He filled her again and again, over and over, his hips rocking hers, his hands closing about her breasts.
The fire flamed, spread, then erupted in a spasm of heat and desire, white-hot sensation shooting down every vein, frazzling every nerve. She cried out, and heard it as a distant song, then all she knew, all she felt, coalesced into one exquisitely intense sensation.
He held her there, his hands firm about her breasts as he thrust harder, deeper, faster.
She felt the power shudder through him, felt him surrender, felt him join her in that place where lovers go.
Gyles’s heart thundered as he wallowed in the indescribable sensation of his body emptying into hers, so tight, so hot, so welcoming. He supported her in his arms, his hands full of the bounty of her breasts, his loins flush against her naked bottom.
A shudder of primal triumph rocked him.
She was a harvest he’d just reaped. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good.
They did lie, relaxed, on the daybed, but it was now full dark outside. Neither felt any desire to move, content in the warmth of the other’s embrace.
Francesca’s dark head lay on Gyles’s chest. He stroked, letting his fingers slide through the silky black locks. He smiled self-deprecatingly as he recalled his original view of her as a woman too dangerous to seduce. A woman he should fear, given her innate ability to reach behind his civilized mask and communicate directly with the barbarian behind it.
He’d been right. That was, indeed, precisely what she did. Yet he no longer feared her ability—he exulted in it.
Why fate had been so kind as to send him one of the few women—the only one he’d ever met—who seemed to think nothing of his baser instincts, indeed, seemed to delight in said instincts, he didn’t know. He was only glad he hadn’t been able to do anything other than marry her.
The thought of not having her as his wife was enough to make him tighten his arms; she murmured and wriggled; he eased his hold.
He glanced down at her, and could no longer recall why keeping his true self in check had once seemed so important. It had been his way for so long—as if keeping his true feelings, his true nature, suppressed was essential to functioning, to living his life.
Hiding that side of himself from her had never been an option; he’d stopped worrying about it on their wedding night. With her, being himself, his true self, simply didn’t matter. . . .
He stared out at the night.
That was why, with her, he felt so complete. So whole. Being himself, with her, was permissible, even desirable. She delighted in calling the barbarian forth, delighted in throwing herself in his arms—delighted in giving herself to a maruading rapacious barbarian. And she couldn’t care less if he was incoherent at the time.
His lips curved in a smirk. Her own lack of coherence was telling—attempting any degree of conversation during coitus was wasted effort. He only had to touch her, and she became a totally sensate being—the only avenue of communication she was interested in was by touch and feel.
His gaze steadied on her face.
She was a field he would willingly plow for the rest of his life.
He didn’t think she’d mind.
Shifting his hand from her head to her breast, he continued stroking. She made a smoky, purring sound and shifted suggestively. He smiled and lifted her across him.
It was time to sow some more.
So he could reap the harvest of her loving again.
Chapter 16
“My lord, if I could have a moment of your time?”
Caught watching his wife, Gyles turned his head. Wallace had entered the breakfast parlor and stood by his side, a covered salver in one hand.
“Her ladyship’s, too.” Wallace directed a bow down the table.
The morning of the Festival had dawned misty but fine. The sun shone benignly on all those scurrying about the Castle grounds, setting up trestles and boards. Most of the staff were outside; only Irving and one footman were attending them. Wallace caught Irving’s eye; Irving directed the footman to the door, then followed, closing the door behind him.
“What is it?”
“One of the maids was instructed to fill the vase on the stair landing with autumn branches, my lord. To brighten up the spot for the Festival. When she tried to insert the branches, she encountered some difficulty. When she investigated, she discovered . . .”— Wallace lifted the cover of the salver—“this.”
Gyles stared at a crumpled scrap of green, sodden and darkened. He knew what it was before his fingers touched it. He lifted the fragments. The bedraggled feather, shredded of its fronds, hung limply.
Francesca stared. “My riding cap.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Millie mentioned to Mrs. Cantle that it was not in your room. Mrs. Cantle told the maids to keep an eye out in case it was elsewhere about the house. When Lizzie found it, she brought it straight to Mrs. Cantle.”
Gyles turned the remains of the cap in his fingers. “It’s been destroyed.”
“So it appears, my lord.”
Francesca gestured. “Let me see.”
Gyles dropped the wet scrap back onto the salver. Wallace took it to Francesa. Gyles watched her pick it up, spread it in her hands. The material had been ripped, the feather broken and stripped.
She shook her head. “Who. . . . Why?”
“Indeed.” Gyles heard the steel in his voice. He glanced at Wallace. His majordomo met his gaze, his expression impassive. Wallace knew no more than he.
Francesca’s expression cleared. She dropped the cap on the salver. “It must have been an accident. Get rid of it, Wallace. We’ve more pressing matters to deal with today.”
Replacing the salver’s cover, Wallace glanced at Gyles.
Lips thinning, he looked at his wife. “Francesca—”
The door opened; Irving entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Harris has arrived with the ale. You wished to be informed.” He bowed to Francesca. “And Mrs. Cantle asked me to tell you, my lady, that Mrs. Duckett has arrived with her pasties.”
“Thank you, Irving.” Laying aside her napkin, Francesca rose. She flicked a hand at the salver. “Dispose of it, please, Wallace.”
She glided up the table, heading for the door. Gyles reached out and shackled her wrist. “Francesca—”
“It’s nothing but a ruined cap.” Leaning closer, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. “Let be. We’ve so much to do, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”
There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”
She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.
He rose and followed her—into the chaos of the day.
He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.
While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.
Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.
The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down
to talk to her.
In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.
Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.
Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.
She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”
“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”
“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”
Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”
“No—not since then.”
Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”
“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”
Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”
“How? The cap was in my room.”
“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”
Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly—”
“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”
“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”
“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot . . .”
Gyles halted; Francesca glanced at him, then followed his gaze. He was looking at the pit where a whole ox was roasting under Ferdinand’s exacting eye.
“It makes even less sense to suspect Ferdinand. He’s not the least bit angry with me—or you.”
Gyles glanced at her. “He wasn’t annoyed that you weren’t receptive to his impassioned pleas?”
“He’s Italian—all his pleas are impassioned.” She shook Gyles’s arm. “You’re worrying over nothing.”
“Your riding cap—a favorite possession—was found deliberately ruined and hidden in a vase. Until I discover who did it, and why, I will not let the matter rest.”
She exhaled through her teeth. A farmer and his wife were tentatively approaching. “You’re so stubborn. It’s nothing.” Smiling brilliantly, she released Gyles’s arm.
“It’s very definitely not ‘nothing.’ “ Gyles nodded urbanely to the farmer and stepped forward to greet him.
They separated. Despite her intentions, Francesca found her thoughts returning to the mystery of her ruined cap. There had to be a simple explanation.
After fifteen minutes with a bevy of giggling housemaids, she was certain she’d found it. When Gyles came to escort her to the archery range, she smiled and took his arm. “I have it.”
“ ‘It’ what?”
“A sensible explanation for my cap.”
His gaze sharpened. “Well?”
“For a start, if someone wanted to ruin my cap to make me sorry—to pay me back for something I’d done or not done—then they wouldn’t have hidden it in that vase. It might not have been found for months, even years.”
Gyles frowned.
“But,” she continued, “what if I’d left it somewhere and it was accidentally damaged—say with furniture polish. Any maid would be horrified—she’d be certain she’d be dismissed even if you and I know that wouldn’t happen. What would a maid do? She couldn’t hide the cap and take it away—their dresses and aprons have no pockets. So she’d hide it where no one would find it.”
“It was mangled and pulled apart.”
“That might have happened when the maid tried to put the branches in the vase. I was just speaking with her. She said the cap was tangled in the ends of the branches when she pulled them out to see what the problem was.”
Francesca smiled as they neared the crowd gathered about the improvised archery range. “I think we should forget about my cap. It was only a scrap of velvet, after all. I can always get another.”
Gyles got no chance to reply; she slipped her hand from his arm and stepped forward to present the prizes for the men’s archery competition. He stood back; his mind continued to dwell on her cap.
A scrap of velvet and a flirting feather. It might have had little real worth, but despite her comments, it had been a favorite possession of hers. He’d grown fond of it himself.
Propping his shoulders against a tree, he watched her, careful to keep his expression easy, impassive. Her explanation was possible—he had to concede that. Other than Lancelot and Ferdinand, he could conceive of no one who might want to upset her. Even imagining such a thing of them was extrapolating wildly.
According to the staff, Lancelot had not been sighted on the estate since being warned to keep away, and despite her strictures, Ferdinand seemed as worshipful of Francesca as he’d ever been. Even more telling, while Lancelot or Ferdinand might be enamored of dramatic gestures enough to destroy the cap, they wouldn’t, as she’d pointed out, have hidden the result—where was the gesture in that?
So . . . the destruction of the cap was an unfortunate accident. All they could do was shrug and forget it.
That conclusion didn’t ease the tightness about his chest, nor the compulsion to remain watchful and alert.
Amid laughter and cheering, Francesca turned away from the archery butts. He stepped to her side. She smiled and allowed him to take her hand, set it on his sleeve. Allowed him to keep her with him for the rest of the day.
The Harvest Festival was a resounding success. When the sun sank low and the tenants finally rolled home, Francesca and Gyles joined their staff, helping to strike the trestles and return the perishables inside before the river mists spread through the park. Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace helped, too. When all was done, they stayed for supper—just soup followed by a cold collation.
Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace were driven home by Jacobs, and the entire household fell exhausted into bed.
It was midday the next day before things got back to normal.
Gyles and Francesca were seated at the luncheon table, serving themselves from the dishes Irving and a footmen offered, when Cook popped her head around the door, then sidled in. Francesca saw her and smiled.
Cook bobbed a curtsy. “I was just bringing this to Irving.” She held up a glass bottle with a silver top. “Your special dressing.”
Francesca’s eyes lit. “You found it!” She held out her hand.
Cook handed over the bottle. “It was stuck away on a shelf in the pantry. I came across it just this minute when I went to put some of the jam away.”
“Thank you.” Francesca smiled delightedly. Cook bobbed her head and retreated.
Gyles watched as Francesca shook the bottle vigorously, then sprinkled the liquid over her vegetables. “Here.” He held out a hand when she finished. “Let me try it.”
She handed the bottle over. It had a conical lid with a hole in the top.
“What’s in it?”
She picked up her knife and fork. “A mixture of olive oil and vinegar, with various herbs and seasonings.”
Gyles did as she’d done, dribbling the shaken liquid over his potatoes, carrots, and beans. He lowered his face and sniffed—he sat back.
He looked at the bottle, still clasped in his hand—looked at Francesca, raising a sliver of carrot to her lips—
He lunged over the table and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t eat that!”
Eyes wide, she stared at him.
He was looking at the piece of carrot speared on her fork; it gleamed with a light coating of dressing. He forced her hand down. “Put it down.”
&
nbsp; She released the fork. It clattered on her plate.
“My lord?”
Irving was at his shoulder. Easing back, fingers still locked about Francesca’s wrist, Gyles held the bottle out to his butler. “Smell that.”
Irving took the bottle, sniffed. His eyes widened. He stared at the bottle. “Well, my word! Is that . . . ?”
“Bitter almonds.” Gyles looked at Francesca. “Get Wallace in here. And Mrs. Cantle.”
Irving sent the footman hurrying off. He himself whisked the plates from before them.
Francesca was staring at the bottle. “Let me smell it.”
Irving gingerly brought it to her. She took it, sniffed, then met Gyles’s gaze. He raised a brow.
“It smells like bitter almonds.” She set the bottle down.
The door opened; Mrs. Cantle entered, followed by Wallace. “My lord?”
Gyles explained. The bottle was passed around. The verdict was unanimous—the dressing smelled of bitter almonds.
“I don’t understand how . . .” Wallace looked at Mrs. Cantle.
Her color high, the housekeeper faced Gyles. “The bottle went missing—it’s been gone at least a week. Cook found it just a few minutes ago.”
Gyles motioned to Irving. “Fetch Mrs. Doherty.” Irving left. Gyles turned to Mrs. Cantle. “Tell me about this dressing.”
“I asked if it could be made.” Francesca twisted her hand and gripped Gyles’s fingers. “It’s a habit I developed since coming to England—I find dishes here too bland. . . .”
Cook arrived, pale and shaken. “I had no idea. I saw the bottle there and grabbed it, and brought it straightaway—I knew m’lady had been missing it this past week.”
“Who makes the dressing?” Gyles asked.
Mrs. Cantle and Cook exchanged glances. Mrs. Cantle answered. “Ferdinand, my lord. He knew what Lady Francesca was describing—he took great care—felt quite chuffed, he did—to be making it for her.”
“Ferdinand?”
Gyles looked at Francesca. He could see in her eyes her wish to deny all he was thinking.