All About Passion (Cynster 7)

She slowed at the end of the ride, debating which of two paths to take, then she heard the thud of the chestnut’s hooves and glanced back.

A smile spread across her face, on a changing spectrum that traveled from welcoming to glorious. With an exuberant laugh, she flashed him a look of blatant challenge, then plunged down the nearest path.

Gyles followed.

The chestnut he was on was an excellent beast, but the grey she was riding was better. He rode heavier, too, and didn’t know the paths she flung her mount down with such alacrity. But he kept doggedly on in her wake, knowing that, eventually, she’d let him catch her.

She glanced back at him as they thundered beneath the trees; he caught a glimpse of her teasing smile. The feather in her scrap of a cap waved as she bobbed and weaved, expertly shifting as the grey took each curve at speed.

Then they burst from the forest into a wide meadow bounded only by more trees. With a “Whoop!” Gyles let his reins fall and rode the big chestnut hands and knees, urging him on. They gained on the flying gypsy. Although she rode fast, he was relieved to note that she held the grey in. The massive hunter had to be one of Charles’s mounts, bred for stamina and the chase. In this terrain it was the fastest and surest bet, especially as, at present, it was running with only a fraction of its accustomed weight.

The witch heard him closing; she flung a laugh over her shoulder. “More?”

She didn’t wait for an answer but set the grey for another path.

They twisted and turned, then raced across another glade; exhilaration sang in his ears. It had been years since he’d felt such a tug, years since he’d surrendered so completely to the thrill of sheer speed, to the relentless pounding of his horse’s hooves, to the echo in his blood.

She felt it, too, knew it, too-it was there in her sparkling eyes. They met his, sharing the moment, then she was off again.

It required no conscious decision to follow; as one they flowed through the forest. It enfolded them, held them within its green bosom as if they ran in a place out of time.

But time still ran.

Gyles had ridden from the age of three; he possessed an inner guide that sensed his horse’s strength, how long they’d been flying at speed. A moment came when he checked. His mount still had some way to go; he’d only cantered to and from the Hall.

The thought focused his mind on the grey. He would have bet his matched pair that the gypsy had been flying from the moment she’d left the stable.

He started worrying.

His pulse leapt at every blind twist in the path; he caught his breath at every rough patch she flew over. Unbidden, images crowded into his mind-of her lying injured, fallen across

a log, thrown on her lovely head, her neck twisted at an impossible angle-

He couldn’t get the visions out of his mind.

The trees thinned. They exploded into another clearing. He called her back, but she’d already sprung the grey. Her face was alight-she threw back her head and laughed, then her gaze fixed ahead, she gathered the reins…

Gyles glanced ahead.

A fence, old and decrepit, overgrown with young saplings divided the field in two. She put the grey at it.

“No!”

His shout merged with the thunder of hooves-the grey’s and the chestnut’s. She was too far ahead for him to catch her eye. Then she was too close to the fence for him to risk distracting her.

Still yards ahead of him, the grey soared. In his heart, he prayed. The heavy hooves cleared the fence easily. The grey landed, then stumbled.

She shrieked.

Gyles lost sight of her as the beast went down, then the grey was up again-riderless.

Heart in his mouth, he altered his trajectory so he cleared the fence some yards from where she’d fallen, then he wheeled-

She was lying spread-eagled on her back in the middle of a gorse bush.

From the disgusted look on her face and the size of the gorse bush, she was unharmed.

The panic that had him by the throat did not immediately let go.