“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 himsel
f, 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?