She was lying spread-eagled on her back in the middle of a gorse bush.
From the disgusted look on her face and the size of the gorse bush, she was unharmed.
The panic that had him by the throat did not immediately let go.
Trotting to the bush, he drew rein and looked down at her. His chest was heaving—the effort of the ride had left him feeling as if he’d run a mile.
His temper left him feeling like tearing a strip off her.
She started to smile at him, then caught the look in his narrowed eyes.
“You witless female!” He paused to let the fury behind the words sink in. “You heard me yell—why the devil didn’t you stop?”
Her eyes flashed green fire; her chin set mulishly. “I heard you, but I’d be surprised if even a sophisticated gentleman such as yourself could have known there was a gorse bush here!”
“It wasn’t the gorse that was your problem.” She struggled to sit up, but the gorse wasn’t that accommodating. He swung down from the chestnut’s back. “Damn it—you shouldn’t be riding, certainly not hell-bent as you were, if you can’t pace your mount better. The grey was tired.”
“He wasn’t!” She struggled even more furiously to rise.
“Here.” He held out a hand. When she hesitated, eyeing his hand and him through narrowed eyes, he added, “Either take my damned hand, or I’ll leave you there for the night.”
The threat was a good one—the gorse was in bloom, well endowed with spiny spikes.
With a look as haughty as any princess, she held out a gloved hand. He grasped it and pulled—then she was on her feet before him.
“Thank you.”
Her tone suggested she would rather have accepted help from a leper. Nose elevating, giving a haughty swish of her hips, she swung her heavy skirts around and turned to the grey. “He is not tired.” Then her voice changed. “Knight . . . come on, boy.”
The grey lifted his head, pricked his ears, then came ambling over.
“You can’t get back in the saddle.”
At the clipped, blunt words, Francesca threw a dismissive look over her shoulder. “I’m not one of your lily-livered English misses who can’t mount without help.”
He was silent for a moment, then replied, “Very well. Let’s see how far you get.”
Reaching for Knight’s reins, she gathered them, using the action to camouflage another glance at her almost-betrothed. He was standing, arms crossed, watching her. He’d made no attempt to take his chestnut’s reins.
His expression was stony—and calmly expectant.
Francesca stopped. She stared at him. “What?”
He took his time answering. “You fell into gorse.”
“So?”
After another aggravating moment, he asked, “Don’t they have gorse in Italy?”
“No.” She frowned. “Not like tha—” The truth dawned; eyes widening, she stared at him, then twisted to look at the back of her skirt. It was covered in snapped-off spikes. She grabbed at her long curls, pulling them over her shoulders. They were adorned with spikes, too. “Oh, no!”
She shot him a glance that told him what she thought of him, then fell to pulling the spiny spikes from her skirt. She couldn’t see; in places, she could barely reach.
“Would you like me to help?”
She looked up. He stood no more than two feet away. The offer had been couched in a completely flat tone. There was nothing to be read in his eyes; his expression was utterly bland.
She gritted her teeth. “Please.”
“Turn around.”
She did, then looked over her shoulder. He hunkered down behind her and started plucking spikes from her skirt. She felt nothing more than an occasional tug. Reassured, she turned her attention to the curls tumbling down her back to her waist; she pulled and plucked, reached and stretched—he growled at her to stand still, but otherwise applied himself to her skirts in silence.
His gaze fixed on the emerald velvet, Gyles tried not to think of what it was covering. Difficult. He tried even harder not to think of the emotions that had crashed through him in the instant she’d fallen.
He had never, ever, felt like that—not over anyone or anything. For one fractured moment, he’d felt like the sun had gone out, like the light had been snuffed from his life.
It was ludicrous. He’d first met her two days ago.
He tried to tell himself it had been some sense of duty—some idea of responsibility to someone younger than himself, some loyalty to Charles in whose care the gypsy presumably was. He tried to tell himself a lot of things—he didn’t believe any of them.
The repetitive task of removing the spikes gave him time to push his unwanted emotions back behind the wall from which they had sprung. He was determined to keep them there, safely locked away.
He plucked off the last spike, then rose and stretched his back. She’d finished her hair some time before and had waited in silence while he completed his task.
“Thank you.”
The words were soft; she looked at him for a moment, then turned and gathered her reins.
He stepped beside her and wordlessly offered his cupped hands—he knew she’d bite her tongue rather than ask.
With a bob of her head, she placed her boot in his hands. He threw her up easily—she was such a lightweight. Frowning, he walked back to the chestnut and swung up to the saddle.
In silence, she led the way back to the lane.
He followed, deep in thought.
Once they reached the lane, he tapped the chestnut’s flanks and moved up beside her.
Francesca was aware he was there, but kept her gaze fixed forward. The irritation she’d initially—perfectly legitimately—felt at his outburst was fading, only to be replaced by a soupçon of alarm. This was the man she might shortly marry.
Behind his terse words, his almost violent movements, she’d glimpsed a temper as fiery as hers. To her mind, that counted in his favor—she’d much rather deal with a fire-eater than a man with ice in his veins. It was his possible—now likely—attitude to her riding that filled her with concern. In the two years she’d lived in England, this country of reserve, riding had been her only outlet for the wildness that was an integral part of her soul.
An integral part of her—if she didn’t release it, exercise it now and then, she’d go mad. And as a proper young lady in England, riding like the wind was the wildest activity permissible.
What if her husband—he whom she would vow to obey and who would have control over all aspects of her life—forbade her to ride? To ride wildly—for her, they were one and the same.
She could see the problem looming, yet before she fell, she hadn’t imagined his enthusiasm. She hadn’t forgotten their mutual exhilaration, the shared enjoyment. He’d reveled in the wildness as much as she.
The gates of the Hall appeared ahead; as they slowed, Francesca shot him a glance. He was frowning. In a way that boded her no good.
“What?”
His gaze flicked to her, still aggravated, still stormy. “I’m considering riding in to inform Sir Charles you shouldn’t be riding his hunters.”
“No!”
“Yes!” The chestnut jibbed; ruthlessly, he steadied it. “You’re an exceptional rider—I won’t deny that—but you don’t have the strength to manage hunters. If you must run wild, you’d do better on an Arab, a mare. Something fleet and nimble, but more responsive to your guidance. You on the grey—or that bay you rode yesterday—if the horse bolts, you won’t be able to control it.”
She met his gaze with muted belligerence, unwilling to be bullied. Unfortunately, in this case, she knew he was right. If one of Charles’s hunters got away from her, all she’d be able to do was cling and pray. Their gazes remained locked, both gauging, assessing the shifting possibilities . . . ”All right.” Looking down, she gathered her reins. “I’ll speak with Charles.”
“Do that.” His tone was just short of an order. “No more hunters.”
He paused, his gaze still on her face. “So you promise . . . ?”
She threw him a glance that had a warning blazoned in it. “I promise I’ll talk to Charles tonight.”
He nodded. “In that case, I’ll leave you here.”
He hesitated, then swept her a bow that was the essence of elegant grace—on horseback, a feat not to be sneered at. With a last look, he wheeled the chestnut and cantered down the lane.
Francesca considered his departing back, then, lips curving in an appreciative smile, she turned the grey down the drive.
Her would-be husband had redeemed himself. She’d expected him to make a push to forbid her to run wild, even though he’d enjoyed the wildness, too. Understood it, too, it seemed; he’d been clever enough to avoid the pitfall. Considering his tack, she noted that he’d seemed primarily concerned with her safety.
Pondering that, she trotted to the stable.
Later that night, clutching a woolen shawl about her nightgown, Francesca climbed onto her window seat and settled among the cushions.
For the past year, she’d been searching for a suitable husband, looking to make a respectable marriage. She’d been raised with that as her goal; she’d looked forward to having a husband, a home, and a family for as long as she could recall. She knew what she wanted from life. To be happy, contented, she needed a relationship much as her parents’ had been—a fusion of deep passion and abiding love. Without that, her life would not be complete; it was her destiny—she’d known that for years.
Within four months of putting off her blacks, she’d realized she wasn’t going to find her destiny in the neighborhood of Rawlings Hall.
When she’d first suggested going about, Charles had explained that the household remained reclusive because, appearances to the contrary, Frances, his daughter, her cousin, known to all as Franni, was in poor health and needed to remain quiet, undisturbed by society’s demands.
She’d accepted the restriction without demur—not only did she owe Charles a debt of gratitude, but she’d come to love him dearly; she would never do anything to cause him distress. She was also fond of Ester, Charles’s sister-in-law, Franni’s dead mother’s older sister. Ester had lived at the Hall for years, helping to raise Franni. Ester, too, deserved her consideration.
And then there was Franni, who was simply Franni—sweet, a little simple, rather helpless. Despite being of an age, they were totally unalike, yet there was a mild if somewhat distant affection between them.
She’d kept her increasing despondency to herself, yet the prospect of living her life alone, buried in the forest, had eaten at her. Rawlings Hall had started to feel like a prison.
So Chillingworth’s offer was a godsend, no matter the guise. An arranged marriage to a wealthy peer would release her from her isolation.
Did she want to be the Countess of Chillingworth?
What young lady would not want a position of such rank, complete with establishments and secure in funds, with an extraordinarily handsome husband to boot? Such a marriage with the prospect of a developing relationship would be an enviable offer.
That wasn’t, however, what the earl had offered her.
He’d made it plain that he wished for no real relationship with his wife. There was no other way to interpret his stipulations. And despite the hours they’d spent together, despite the link she sensed between them, he’d given no indication of rescripting his offer.
He was a man of passion, of hot blood, not cold, yet his offer had been the ultimate in studied cold-bloodedness.
It made no sense.
Why had he, specifically he—the man who had held her too close in the shrubbery, kissed her in the orchard and ridden wild through the forest by her side—made such an uncharacteristic offer?
Reliving their encounters, she came to that moment in the forest when she’d lain helpless in the gorse and he’d stood over her with raw fury in his eyes. She’d reacted to it, to the words his fury had sparked. But what had caused the real man to so completely surface, to drop his guard?
Her fall had somehow breached the walls behind which he hid his emotions. She—her body, her person, even her eyes—could evoke his passion, but he was more comfortable with that, more confident of controlling it.
In the forest, he hadn’t liked what she’d done. He hadn’t liked her making him feel whatever it was he’d felt. That was why his tone had lashed, why his eyes had snapped.
His temper had been his reaction, so what was the emotion she’d evoked? Was it fear?
She considered the possibility, considered the fact that heated words and violent reactions often arose out of caring. Out of a fear of loss, fear for someone who was dear. Her father had argued vehemently, often irrationally, when faced with one of her mother’s potentially dangerous whims. Could Chillingworth have felt the lick of that particular whip?
Given she and he had already felt the related lash of mutual passion, why not?
If he had . . .
The prospect of finding her destiny, all that she needed of life, within her marriage tantalized. It was what she’d always wanted, her ultimate goal, and it was possible—the ingredients were there. Her mother had always assured her that, when they were, she’d know.
She knew now. She and Chillingworth could be as passionate a couple as her parents had been, devoted to the end. That was what she wanted—the only prize she’d ultimately settle for—a passionate and enduring love.
Yet what if he would not?
What if the reason he was so set on a cold-blooded marriage was so entrenched he would not bend? It was a risk—a real one. He was neither malleable nor manageable; she would get only what he was willing to give.
Was she prepared to accept the risk and the possible consequences?
If she failed to gain what she needed from their marriage, then an arrangement such as Chillingworth had proposed would leave her free to fulfill her destiny, to search for the love she needed, outside of wedlock. That was not her first choice, but life had already taught her to bend to the prevailing wind and search for what she needed where she could.
With Chillingworth, or if not with him, then with some other gentleman, she would take what she needed from life.
She would accept Chillingworth tomorrow afternoon. No—she would instruct her uncle to accept him, if that was how Chillingworth wanted the scene played.
The breeze from the forest was cool. Rising from the window seat, she headed for her bed, inwardly shaking her head.
He was who he was—no matter what he said, he could not, in his heart, still be set on a loveless, cold-blooded relationship, not now he’d met her. Kissed her. He might stubbornly adhere to the role he’d scripted for himself; he might still cling to the fiction before Charles, herself—even to himself. But that could not be what his real self wanted.
Halting by her bed, Francesca tilted her head, considering her future—considering him. A challenge?
Lips firming, she set aside her shawl and climbed between the sheets.
The possibility was there—she felt confident of that—but to gain what she wanted from their marriage, she’d need much more than he’d offered thus far.
She’d need his heart.
Given openly, freely, without reservation.
Would he ever be willing to offer her that?
With a sigh, she closed her eyes and surrendered her destiny to the gods. In her sleepy mind, a distant fantasy took shape . . . of her streaking across the downs she’d read lay just north of his castle on a fleet-footed Arabian mare. With him by her side.
Across the forest, Gyles sat staring out at the night. A glass of brandy in one hand, the window open before his chair, he brooded on his soul—on its propensities. He didn’t like what he saw; he didn’t feel comfortable with the possibilities.
The gypsy was dangerous. Too dangerous to risk seducing. A wise man knew when to leave temptation alone.
He’d determined to give her a wide berth, yet the instant he’d se
en her, he’d given chase. Without thought. Without hesitation.
The gypsy had his measure.
As for what he’d felt in the instant she’d fallen . . .
He’d offered for Francesca Rawlings. Tomorrow, he’d call at Rawlings Hall and receive her acceptance of his suit. He’d make arrangements to marry her—his perfect, meek, mild-mannered cipher—as swiftly as possible.
Then he would leave.
His hand clenched about the glass, then he downed the contents and stood.
He would not meet with the gypsy again.
Chapter 4
Francesca spoke with Charles as she’d promised. While sympathetic to Chillingworth’s concern, he’d also been touchingly aware of her need to ride.
“I can’t see why,” Charles had said, “as long as you exercise reasonable caution, you shouldn’t continue to ride my hunters until you marry and he can supply you with a suitable mount. After all, you’ve been riding through the forest for two years without mishap.”
Those sentiments echoed Francesca’s. Consequently, early the next morning, hours earlier than she normally rode, she was on the bay gelding heading down a bridle path miles away from her normal route between the Hall and Lyndhurst. Her mood was sunny, her heart light as she galloped along. Not a smidgen of guilt disturbed her; she’d done everything she could to spare Chillingworth.
She rode into the next glade at a clipping pace.
Mounted on his chestnut, he was riding toward her.
The first thing she felt was a sense of betrayal.
Then she saw his face—watched it harden—saw fury flare, then coalesce into something hotter. Betrayal was swamped by alarm.
Then he dug in his heels and came for her.
She fled. She didn’t stop to think—rational thought had no place in her brain. When a man looked at a woman like that, then charged at her, there was only one sane reaction.
A bridle path was closer than he was—she took it, plunging the bay onto the track. The chestnut swooped in behind them. She gave the bay his head. She could feel the thud of the chestnut’s hooves over the reverberation of the bay’s strides and the frantic pounding of her heart. A vise locked tight about her chest, squeezing her heart into her throat. The wind of her passing whipped her hair back, tossing her curls in a tangle behind her.