“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.