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.
The gypsy saw him. With a last pat, she left the mare and stepped into the aisle. Tense as a bowstring, Gyles shut the stall door and latched it.
“Thank you.”
Her voice had changed-lowered-smoky, sultry, seductive. Gyles turned-
She stepped into him, twined her arms about his neck, stretched up against him, and kissed him.
The simple, passionate kiss slew him-slew all his good intentions, slew any chance of him escaping-or of her escaping him. His arms closed about her and he crushed her to him, bent his head, and took control of the kiss.
She tasted of wind and wildness, of the exhilaration of riding free and fast, unfettered, unrestrained. The invitation in her kiss was explicit-they spoke the same language, understood each other perfectly; there was no need for thought between them.
Arching against him, she drew him deeper, deeper into their kiss, deeper into her wonder. He held her against him and marveled at her bounty, at the promise inherent in her soft curves and supple limbs. His hands went searching; so did hers. And then she was cupping him, cradling him, fondling him-inexpertly admittedly, yet her desire was very clear. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
That want hit Gyles with a punch that stole his breath, and shook a few of his laggard wits into place. He shifted back, to the side, intending to lean against a stall door-the one next to the mare’s-and try to catch his breath. Try to break their kiss, try to ease back from her-
The stall door swung open behind him. It was the middle stall in the long row-the one the stablelads used to store fresh straw. Gyles stumbled back. The stall contained no horse-just a huge pile of loose straw. They landed in it, on it. Within seconds, they’d sunk into it.
They were cocooned in soft dryness, closed off in a dark world of their own. Gyles groaned. The sound was swallowed by their kiss. They lay trapped in each other’s arms with her largely beneath him. Then he felt her hands shift, remembered where they’d been, felt her fingers grip his waist. Her hands were underneath his jacket; he felt her pluck at his shirt, fingers dancing along his waistband.
Oh, no. He lifted his head, broke the kiss-then couldn’t think what to say.
“You’re… impatient.” One small hand was caressing him again. “You want me now.”
A wealth of wonder and discovery laced her tone, confirming beyond doubt that she’d never known a man. It was too dark in the stall, in the well of the straw, to see her face. She could only be seeing him as a dark shadow above her. They were both operating primarily by touch. He wasn’t sure if that was an advantage or not.
“I have to get you back into the house.”
She hesitated, then he felt her soften and subtly shift beneath him. “I’m quite comfortable here.”
Her movements, her tone, left him in no doubt as to her meaning.
His senses, his desires, were fighting to defeat the last of his reason. He let his head fall, trying to garner strength enough to break free. His forehead touched hers. He felt her hands slide-upward, over his chest, fingers splaying against the fine linen of his shirt.
How many women had touched him like that?
Hundreds.
How many others had made him ache, made him shake, with just that simple caress?
None.
Even though he knew the danger, when she tipped her face up and her lips found his, he couldn’t resist, couldn’t break away. She seduced him with a gentle touch and a kiss so innocent it reached his shielded heart.
“No,” he breathed, and tried to draw back.
“Yes,” she replied, and said no more. Her lips held his, not with any physical coercion, but with a power he was helpless to deny.
Francesca drank him in, drank in the promise of the hard body lying atop her, of his flagrant response to her. She was more than pleased; she felt like the cat about to lap the cream. He felt hot, hard; the tension in his body screamed of urgency.
His lips broke from hers, trailed her jaw, found her ear, slid lower.
“You like the mare?”
He sounded hoarse.
“She’s beautiful.”
His lips touched her throat and she instinctively arched, and heard his indrawn breath.
“She’s got… excellent bloodlines. Her paces…”
He’d reached her collarbone and seemed to forget what he was saying; Francesca saw no reason to prompt him. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to explore passion, with him, now. She was about to send her hands wandering down his body, when he murmured, “You can take her with you when you leave.”
Francesca stilled. And forced herself to think. She tried a number of interpretations, but couldn’t find one that fitted. “Leave?” Puzzlement, she found, could overcome passion, at least in this instance. “Why would I leave?”
He sighed, and the warmth that had wrapped about them fled. He lifted his head and looked down at her.
“All the guests will leave shortly after the wedding, most after the wedding breakfast, the rest the next day.” He paused, then continued, steel sliding beneath his tone, “No matter how close to Francesca you are, you’ll leave with Charles and his party.”
Francesca stared up at him-at the face that was just a shadow to her. Her mouth was open, her mind blank. For the space of four heartbeats, she couldn’t say a word. Then her world stopped its crazy gyrations, slowed… She wet her lips. “The lady you’re marrying-”
“I will not discuss her.” The tension that shot through his body was quite different to the heated resilience of passion. It drove passion out, locked her out.
After a moment, she ventured, “I don’t think you understand.” She didn’t, either, but she was starting to suspect…
She felt the sigh he suppressed; his defensive tension eased a fraction. “She might be meek-a perfect cipher-but she’s precisely what I need, what I want, as my wife.”
“You want me.” Francesca shifted beneath him, defying him to deny the obvious.
He sucked in a breath-she felt his glare. “I desire you-I neither want nor need you.”
Her temper erupted. A hot retort burned her tongue, but she got no chance to utter it.
“I know you don’t understand.” The words were tight, harsh. “You’ve never known a man, certainly not one like me. You think you understand me, but you don’t.”
Oh, but she did, she did, and she was understanding more with every second that passed.
“You think because I am as I am, I would want a passionate wife, but the opposite is true. That’s why I chose Francesca Rawlings as my bride. She’ll fill the position of my countess perfectly-”
Francesca let him talk, let his words flow past her while her mind flitted back over the weeks since she’d first run into him in the shrubbery and rescripted every scene.
Gyles suddenly realized he was doing the very thing he’d said he wouldn’t. Why, for God’s sake? He didn’t owe the gypsy any explanation…
Except that he was rejecting her, deliberately turning his back on her and on a passionate liaison none knew better than he would burn brighter than most stars. She’d never offered herself to any other man; she wouldn’t still be virginal, so untried, if she had.
He felt guilty, severely at fault, for turning her down. Ludicrous, but he felt guilty for hurting her even that much, even for her own good. He felt equally guilty that, even now, he was so obsessed with her he couldn’t even form a mental picture of the woman he would marry on the morrow-a woman who was her close friend. There was guilt enough to sink his soul in this tortured situation.