All About Passion (Cynster 7)

She smiled ingenuously. “That would be pleasant. You are a very good listener, sir.”

With a cynical nod, he left her.

He strode through the shrubbery, keeping an eye out for green-habited dervishes. None appeared. Reaching the stable, he looked in, then called a “Hoi!” Receiving no reply, he walked the long aisle, but could discover no stablelad. He found his chestnut, but could see no sign of any horse that had just been brought in. Yet the gypsy should have reached the stable by now; she’d been heading in this direction.

Returning to the yard, he looked around; there seemed to be no one about. Shaking his head, he turned to go in and fetch his own horse when a patter of feet heralded the stablelad. He came racing into the yard, lugging a double-panniered picnic basket-he skidded to a halt when he saw Gyles.

“Oh. Sorry, sir. Umm.” The boy glanced to the side of the stable, looked at Gyles, then at the basket. “Umm…”

“Who’s that for?” Gyles indicated the basket.

“Miss said to fetch it right away.”

Miss who? Gyles nearly asked, but how many misses could there be at Rawlings Hall. “Here. Give it to me. I’ll take it to her while you get my horse. Where is she?”

The lad handed over the basket; it was empty. “In the orchard.” He nodded to the side of the stable.

Gyles set out, then glanced back. “If I haven’t returned by the time you have the horse ready, just leave it tethered to the door. I’m sure you have other work to do.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy touched his forelock, then disappeared into the stable.

A slow smile curving his lips, Gyles walked into the orchard.

Pausing, he looked around; the orchard stretched for some distance, full of apple and plum trees, all laden with fruit as yet unripe. Then he saw the horse-a huge bay gelding at least seventeen hands high with a massive chest and a rump to be wary of-standing, saddled, reins trailing, chomping grass.

He started toward it and heard her voice.

“My, what a pretty boy you are.”

The smoky, sultry voice oozed seduction.

“Come, let me stroke you-let me run my fingers over your head. Ooooh, that’s a good boy.”

The voice continued, murmuring, cajoling, whispering terms of endearment, invitations to surrender.

Gyles’s face hardened. He strode forward, scanning the long grass, looking for the vixen in green and the lad she was seducing…

She stopped talking; Gyles strode faster. He reached the apple tree beside which the bay stood. He searched the surrounding grass, but couldn’t see a soul.

“Josh,” she murmured, “have you got the basket?”

Gyles looked up. She lay stretched full length along a branch, one arm outstretched, reaching, fingers straining…

Her skirts had rucked up to her knees, revealing a froth of white petticoats and a tantalizing glimpse of bare leg above the tops of her boots.

Gyles felt giddy. Feelings and emotions whirled and clashed within him. He felt foolish, with unjustified anger bubbling through his veins and having no outlet; he was half-aroused and rocked by the fact that such a minor glimpse of honey-toned skin should have the power to so affect him. Added to all that was flaring concern.

The damned gypsy was a good nine feet off the ground.

“Got you!” She plucked what looked to be a large ball of fluff from among a clump of apples, then she tucked it to her ample bosom, sat, and swiveled-revealing a twin bundle of fluff in her other hand.

She saw him.

“Oh!” She rocked, then clutched both kittens in one hand, grabbing the branch just in time to keep from falling.

The kittens mewled piteously; Gyles would have traded places in a blink.

Eyes wide, skirts now trapped above her knees, she stared down at him. “What are you doing here?”