“Imagined the rest.” Gyles thought back. “I introduced myself as Gyles Rawlings, a distant-” He broke off. Francesca’s eyes had widened. “What?”

“I-we-Ester, Charles, and I-always spoke of you as Chillingworth. When we arrived here, your mother and the others did the same, at least in Franni’s hearing. She might not have realized-”

“Who I was before the ceremony? That might explain her reaction. Sheer surprise makes more sense than her having read anything into our meetings.”

“Those meetings?”

“The first time I walked with her all we spoke of was the dogs. I asked if they were hers. She said they just lived there. I later made a comment about their spots, with which she agreed. Then I left her. The next day, she was absorbed with trees. She was asking which was which.” He shook his head. “I think I answered twice. Other than that, and saying good-bye, I can’t recall saying anything more.”

He studied Francesca’s face. “If your cousin imagined anything, it was unfounded. Neither you nor I can do anything about that. You said yourself you don’t know if it was me she was referring to or some other. Or no one. You don’t know if that’s why she reacted in the chapel as she did. It might, as Charles suggested, simply be overexcitement.”

Francesca held his gaze. He was right-there was nothing either of them could do, at least not at present. He reached for her-she whisked away.

“Your mistake over Franni is only the first bone we have between us, my lord.” She caught his eye as she paced around him. “I wish to understand why, imagining you were offering for Franni, you were so…”-she gestured-“intent on me.” She was sure he’d understand her allusion; the hardening of his already hard face confirmed he did. Swinging to face him, she spread her arms wide. “If you thought she was me, who did you think I was?”

His eyes narrowed to slate shards. His gaze flashed over her-she felt it like a touch, a brush of long fingers over her bare skin. Beneath her gown, her skin flickered. She suppressed a shiver and kept her gaze on his eyes.

“I thought”-the words were bitten off-“that you were a gypsy. Too consciously well endowed and far too bold to be a young lady.” He took a prowling step toward her. “I thought you a bold and eager companion.”

She tilted her head defiantly. “I know well what you were thinking, my lord.” She made no effort to retreat as he prowled closer.

“I know you do. You were thinking along the same lines.” He halted before her. Lifting one hand, he traced a finger along her jaw, then slid it beneath and tipped her face to his. His eyes held hers. “Can you deny it?”

Francesca let her lips curve. “No. But then I hadn’t come directly from offering for another.”

Gyles realized his misstep, but she didn’t let him retreat.

“How dare you!” Eyes blazing, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “How dare you make an offer for me, and then, within minutes, think, consider, and even start planning on taking another woman as your mistress?”

“That other woman was you!”

“You didn’t know that!” She jabbed him again. He took a step back and she was on him like a whirlwind. “You came after me, looking for me in the orchard-you kissed me-you almost seduced me!”

She was so much shorter and slighter than he, yet her fury burned like a flame. Hands, arms, her whole body was afire; she came at him, and he backed, step by step, before the sheer rage in her eyes.

“You left the woman you thought was your intended, and you deliberately sought me out to-”

“You were very ready to be seduced-”

“Of course I was! I knew who you were-you’d offered for me! I thought you wanted me-me, your intended bride!”

“I did want you-”

She cut him off with a torrent of Italian. He spoke the language fluently, but at the rate she spoke, he could make out less than one word in ten. Words like “arrogant,” and something he thought approximated “swine,” and one or two others gave him an idea of her tack, but not enough of the context for him to defend himself.

“Slow down-I can’t understand you.”

Her eyes flamed. “You can’t understand me? You were set on marrying a lady you’d deliberately barely exchanged two words with! It’s I who cannot understand you!”

She reverted to Italian, a flow of impassioned outpourings that, like a physical tide, swept them both along. Her gestures, always dramatic, became more emphatic, more violent. He continued to retreat while he struggled to find some point to seize long enough to gain his footing. She darted this way, then that, hands flinging wildly about.

He suddenly realized she’d opened the corridor door and backed him to the threshold. Grabbing the door’s edge, he halted. “Francesca!”

The exclamation was designed to jerk her reins, to shake her to reality.

It only evoked another furious spate of Italian. She flung up a hand as if to slap him-she didn’t-she wouldn’t have connected-it was just another histrionic gesture conveying her contempt, but he ducked back, stepped back, let go of the door.

Then he was in the corridor and she was in the doorway, hands on her hips, her breasts rising and falling, her black hair a silken jumble against the ivory of her gown. Green fire burned in her eyes.

She was so vividly, vitally, intensely beautiful, he literally couldn’t breathe.

“And then,” she said, reverting to English, “when you’ve managed to answer that, you can explain why it was, in the forest that morning, you stopped! And again in the stables-was it only last night? You want me, my lord, yet you don’t! You didn’t want me as your bride, but you thought to have me as your mistress. You thought to seduce me-then when you succeeded you turned away!” She flung up her hands. “How can you explain that?”

She paused, the silence dramatic after her tirade. Breasts heaving, she kept her eyes locked on his.

Then she drew in a long breath, drew herself up and lifted her chin. “You put it so succinctly last night. You don’t want me, you don’t need me-you only desire me. Not, however, sufficiently deeply to bother consummating a relationship. And now we’re married. You might think on that.”

She turned away. “Good night.”

He swore and leaped for the door. It slammed shut in his face. The lock snibbed as his hand closed on the knob.

The oath he uttered was not a polite one. He glared at the door. He could hear Fate laughing.

He’d plotted and planned to gain a meek and mild bride.

And landed himself with a virago.


Francesca didn’t waste any time staring at the locked door. She raced across the room to the door from his bedroom-only to skid to a horrified stop. The door had no lock.

She looked around, then ran to the escritoire. Lifting the chair before it, she rushed to jam it under the doorknob.

Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked far too flimsy for her peace of mind.

A chest of drawers stood to one side of the doorway; she stepped to its side, drew in a deep breath, and pushed with all her might. It shifted an inch. Encouraged, she tamped down her welling panic and pushed again. The other end of the chest hit the doorframe.

Muttering a curse, she hurried to that end, reached across and tried to jerk the corner free-

Hard hands closed about her waist.

She screamed with sheer shock. But she recognized the hands-they’d been flirting with her waist for the past hours. Her fright drowned beneath a wave of fresh fury. He juggled her, turned her-locked his hands about her waist and hoisted her up-up above his head.

Shocked anew, she grabbed handfuls of his hair-not to pull but to steady herself. His eyes flashed a warning-she ignored it, too busy trying to fathom how he’d got in.

“The other door-the one to your sitting room.”

She looked across the room, and for the first time saw the door in the opposite wall.

“I take it you haven’t admired the decor yet.”

His urbane tone did nothing to calm her. Releasing one hand, she glanced down. He started walking, carrying her like some dangerous captured prize, high above his head at arm’s length.

“What are you doing?” She tried to look around but couldn’t. She thought he was making for the bed.

“Getting these proceedings back on track.”

The steel beneath his words didn’t escape her. “And what track is that?”

He stopped walking and went to look up, but couldn’t-she had to release her hold on his hair. Reluctantly, she did. She tried to brace her hands on his forearms, but there was nothing she could hook her fingers in-the sleeves of his robe had fallen to his shoulders. Precariously balanced high above the floor, she was forced to put her trust in him, in his strength, to hold her steady.

Tipping back his head, he looked into her face. Not a single tremor disturbed the locked muscles of his arms-he was supporting her without effort.

She met his eyes. They were stormy, turbulent-intent.

After a moment, he spoke. “We’re married. This is our wedding night.”

A shiver slithered down her spine. Some age-old instinct warned her against replying, against uttering any contemptuous quip, any taunt. She needed to be on the ground, no longer his captive, to continue their battle. She waited, breathing rapidly. His gaze locked with hers, slowly, very slowly, he lowered her.

His hands were level with his chest, her hands had just touched his shoulders, her toes still a foot off the ground, when she felt his muscles bunch, his fingers grip.

He flung her back.

She fell full length in the middle of the huge bed. She caught her breath on a gasp and scrambled to sit up-

Gyles shrugged off his robe and went for her.

She clutched frantically but couldn’t gain purchase on the slippery satin. He drew her back down, tangling her legs with his. When she continued to struggle, he caught her hands, trapped them both in one of his and anchored them above her head, then lifted over her and lowered his body to hers.

His weight subdued her, trapped her beneath him. Propped on his forearms, he met her gaze-wary but still furious.

Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, her body lay firm and supple beneath his. He shut his senses to her distractions. In a minute, he’d indulge, but first… ”You were right the first time, when we first met, as to what I thought of you.”

Francesca held his gaze and tried to read his eyes; their dark turbulence defeated her. His expression was graven, one she didn’t recognize, yet some part of her did-some part of her responded. To the look in his eyes, to the harsh set of his lips, to the dark, gravelly rasp of his voice.

“I desired you-I still do.” His glance strayed to the ripe mounds of her breasts. He sank against her; she felt his erection rigid against her thigh.

“Whenever I see you, all I can think of is being inside you.” With his free hand, he traced the neckline of her gown, from her shoulder to the center front, where tiny buttons held it closed. One flick and the first button popped free. “Now we’re married, I’ll get to indulge that desire every day, every morning and every night.”

He continued to unbutton her gown.

There was no doubt in her mind which track he was on. She dragged in a short breath. “You don’t want me. You don’t need me.”

He raised his eyes and met hers. He inclined his head. “I don’t want you. I don’t need you. But by heaven I desire you.” He slid one finger beneath her gaping gown and traced her upper breast-they both felt the quiver that raced through her. “And you desire me.”

She knew what he intended, what he would do, knew she had no defense. But it was not what she wanted-not like this. “You don’t want me as your wife. You didn’t want to marry me.”

“No.” He shifted his weight, reaching for buttons lower down. “But I did.”

The last button slid free; her gown gaped to her waist, the silk less sumptuous than the skin it concealed. Gyles slid his hand beneath the gown’s edge, cupped her breast, and circled the peak with his thumb. “Which brings us to where we are.” He met her gaze. “To this.”

He circled her nipple again and felt her spine tense. Saw in her eyes, darkened and wide, the knowledge that she wouldn’t-couldn’t-win the prize she’d set her heart on. And understood why she’d been so disappointed. So very angry.