All About Passion

Chapter 14

The next morning, they waved their guests away. As Charles’s carriage rounded the bend in the drive, Francesca sighed. Gyles glanced at her, pleased the sigh had been a contented one.

“I was thinking of riding out to check on the bridge.” He waited until she looked up and met his eyes to ask, “Would you like to come?”

He’d wanted to see anticipation flare in her eyes; he wasn’t disappointed. But then she grimaced; the light faded. “No-not today. I’ve accomplished so little in the last three days, I need to catch up. The Harvest Festival’s only a week away, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”

He hesitated, then said, “I don’t need to check the bridge today-is there anything I can do to help?”

Disappointment vanished from her eyes. Smiling, she linked her arm through his, looking down as they turned back into the house. “If you would exercise your memory and tell me all you can remember of the day-what happened, when, and so on-it would be a great help. Cook knows some things, Mrs. Cantle knows others, and your mother and aunt remember still other bits, but I can’t find anyone who remembers the day as a child.” She glanced at him. “But you must. We have so many children on the estate, I want the day to be filled for them, too.”

“If it’s not, we’ll be fishing them out of the pond and the fountain. That’s what always happened when the younger crew got bored.”

“Being wet at this time of year isn’t wise, so we must ensure the younger ones aren’t bored.”

“Being wet never hurt me.” Gyles steered her to his study.

“That,” she declared as she swept over the threshold, “is not what your mother said.”

They spent the rest of the day organizing their Harvest Festival-the first for twenty-eight years. Gyles recounted his memories, then they added the events mentioned by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace.

After lunch, they called in Wallace and Irving, Mrs. Cantle and Cook. By late afternoon, they had a battle plan.

Gyles sat in an armchair and watched Francesca, the general, seated behind his desk, outline her campaign. Their troops were ranged about the room on chairs, nodding, occasionally putting in a suggestion or correction. The enthusiasm swirling about the room was palpable.

“I know where we can get the right-size barrels for the bobbing,” Irving volunteered.

Wallace nodded. “And we’ll need to speak with Harris about the ale.”

“Yes indeed.” Francesca scribbled a note. “Now, Cook-you advise we get pasties from Mrs. Duckett?”

“Aye-my bread’s as good as hers, but no one hereabouts has a hand for pastry like Duckett. And she’ll be thrilled to be doing it again, too.”

“Very good.” Francesca scribbled on, then looked up. “Now, is there anything we’ve forgotten?”

They all shook their heads. Lips twisting, Gyles volunteered, “Edwards.”

They all stilled, all exchanged glances, then Wallace cleared his throat. “If you would leave Edwards to me and Mrs. Cantle, ma’am, I believe we can sort out all the arrangements without creating any undue disturbance.”

Francesca looked down to hide her smile. “Indeed, that might be best. Very well.” Laying down her pen, she looked at them all. “That’s it-if we all do our parts, I’m sure it will be a wonderful, most memorable day.”

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Francesca snuggled deeper under her satin covers and tried to will away the hand curving about her shoulder, gently shaking her.

“It’s past eight and the morning’s clear,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear. “Come riding with me.”

She frowned. “We already did-didn’t we?”

He laughed, his chest to her back, rocking her. “I mean on the downs, on Regina. She must be missing your runs.”

“Oh.” Wriggling up, Francesca pushed her hair back. Gyles was lounging on her bed, already dressed but without cravat or coat. Sitting straighter, she peered past him to the window. “Is it really fine?”

“As fine as we’re going to get at this time of year.” Rising and heading for his room, he threw her a challenging look. “Come on.”

Francesca struggled out of bed. By the time Millie had appeared with her water and she’d washed and climbed into her habit, the anticipation of a rousing gallop had stirred her blood. Millie had left her crop and gloves on the bed; she swiped them up and looked about. “My cap?”

Millie’s head was buried in the wardrobe. “I know it was here with the whip and gloves, but I can’t find it.”

Francesca heard striding footsteps in the corridor, then a tap sounded on her door. “Never mind. You can hunt it out later.”

Gyles was waiting in the corridor. His gaze raked her as she emerged, then returned to her hair.

“We can’t find it at the moment.”

He waved her on, then fell in beside her, his gaze drifting again to her uncovered head. “I have to admit I’ve got used to that flirting feather.”

She threw him a grin and started down the stairs. “I don’t need a feather.”

He caught her gaze, and stepped down in her wake. “Neither do I.”

They reached the stable yard to find Gyles’s grey saddled and held waiting, but no sign of Regina. They entered the stable and headed for the mare’s stall, from which Jacob’s voice could be heard, crooning.

He heard them coming and stepped out. “Don’t ask me how it happened, but she picked up a stone. Wedged tight in her rear hoof it was, poor lamb. I just got it out.” He showed them the small, sharp rock.

Gyles frowned. “How could that happen? She couldn’t have been put into the stall without someone noticing.”

“Aye-but there it is, plain as day.” Jacobs shook his head. “All I can think is some rascally lad didn’t take enough care and a stone got lobbed in with the straw. I’ll be speaking with them, you may be sure, but for now, I’m right sorry, ma’am, but the mare’s not for riding.”

Francesca had gone into the stall to inspect her darling; she nodded and came out again. “No-you’re quite right. That hoof’s obviously tender.”

Jacobs looked uncomfortable; he glanced from her to Gyles. “I’m not sure we’ve another mount suitable, ma’am.”

Francesca scanned the huge hunters, then arched a brow at Gyles.

He sighed. “If you promise not to go tearing off, faster than the wind over the downs, then I suppose, seeing I’ll be with you-”

“Thank you.” Francesca gifted him with a glorious smile, then turned it on Jacobs. “That one, I think.”

Gyles glanced at the black she’d selected, then nodded, ignoring Jacobs’s stunned look. “Wizard’s at least reasonably biddable.”

Francesca pulled a face at him. They walked back out to the yard. In a minute, Jacobs, still looking unsure, walked the black out.

His hand at her waist, Gyles urged Francesca forward. She stopped by the black’s side and he lifted her to the saddle. Jacobs held the horse steady while she got settled. Gyles mounted and picked up his reins, glanced at the small figure perched atop the massive hunter, then wheeled. She brought the black alongside as they trotted out of the yard.

“Is it possible to ride through the village, then up to the downs that way?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Why?”

“We need to speak with Mrs. Duckett and Harris about the supplies for the Festival-I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”

He nodded. Instead of taking the track to the escarpment, he led the way along a ride that circled the house, running under the trees of the park to eventually join the main drive.

When they slowed and clattered through the main gates, Francesca laughed. “That’s a lovely gallop.”

They trotted on to the village.

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.

The image of the first time he’d seen her, the fact that he’d wanted her from that moment, led his mind to his mistake, to his initial perception of Franni-to the fact he’d been idiot enough to imagine she would make him a suitable wife to the point he’d thought it was she he was marrying.

God forbid. Thankfully, fate had.

He’d been as arrogantly foolish as Lancelot in his approach to finding his bride, but fate had taken pity on him, overriding his machinations to plant the right candidate at the altar beside him. And arrange matters so that, despite her temper, she’d been agreeable to marrying him. Agreeable to loving him.

He’d been so wrong about his bride-was he also wrong in refusing to love her? In not allowing what could be between them, what she wanted to be between them, to grow?

Fate had been so right over the matter of his wife. Did he dare to trust in fate again over the nature of their marriage?

Blowing out a long breath, he turned down the last stretch of track. Beside him, the grey slowed. Gyles looked up.

A yard ahead, a leather strap was stretched across the path just above knee height, secured around tree trunks on either side.

It was a leather rein from some carriage harness. Gyles halted before it. He tugged-it wasn’t taut, but didn’t have much give. He looked at the grey, judging where the strap would hit. He tested the leather, tested the knots securing it. Thought of what would have happened if he’d come down the path at a canter.

Or up the path at a gallop.

Frowning, he untied the strap from one tree trunk, rolling it in his hand as he crossed to the other tree.

He was the principal user of the path. Other than him, only Francesca rode this way. When exercising his horses, his grooms used the track along the river where they cantered under Jacobs’s watchful eye.

The implication was obvious. “Who?” and “Why?” were less so.

He had no local enemies that he knew of… except, perhaps, Lancelot Gilmartin. Glancing at the leather rolled in his hand, Gyles stuffed it into his pocket, then caught the grey’s reins and continued down the track.

Despite the boy’s foolishness, he couldn’t believe it of Lancelot. Such cold-bloodedness seemed unlikely-and he’d certainly have considered that Francesca might be the one caught, and surely he wouldn’t want that. Then again, given her verbal dissection of his character… could youthful adoration turn so quickly to hate?

But if not Lancelot, then who? He was involved in political schemes which others vehemently opposed, yet he couldn’t imagine any of the opposing camp employing such tactics. That was too fanciful for words.

He pulled the rein out of his pocket and examined it again. It was damp. It had rained last night but not since dawn. The rein had been strung there at least overnight. Possibly for longer. He thought back to the last time anyone had used the path. He and Charles had gone riding the first morning of their visit. After that, he and Francesca had gone by other ways.

Gyles reached the stable yard. “Jacobs!”

Jacobs came running. Gyles waited until he’d handed the grey to a stableboy before showing Jacobs the rein.

“It could be one of ours-heaven knows we’ve heaps lying about.” Jacobs strung the leather between his hands. “I really couldn’t be sure. Where was it?”

Gyles told him.

Jacobs looked grim. “I’ll have the lads keep a lookout. Whoever put it there might come back to check.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. Let me know immediately if you or the lads see anyone or anything unusual.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“And during the Harvest Festival, I want the stables closed off, and watched.”

“Aye-I’ll see to it.”

Gyles headed for the house, trying to dismiss the notion that had popped into his head. The conundrum of how a stone had become embedded in his wife’s mount’s hoof when the horse hadn’t been out. So the next time she’d been out, Francesca had ridden one of his hunters, a horse she couldn’t easily manage.

He’d been with her and they’d ridden out by a different route, but the scenario could so easily have been different. She could have gone riding by herself and taken the path up the escarpment.

Flexing his shoulders, he tried to push the resulting vision aside. It hadn’t happened, and all was still well.

That, he tried to tell himself, was all that mattered.

Striding up to the side door, he hauled it open and went inside.