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.