those she’d ridden at Rawlings Hall. Recalling Chillingworth’s comments, she continued on, looking to see if he had a smaller mount-

The door at the end of the aisle opened. Light bobbed, illuminating tack stored in the room beyond, then the light danced into the aisle as two stablelads, one carrying a lantern, stepped through and pulled the door shut.

Halfway along the aisle, Francesca had no chance of regaining the stable door. The light had yet to reach her. Slipping the latch of the stall she stood beside, she eased the door open, then whisked around it and pressed it closed, then reached over and lifted the latch into place.

A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her. The horse whose stall she’d invaded was well mannered, and not large. It had turned its head to view her, but with her vision affected by the lamplight, she could see little more. But there was plenty of room for her to slide down against the stall door and wait for the stablelads to pass by.

“There she is-a beauty, ain’t she?”

The light suddenly intensified; glancing up, Francesca saw the lamp appear just above her head. The stablelad rested it on the top of the stall door.

“Aye,” the second lad agreed. “Smashing.” The door shifted as two bodies leaned against it. Francesca held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t look over and down. They were talking about the horse. She looked, and for the first time, saw.

Her eyes widened; she only just managed to suppress an appreciative sigh. The horse was more than merely beautiful. There was power and grace in every line, a living testimony to superior breeding. This was precisely the sort of horse Chillingworth had spoken of-a fleet-footed Arabian mare. Her bay coat glowed richly in the lamp light, dark mane and tail a nice contrast. The horse’s eyes were large, dark, alert. Its ears were pricked.

Francesca prayed it wouldn’t come to investigate her-not until the stableboys moved on.

“Heard tell the master bought her for some lady.”

“Aye-that be right. The mare’s hardly up to his weight, after all.”

The other boy chortled. “Seems like the lady was.”

Francesca glanced up-to see the lamp disappear. The stablelads pushed away from the door; the light retreated. She waited until the dark returned, then rose and peeked over the stall door just in time to see the two lads step out of the stable, taking the lantern with them.

“Thank God!”

A soft nose butted her in the back. She turned, equally eager to make friends. “Oh, but you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” The mare’s long nose was velvet soft. Francesca ran her hands along the sleek coat, gauging by feel; her night vision had yet to return.

“He told me I should be riding an Arab mare, and he’s just bought you for some lady.” Returning to the horse’s head, she stroked its ears. “Coincidence, do you think?”

The horse turned its head and looked at her. She looked at it. And grinned. “I don’t think so.” She threw her arms about the mare’s neck and hugged. “He bought you for me!”

The thought sent her spirits soaring. Higher and higher, tumbling and turning. The mare was a wedding present-she would bet her life on it. Five minutes before, she’d been anything but pleased with Chillingworth, anything but sure of him. Now, however… she would forgive a man a great deal for such a present, and the thought behind it.

On such a horse, she could ride like the wind-and now she would be living on the edge of a wilderness made for riding wild. Suddenly, the future looked a lot more rosy. The dream that had teased her for the past several weeks-of riding Lambourn Downs on a fleet-footed Arabian mare with him by her side-was so close to coming true.

“Having bought you for me, he must expect me to ride you.” She couldn’t have resisted to save her soul. “Wait here. I have to find a saddle.”

Gyles rode home through the dark, weary in mind rather than in body. He was damp after wrestling with wet timbers, but the summons to the wrecked bridge had been a godsend. It had saved his sanity.

He’d refused Devil’s offer to ride out with him, even though he could have used the help. His temper was worn too thin to allow him to deflect Devil’s ribbing, which would have turned to probing the instant he lost his temper and snapped. Devil had known him too long to be easily avoided. And despite his protestations to the contrary, Devil was sure that, like all the Bar Cynster, he’d succumbed to Cupid and was, in reality, in love with his soon-to-be wife.

Devil would know the truth soon enough-the instant he laid eyes on Gyles’s meek, mild-mannered bride.

Turning his grey onto the path across the downs, he let the reins lie loose, letting the beast plod at his own pace.

His thoughts were no faster. At least he’d managed to keep the guest list to a manageable hundred or so. He’d had to fight his mother every step of the way; she’d been writing furiously to Franscesca over the past weeks, but he was sure it wasn’t at his bride’s insistence his mother had pushed and prodded, trying to make the wedding into a grand occasion. That had never been a part of his plan.

It occured to him to wonder if his bride had actually arrived. The service, after all, was scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning. His impulse was to shrug. She’d either be there, or she’d arrive later and they’d marry whenever. It was of little real moment.

He was hardly an impatient bridegroom.

Once he’d gained Francesca’s agreement and ridden away from Rawlings Hall, all urgency had left him. The matter was sealed, settled; she’d subsequently signed the marriage settlements. Since leaving Hampshire, he’d barely thought of his bride-to-be, only when his mother brandished a letter and made another demand. Otherwise…

He’d been thinking of the gypsy.

The memory of her haunted him. Every hour of every day, every hour of the long nights. She even haunted his dreams, and that was undoubtedly the worst, for in dreams there were no restrictions, no limits, and for a few brief moments after he awoke, he’d imagine…

Nothing he did, nothing he told himself, had diminished his obsession. His need for her was absolute and unwavering; despite knowing he’d escaped eternal enslavement by the skin of his teeth, he still dreamed… of her. Of having her. Of holding her, his, forever.

No other woman had affected him to this degree, driven him so close to the edge.

He was not looking forward to his wedding night. Just thinking of the gypsy was enough to arouse him, but he couldn’t, it seemed, assuage his desire with any other woman. He’d thought about trying, hoping to break her spell-he hadn’t managed to leave his armchair. His body might ache, but the only woman his mind would accept ease from was the gypsy. He was in a bad way, certainly not in the right mood to ease a delicate bride into harness.

But that would be on his wedding night; he’d cross that bridge when he reached it. Before then, he had to endure a wedding and wedding breakfast at which the gypsy would most likely be present, albeit swamped by a hundred other guests. He hadn’t asked if any Italian friend of Francesca’s was expected to be present. He hadn’t dared. Any such question would have alerted his mother and aunt, and then there would have been hell to pay. It was going to be bad enough when they met his bride face-to-face.

He hadn’t explained to them that his was an arranged marriage, and from what they’d let fall, Horace hadn’t either. Henni and his mother would know the truth the instant they laid eyes on Francesca Rawlings. No meek, mild-mannered female had ever held his interest, and they knew it. They’d see his reasoning instantly, and disapprove mightily, but by then there’d be nothing they could do.

It was also because of them-Henni and his equally perspicacious mother-that he’d insisted on restricting the time the bridal party spent at the castle prior to the wedding. The less time for unexpected meetings with the gypsy the better. One exchange observed and they who knew him best would guess the truth there, too. He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. He wished he could ignore that particular truth himself.

Reaching the lip of the escarpment, he drew rein and sat looking down on his home, perched above a curve in the river. Lights shone in some windows-and red pinpricks glowed about the forecourt, the doused flares which would only have been lit if the bridal party had arrived.

It dawned on him that fate had been kind. The rain had been a blessing, the bridal party delayed until the last reasonable minute to a time when he’d had a legitimate excuse not to be there to greet them-to risk meeting the gypsy under everyone’s eyes. He now only had the wedding and wedding breakfast to endure-the absolute minimum time.

Twenty-four hours and he’d be a married man, tied in wedlock to a woman to whom he was indifferent. He would have secured all he’d set out to achieve-a suitable, mild, and undistracting wife to give him the heir he needed, and the Gatting property he wanted. All he needed to do was adhere to his plans for the next twenty-four hours and all he wanted would be his.

Never had he felt so disinterested in victory.

The grey whickered and shifted. Steadying him, Gyles heard the muted thud of hooves. Scanning the downward slope, he caught a flash of movement, shadow against shadow. A rider coming from the direction of the castle stables was angling up the escarpment.

He lost sight of them, then looked to his left. Rider and horse burst onto the crest a hundred yards away. For an instant, the pair was silhouetted against the rising moon, then the horse sprang forward. The rider was small but in control. Long black hair rippled down her back. The horse was the Arab he’d bought a week ago. Strength and beauty in motion, they streaked out onto the downs.

Gyles had wheeled the grey and set out in pursuit before he’d even thought. Then he did, and cursed himself for what he was doing, but made no move to draw rein. He cursed her, too. What the devil did she think she was doing taking a horse from his stables-no matter he’d bought the beast for her-without a by-your-leave and in the middle of the night!

Grimly, he thundered in her wake, not riding her down but keeping her in sight. Anger was what he wanted to feel, but after dogging him all day, his temper had evaporated. He could too easily understand her-how she would feel after being cooped up in a carriage for days, then finding the mare… had she guessed it was for her?

Anger would have been safer, but all he felt was a strange, wistfully compelling need-to talk to her again, see her eyes, her face, hear what she said when he told her the mare was hers-a gift so she could ride wild, but safe. The memory of her husky tones slid through his mind. As long as he didn’t touch her, surely one last private meeting would be safe.

Francesca didn’t hear the thud of hooves pursuing her until she slowed the mare. The horse was perfect, wondrously responsive; she sent it circling in a prancing arc, ready to streak back to the castle if the rider was no one she knew.

One glance and she recognized him. The moon was fully risen; it bathed him in silver, etching his face, leaving half in shadow. He was wearing a loose riding jacket, a pale shirt and neckcloth. The powerful muscles of his thighs were delineated by tight breeches tucked into long boots. She couldn’t read his expression; his eyes she couldn’t see. But as she slowed the mare, then halted and let him approach, she sensed no fury, no violent emotions, but something else. Something more careful, uncertain. Tilting her head, she studied him as he drew the huge grey to a halt before her.

It was the first time they’d met since those wild moments in the forest. From tomorrow, they’d live with each other, turbulent emotions and all. Perhaps that was why they both said nothing, but simply looked-as if trying to establish some frame of reference in which to move into this next stage of their lives.

They were both breathing just a little deeper than could be excused by their ride.

“How do you find her?” He nodded at the mare.

Francesca smiled and set the mare dancing. “She’s perfect.” She tried a few fancy steps-the mare performed without hesitation. “She’s very obedient.”

“Good.” He was watching like a hawk, assuring himself that she could indeed control all that latent energy. When she halted, he turned the grey alongside. “She’s yours.”

She laughed delightedly. “Thank you, my lord. I overheard two stableboys-they said you’d bought her for some lady. I had to confess I hoped she was for me.”

“Your wish has been granted.”

She saw his lips lift and smiled gloriously. “Thank you. You could not have chosen a gift I’d treasure more.” She’d thank him properly later-she had plenty of time.

“Come-we should start back.”

She set the mare to pace the grey as they headed back toward the castle. From a trot they progressed to a canter, then he pushed into a gallop. She realized he was trying out the mare’s paces by default. Setting herself to reassure him, she held the mare to precisely the right clip, easing back as he did when they reached the escarpment.

He led the way down; she kept the mare in the wake of the grey. They wound their way around to the stable block. She drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled as the paddock giving onto the back of the stable drew near.

She couldn’t imagine a more soothing, reassuring way to have passed the evening before their wedding. They might not know each other well, but they had enough solid connections on which to base a marriage. Her nerves had settled. Of tomorrow and the future, she felt confident and assured.

“We need to be reasonably quiet.” He dismounted before the stable door. “My head stableman lives over the coach barn, and he’s very protective of his charges.”

She kicked her feet free and slid down.

Gyles led the grey into the stable, turned the horse into his stall, then quickly unsaddled. The gypsy went past with the mare; he heard her crooning softly to the horse.

Leaving the grey, he strode to the mare’s stall and was in time to lift the saddle from the mare’s back. The gypsy rewarded him with a heart-stopping smile, then picked up a handful of straw and started brushing down the mare.

Gyles stowed her saddle and tack, then fetched his. He would have to guide her back to her room without being seen by anyone. And without touching her. He wasn’t fool enough to imagine achieving that would be easy-just seeing her again, hearing her voice again, had evoked something he could only describe as a yearning. A need for her-a deep-seated emptiness that only she could fill.

But he wasn’t going to let it rule him. Ruin him. As long as he didn’t touch her, he’d survive.

Quickly brushing down the grey, he checked the horse’s feed and water, then shut the stall and returned to the gypsy. She was finished, too, just checking the water, still crooning, softly sultry, to the mare. He was quite sure the horse would be ruined for anyone else.

The gypsy saw him. With a last pat, she left the mare and stepped into the aisle. Tense as a bowstring, Gyles shut the stall door and latched it.

“Thank you.”

Her voice had changed-lowered-smoky, sultry, seductive. Gyles turned-

She stepped into him, twined her arms about his neck, stretched up against him, and kissed him.

The simple, passionate kiss slew him-slew all his good intentions, slew any chance of him escaping-or of her escaping him. His arms closed about her and he crushed her to him, bent his head, and took control of the kiss.

She tasted of wind and wildness, of the exhilaration of riding free and fast, unfettered, unrestrained. The invitation in her kiss was explicit-they spoke the same language, understood each other perfectly; there was no need for thought between them.

Arching against him, she drew him deeper, deeper into their kiss, deeper into her wonder. He held her against him and marveled at her bounty, at the promise inherent in her soft curves and supple limbs. His hands went searching; so did hers. And then she was cupping him, cradling him, fondling him-inexpertly admittedly, yet her desire was very clear. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

That want hit Gyles with a punch that stole his breath, and shook a few of his laggard wits into place. He shifted back, to the side, intending to lean against a stall door-the one next to the mare’s-and try to catch his breath. Try to break their kiss, try to ease back from her-

The stall door swung open behind him. It was the middle stall in the long row-the one the stablelads used to store fresh straw. Gyles stumbled back. The stall contained no horse-just a huge pile of loose straw. They landed in it, on it. Within seconds, they’d sunk into it.

They were cocooned in soft dryness, closed off in a dark world of their own. Gyles groaned. The sound was swallowed by their kiss. They lay trapped in each other’s arms with her largely beneath him. Then he felt her hands shift, remembered where they’d been, felt her fingers grip his waist. Her hands were underneath his jacket; he felt her pluck at his shirt, fingers dancing along his waistband.

Oh, no. He lifted his head, broke the kiss-then couldn’t think what to say.

“You’re… impatient.” One small hand was caressing him again. “You want me now.”

A wealth of wonder and discovery laced her tone, confirming beyond doubt that she’d never known a man. It was too dark in the stall, in the well of the straw, to see her face. She could only be seeing him as a dark shadow above her. They were both operating primarily by touch. He wasn’t sure if that was an advantage or not.

“I have to get you back into the house.”

She hesitated, then he felt her soften and subtly shift beneath him. “I’m quite comfortable here.”

Her movements, her tone, left him in no doubt as to her meaning.

His senses, his desires, were fighting to defeat the last of his reason. He let his head fall, trying to garner strength enough to break free. His forehead touched hers. He felt her hands slide-upward, over his chest, fingers splaying against the fine linen of his shirt.

How many women had touched him like that?

Hundreds.

How many others had made him ache, made him shake, with just that simple caress?

None.

Even though he knew the danger, when she tipped her face up and her lips found his, he couldn’t resist, couldn’t break away. She seduced him with a gentle touch and a kiss so innocent it reached his shielded heart.

“No,” he breathed, and tried to draw back.

“Yes,” she replied, and said no more. Her lips held his, not with any physical coercion, but with a power he was helpless to deny.

Francesca drank him in, drank in the promise of the hard body lying atop her, of his flagrant response to her. She was more than pleased; she felt like the cat about to lap the cream. He felt hot, hard; the tension in his body screamed of urgency.

His lips broke from hers, trailed her jaw, found her ear, slid lower.

“You like the mare?”

He sounded hoarse.

“She’s beautiful.”

His lips touched her throat and she instinctively arched, and heard his indrawn breath.

“She’s got… excellent bloodlines. Her paces…”

He’d reached her collarbone and seemed to forget what he was saying; Francesca saw no reason to prompt him. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to explore passion, with him, now. She was about to send her hands wandering down his body, when he murmured, “You can take her with you when you leave.”

Francesca stilled. And forced herself to think. She tried a number of interpretations, but couldn’t find one that fitted. “Leave?” Puzzlement, she found, could overcome passion, at least in this instance. “Why would I leave?”

He sighed, and the warmth that had wrapped about them fled. He lifted his head and looked down at her.

“All the guests will leave shortly after the wedding, most after the wedding breakfast, the rest the next day.” He paused, then continued, steel sliding beneath his tone, “No matter how close to Francesca you are, you’ll leave with Charles and his party.”

Francesca stared up at him-at the face that was just a shadow to her. Her mouth was open, her mind blank. For the space of four heartbeats, she couldn’t say a word. Then her world stopped its crazy gyrations, slowed… She wet her lips. “The lady you’re marrying-”

“I will not discuss her.” The tension that shot through his body was quite different to the heated resilience of passion. It drove passion out, locked her out.

After a moment, she ventured, “I don’t think you understand.” She didn’t, either, but she was starting to suspect…

She felt the sigh he suppressed; his defensive tension eased a fraction. “She might be meek-a perfect cipher-but she’s precisely what I need, what I want, as my wife.”

“You want me.” Francesca shifted beneath him, defying him to deny the obvious.

He sucked in a breath-she felt his glare. “I desire you-I neither want nor need you.”

Her temper erupted. A hot retort burned her tongue, but she got no chance to utter it.

“I know you don’t understand.” The words were tight, harsh. “You’ve never known a man, certainly not one like me. You think you understand me, but you don’t.”

Oh, but she did, she did, and she was understanding more with every second that passed.

“You think because I am as I am, I would want a passionate wife, but the opposite is true. That’s why I chose Francesca Rawlings as my bride. She’ll fill the position of my countess perfectly-”

Francesca let him talk, let his words flow past her while her mind flitted back over the weeks since she’d first run into him in the shrubbery and rescripted every scene.

Gyles suddenly realized he was doing the very thing he’d said he wouldn’t. Why, for God’s sake? He didn’t owe the gypsy any explanation…

Except that he was rejecting her, deliberately turning his back on her and on a passionate liaison none knew better than he would burn brighter than most stars. She’d never offered herself to any other man; she wouldn’t still be virginal, so untried, if she had.

He felt guilty, severely at fault, for turning her down. Ludicrous, but he felt guilty for hurting her even that much, even for her own good. He felt equally guilty that, even now, he was so obsessed with her he couldn’t even form a mental picture of the woman he would marry on the morrow-a woman who was her close friend. There was guilt enough to sink his soul in this tortured situation.

He stopped speaking, then sighed. “At least she won’t have brought those blasted dogs.”

Silence.

She was still looking at him, staring up at him; he felt her breasts swell and ease against his chest.

A sense of unease slid down his spine. “She hasn’t, has she? Brought that pack of lap spaniels?”

The silence stretched, then he felt her gaze refocus. She hadn’t truly been watching him.

“No-your bride did not bring the dogs.”

Every word vibrated with a determination he couldn’t place. He felt her draw breath.

“She did, however, bring me.”

Her hands had been resting against his chest-Francesca pushed them over his shoulders, twined them tight about his neck, yanked him down, and sealed his lips with hers.

Fury ignited her passion, fueled it, merged with it. She deliberately let go. Let the fire inside her rage unfettered. It was the only thing she could think of to hit him with, the only thing to which she knew he was not immune.

She couldn’t begin to enumerate her hurts, her feelings, her rational, logical reactions, but her instinctive response she had no doubt about.

He’d pay-and in the coin that would cost him most dearly.

He went under-she knew it-sensed the moment the tide dragged him down. Sensed the moment when his will was submerged beneath a tide of need too strong to deny.

She fanned the flames, kept them racing. Their mouths were fused, tongues dueling, tangling. She didn’t need to hold him anymore. Sliding her hands free, she went to reach down-his hands closed about her breasts and she arched, and forgot, for the moment, about caressing him, reveling in the sensations as he caressed her.

Between them, they opened her short jacket and blouse. Her chemise he undid with two flicks of his long fingers, then his hand was on her breast and she gasped. His lips returned to hers just in time to catch her cry as his fingers closed about one nipple. As the sharp sensation eased, heat flooded her. She struggled to breathe, struggled to cope, struggled to keep pace with him. She’d never done this before, and he was an expert; she’d seen more than most innocents could even imagine, but she’d never been the woman at the heart of the storm.

And it was a storm-of heat, of sensations too acute to express. She writhed like a wanton beneath him, and knew she was arousing him, driving him on.

So she writhed some more. Everything she could think of to do she did, every action that would further enflame him. She wasn’t of a mind to accept anything less than his complete and abject surrender. To her-to their passion. To all that he’d thought to keep out of his life.

He dragged his lips from hers and ducked his head. Her fingers sank into his hair as his lips found her breast. The scalding touch of his tongue made her shudder, then he suckled, clamping a hand over her lips just in time to mute her scream.

She was panting, heated, flushed beyond belief when he finally lifted his head, shifted back, and rucked up her skirts. Hard fingers found her knee, then trailed higher, over the flickering skin along her inner thigh. He touched the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, then his fingers trailed down again.

They returned, to stroke, tease, then tangle in her curls, then one long finger slid between her thighs. She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened as he stroked, then gently probed, then his knee nudged hers, opening her farther. Warm darkness held them; her senses reached no further than him-the world beyond their cocoon of straw had vanished, fallen away. His touch was deliberate, knowing. Dragging in another breath, Francesca parted her thighs.

He cupped her, and her nerves shook. Then his hand shifted; one long finger pressed in, a little way at first, then deeper, deeper, penetrating her softness, opening her body.

Francesca arched, but he held her down, his other hand splayed across her stomach.

Gyles shuddered and closed his eyes. His fingers touched, traced, explored, his imagination supplying what he couldn’t see. He was one step away from madness. He had no idea how he had got to this point, but there was only one way forward, one path to sanity.

Ruthlessly, he drove her on. Her body was fluid, liquid heat under his hands. She was passionate woman incarnate, wild and uninhibited; he had to kiss her again, had to stop her cries, had to stop the whimpers of pleasure that tore at his resolve. He could have pushed her to climax swiftly, brutally; some gentleness buried deep made him linger, made him show her the ways, made him steep her in pleasure, until, at the very last, she fractured in glory.

Her body eased beneath him; he felt the last tremors of completion fade and die. He eased his fingers from her, shutting his senses to the musky sweetness that called so elementally to his instincts. He started to ease back, was about to lift away when she turned, found his face with her hand, cradled his jaw, and kissed him.

Held him, trapped him in a web of raw need.

For him, she was the ultimate siren-her kisses lured him to destruction. He only just managed to cling-not to control, but to sufficient lucidity to know what he was doing, and what he must not do. She was still aroused, still aware, still playing havoc with his senses. He’d assumed, after her first climax, an extended one at that, she’d be limp and exhausted, unable further to oppose his plans.

He’d assumed wrong.

He filled his hands with her breasts, then ducked his head and filled his mouth with her soft flesh. He’d tried not to mark her where it would show, but God alone knew how successful he’d been. She’d recalled the need for silence; the knuckles of one hand were pressed to her lips, stifling her cries. She was also doing her best to mute those more intimate sounds he drew from her, but not succeeding.

He explored her lower body, naked now he’d pushed her habit to her waist. Her thighs, firm from riding, were a special delight; the smooth globes of her derriere, cradled possessively in his hands, made him shudder.

He ached to take her, to possess her as she wanted to be possessed, to take her with all the passion in his soul-but that way lay madness. Yet sate her he must. Sliding lower, avoiding the hands that tried to urge him over her, he gripped her hips and set his mouth to her softness.

She nearly choked on a scream. After that, she was too busy trying to catch her breath, trying to suppress her gasps, her screams. Too busy flowering for him.

When he finally let her free, let her fly to the stars and shatter, she was, this time, too exhausted to even grip his sleeve when he eventually drew away. He knelt over her and straightened her clothing by feel, enough to pass muster if they were caught. Then he stood and lifted her into his arms and walked from the stall and the stable.

As he crossed the lawns, he tried hard not to think, not of her, not of any of it-not of how he felt.

Tomorrow morning he would marry her friend, and that would be that.

His body was one giant throbbing ache. He doubted he’d get any sleep.

He could, of course, congratulate himself on avoiding the pit that others had fallen headlong into. He could pride himself on not having succumbed to his baser instincts, on having adhered to the honorable course. He’d have been consumed by guilt if he hadn’t, on any number of counts, yet, deep within him he knew it wasn’t guilt that had kept him from taking her. Only one power had been strong enough to save her-and him.

One simple, fundamental fear.

He knew in which wing his mother had put his bride-to-be; Henni had told him just in case he wanted to know. Thank heaven she had. He assumed his bride-to-be’s companion had been housed nearby. Reaching the right corridor, he started along, then paused, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Which room is yours?”

She waved weakly to the door at the end. He juggled her and opened it. The windows were uncurtained; the moonlight streamed in, confirming the bed had been made up but was unoccupied.

He laid her gently on it.

Her fingers trailed down his sleeve, but her grip was too weak to hold him. He leaned over her, brushed her hair from her face, bent his head, and kissed her. One last time.

Then he drew back. He knew she was watching him.

“After the wedding, you’ll return to Rawlings Hall.”

He turned and left her.

Francesca watched him cross the room. She’d let him carry her to her bed assuming he was going to join her in it. As the door closed behind him, she lay back, shut her eyes, and felt bitterness well.

“I don’t think so.”