All About Passion (33 page)

Francesca went into the bakery to speak with Mrs. Duckett. Gyles strode down to the Red Pigeon, arranged the supply of ale with Harris, then returned to liberate Francesca from Mrs. Duckett's clutches, that lady having been as honored and delighted as Cook had predicted.

Both once more in the saddle, Gyles led the way up the street to the church. A path to the downs lay beyond it. Five minutes later, they crested the escarpment, the horses stepping into the wide, treeless expanse with evident anticipation.

The black pranced; Francesca held the big gelding back, waiting, watching for Gyles's direction. He glanced her way. "Any preference?"

A fleeting recollection popped into her head. "What about those barrows Lancelot Gilmartin mentioned?

They must be close."

"A few miles." Gyles studied her, then added, "I wouldn't, myself, term them romantic."

"Well, you may take me there and let me see for myself." Francesca looked around as the black jigged impatiently. "Which way?"

"North."

Gyles sprang the grey and she went with him. Shoulder to shoulder, the huge hunters thundered across the rolling green. The wind of their passing whipped back Francesca's curls; exhilaration sang in her veins.

The sky was slate grey and no sun shone, yet there was a glow in her heart as they swept on. Again and again, she felt Gyles's gaze, on her face, her hands, checking her posture. This was no race; although they rode hard, the gallop was severely controlled, judged to a whisker so as not to feel restricted—an indulgence, yes, one held just within the limits of safety.

It was comforting to feel so watched over, to know that he was there, with her. They gained the top of a low rise and he slowed. She followed suit, drawing the black in. The gelding was still frisky, still wanting to run. She patted his glossy neck as she trotted up to Gyles. He nodded ahead. "See those mounds?"

She saw a cluster of earth mounds about a mile further on. "Is that it?"

"I'm afraid so."

His tone alerted her; she looked and found him gazing at a point much nearer to hand. Another rider, previously hidden in a dip, came riding toward them.

"Lancelot Gilmartin?"

"Indeed."

Lancelot had seen them. They waited. Gyles steadied his grey as Lancelot came pounding up. Pounding too furiously. He hauled his bay to a too-precipitous halt. It snorted, backed, reared. The black jerked and sidled; Francesca's arms were tugged sharply as he shook his head. Gyles angled the grey closer. The presence of the more experienced horse calmed the black. By then, Lancelot had his showy bay under control. "Lady Chillingworth." He swept her a bow, then nodded at Gyles. "My lord." Before either could reply, his glowing gaze locked on Francesca's face. "I knew you wouldn't resist the lure of the Barrows. I was on my way there when I saw you and turned back." He glanced at Gyles. "My lord, I would be happy to escort her ladyship farther. No doubt you have much business to attend to."

Francesca jumped in before Gyles could annihilate Lancelot. "Mr. Gilmartin, you misunderstand. I really couldn't presume—"

"Oh, nonsense. I insist. Tell you what, I'll race you."

Lancelot wheeled the fractious bay to come alongside—the horse stumbled sideways. Rumps bumped, Lancelot's mount jarring the increasingly nervous black, bumping it into Gyles's grey.

"No!" Francesca felt a tremor of panic rush through the black, felt the bunching of powerful muscles beneath her. "Hold steady," she snapped at Lancelot.

The bay had other ideas. It reared and lashed out. Lancelot was nearly unseated. His left arm flailed—his crop came down hard on the black's rump.

The black shot into a gallop.

Gyles lunged for the reins and missed. One glance at Francesca bobbing awkwardly on the black's back was enough. She was unbalanced and heading for a fall.

Cursing freely, he flicked a scorching glance at Lancelot. "You
blasted fool!"
He set the grey after the black, leaving Lancelot still struggling with his mount.

Gyles didn't spare another thought for Lancelot, not even for retribution, not for anything beyond the small figure bouncing as she struggled to retain her seat. Sidesaddle, she had no room for error on a hunter. Jouncing as she was, she had no hope of controlling such a strong beast. The downs thereabouts were uneven—the horse's pounding strides would jar all the way through her, wrenching her arms, weakening her hold on the reins.

Until she fell.

Gyles refused to think of it—to think of the occasional rock embedded in the sward. Refused to remember his father, lying so still on the ground.

Shutting his mind, he gave chase. And prayed she'd have the wit and the strength to hang on. Francesca gritted her teeth, vainly trying to stop her breath being slammed out of her with every stride the black took. She'd had a plan in case one of Charles's hunters ever did run away with her: hang on until the horse tired. All very well in the forest, where the paths were flat but twisting, slowing a horse, tiring it quickly. Here on the open downs, the black was just getting into his stride—he could run without restriction.

The dips and folds meant little to the horse; they meant much more to her. Her arms felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets and still the horse flew. Only her boot firm in the stirrup and her leg locked around the saddlebow allowed her to keep her seat.

She wouldn't be able to do so much longer.

The thought crystallized in her mind. In that instant, she heard the heavy thud of hooves behind her, closing, slowly closing.

Gyles.

She locked her fingers more firmly on the reins, tried to balance her weight, to ease the jolts that with every stride were shaking her like a rag doll.

She could no longer draw a full breath—her lungs had forgotten how. Panic clawed at the back of her throat. Heat rushed up her nape.

Glancing ahead, she saw a series of folds lying like shadows over the green. Up and down, up and down—she'd never make it. Never retain her seat through that.

The grey was still closing. She couldn't risk a glance back to see.

Dragging in a breath, she threw what little strength she had left into hauling back on the reins. In vain. The black had his head down, and she didn't have the strength to fight him. The grey's head drew alongside.

"Kick your feet free—
now
!"

She heard Gyles's command—pushed aside the thought that with her feet free, she'd surely fall—and did as he said.

In the instant her boots cleared the leather, she felt his arm around her waist, felt him seize her. She dropped the reins and pushed away from the saddle. Reached for him.

He lifted her, swung her over, pulled her to him.

She grabbed, clung, sobbed as she held fast, hands fisting in his shirt. She curled herself into him, pressed herself to him, her cheek to his chest, her boots and skirts flowing over one hard thigh. Safe.

Gyles slowed the grey gradually—no showy abrupt halt that might dislodge Francesca. All he wanted was to hold her and let the reality of her safety sink into his bones. Let his panic and fear subside and sink back behind his defenses again.

Again. Only this time had been much worse.

She was still breathing brokenly when he halted the grey; she was shaking with shock, as was he. He wrapped his arms around her, set his cheek to her hair, and held her, then he tightened his arms briefly before easing his hold and trying to look into her face—

"I say!" Lancelot skidded his horse to a halt beside them. "Is everything all right?" Gyles lifted his head.
"You witless oaf!
If you had an ounce of brain to your name—" Francesca listened. Gyles's tone scorned, his words lashed. She agreed with every one. She was grateful he was there to deliver them, because she didn't have the strength, the breath, to do the occasion justice. She concentrated on breathing, on listening to her heart, and his, slow. Concentrated on the fact that they were both still whole. Still together.

As the tremors racking her faded, she shifted her head, registering the drift of Gyles's tirade, approving his tack—that of the sense and responsibility Lancelot should have shown, that instead he'd been grossly irresponsible, that through silly, childish behavior, he'd placed her at considerable risk. She glanced at Lancelot—and realized Gyles's comments, pointed though they were, were glancing off Lancelot's self-conceit.

He waited for Gyles to cease speaking, then contemptuously waved. "Yes, very well, but I didn't mean it to happen. Lady Chillingworth knows I didn't. And it's not as if she got hurt." Francesca raised her head. "I'm unhurt because Lord Chillingworth was with me. If he hadn't been, courtesy of your stupidity, I might well be
dead!"

Lancelot paled. Francesca continued, "You're a
child,
Lancelot—you play at being an adult, but it's all a mask, a pose." She waved at the rise from which they'd come. "Back there, you heard only what you wanted to hear and behaved like the spoiled brat you are. Now, again, you're doing the same, thinking our words beneath your consideration."

"You're
wrong.
Behavior matters. Who you really are behind the mask
matters.
You will never succeed in life, let alone the ton, until you pay attention to what is, rather than playing an affected charade." She gestured dismissively. "Now begone! I do not wish to set eyes on you again, not until you gain in maturity."

His face another mask, this one more fragile than his usual Byronic imitation, Lancelot gathered his reins.

"One word of warning." Gyles's tone was a warning in itself. "Do not attempt to call at the Castle until I, or my wife, give you leave."

Lancelot glanced at Gyles. And blanched. He bowed, wheeled his horse circumspectly, and cantered off. Francesca blew out a breath and dropped her head back against Gyles's chest. "He is brainless, that one."

"I fear so." For a long moment, they simply sat and let time pass. Then Gyles said, "Incidentally, you will not again ride one of my hunters."

Francesca leaned back to look into his face. "I have no wish to ride any of your hunters
ever again."
Gyles humphed. "We'll have to get you a second mount."

"No—Regina is enough. I'll likely ride less than every day, so if we have another horse just for me, someone else will have to exercise her." She wriggled around to sit facing forward between Gyles's thighs.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now what do we do about the black?"

"He'll come in by himself. If he hasn't returned in an hour, Jacobs'll send out a groom." One arm locked about Francesca's waist, Gyles set the grey cantering back to the escarpment. They said nothing as they crossed the rolling downs, then headed down a track that joined the road close by the Castle's gates. When they turned into the park and the trees closed about them, Gyles let the grey walk. Leaves crunched under its heavy hooves. Above them, bare branches formed a skeletal canopy against the grey sky.

He should have felt shaken to his core. Instead, he felt victorious, deeply content with his wife safe and warm in his arms. He glanced down at her face, studied her profile. "Are you sure you're all right?" She glanced up, emerald eyes wide, then she smiled. "I was frightened and shaken, but now…" Her smile deepened. Lifting a hand to his cheek, she turned in his arms and drew his lips to hers. She kissed him, gently, long and lingeringly. Then she drew back and looked into his eyes. "Thank you for saving me."

He smiled. Looking ahead, he steered the grey toward the stable.

The next morning, Gyles went riding alone, leaving Francesca asleep, warm and sated in her bed. He rode along the river to the bridge, inspected the new trusses, then rode up to the downs. Some called the landscape bleak, mile upon mile of emptiness with only the call of larks high above to puncture its loneliness. Today, that suited him—he needed time to think. Time to reflect on the changes in his life, to try to understand them.

He hadn't imagined marriage would cause such change, such inner upheaval. Marriage to Francesca had. He'd known from first sight that she was potentially unsettling, yet unsettled was not what he felt. She spoke to him—the man not the earl, the barbarian not the gentleman—and he, most unexpectedly, had become accustomed to that. He wasn't sure what having her in his life was doing to his wilder self. Perhaps she was taming the barbarian.

He inwardly snorted, and thought of the day before.

Thought of all he'd felt when he'd seen her bobbing wildly on the back of the runaway black. His old fear had risen, sharp, intense—the fear of having her fall and die like his father. Yet, along with the fear, this time had come resolution, the determination to save her, the conviction that he could, and would. And he had.

Yesterday he'd lived the difference between being thirty-five and powerful, not seven and helpless. He felt as if old demons had been vanquished. Ironic that he owed Lancelot Gilmartin's foolishness for that. He slowed the grey as the escarpment drew near. He set the huge horse down the track to the Castle, cantering down the slope. Almost immediately he sensed an odd kick in the horse's gait. Reining in, he dismounted. A quick inspection confirmed one rear shoe was loose.

Patting the horse's neck, Gyles drew the reins over his head. "Come on, old son—let's walk." It wasn't that far to the stables, and he still had plenty to ponder.

Like love, and loving.

Yesterday had demonstrated how deep were the waters into which he'd drifted, yet he still had his head above the waves. He cared for her, of course, and she seemed content with that, with the concessions he'd made. He'd let her into his life—he paused and reconsidered: bit by bit she'd won her way into his life, if truth be told. They'd come to an amicable arrangement, one that fell short of him committing to love.

Was that enough? Enough to keep her loving him?

Eyes on the ground, he walked down the track, and admitted he didn't know. Her resolution on the battlements on the morning after their wedding still rang in his mind.

One thing he did know—he wanted her love, wanted her loving him, now and forever. The barbarian within had seized that prize and was not about to let go.