Chapter 9
Lady Elizabeth and Henni retired for a nap before dinner. Francesca retired to her bedchamber, too, but was too restless to lie down.
Hope was welling within her; she wasn’t sure it was wise to let it rise again. She had before, ignoring his specific declarations, purely on the grounds of her intuitive sense of him. He’d told her she was wrong.
She had no guarantee that his mother’s and aunt’s understanding of him was accurate, not now he was a man.
Yet she couldn’t help hoping.
Shaking her head, she scanned her surroundings, searching for distraction. Beyond her window, she saw the stable block just visible through the trees.
Ten minutes later, she entered the stable.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Francesca smiled at the bowlegged man who came hurrying up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Jacobs, ma’am.” He doffed his cloth cap. “I’m head stableman here.” His gaze raked the stalls. “In charge of all these beauties.”
“Beauties, indeed. I’m after the mare.”
“The Arab? Aye, she’s a darling. The master mentioned she was yours. I’ll fetch a saddle and bridle.”
While he saddled the mare, Francesca crooned sweet nothings, idly stroking the mare’s velvet nose. Then she was up in the saddle and trotting out. As she left the stable yard, she was conscious of Jacobs’s gaze on her back, but he seemed satisfied she knew what she was doing.
She also knew where she was going.
Although it was September, the evenings were still long, long enough for a ride before dressing for dinner. Cantering toward the escarpment and the angled track that led up to the downs, Francesca surveyed the neat fields, already harvested, in which cattle had been turned loose to graze. Fields and fences, the meadows by the river, all appeared quietly prosperous. She reached the track; the mare eagerly bounded up.
“You haven’t got a name, have you, my beauty?”
They burst onto the downs. The mare tossed her head. For some time, Francesca just rode, enjoying the sheer exhilaration of speed. She let her thoughts slide, left them in abeyance, and gave herself up to the moment.
She retraced her direction of two nights before, as well as she could remember it.
She saw him-and he saw her-while there was still some distance between them. She rode on, then sent the mare in a wide, wheeling arc, dropping in to pace beside his grey. He didn’t slow, but kept on at an easy canter.
Their gazes touched, held, then his lifted-to her cap, with its jaunty plume. She looked ahead; a moment passed, then he did, too. By mutual consent, they rode through the last of the day in an oddly companionable silence.
As they neared the escarpment, the ground broke up. She slowed and let him lead. As he went forward, she glanced at his face, all hard angles and granite impassivity, and tried to imagine the young boy who’d seen his father thrown and left dying. Tried to imagine the panic, and the wrenching emotion in the decision to leave and ride for help. Not easy at any age, but at seven? The incident couldn’t have passed and left no mark. It hadn’t dulled his love of riding, but what other scars did he possess?
They started down the track, the mare behind the grey. Her gaze on his swaying shoulders, drinking in the controlled strength in every line of his large body, Francesca considered-him. Them. Their marriage.
Earlier, she’d been on the verge of casting her dream of finding enduring love within their marriage from the castle’s parapet. Now…
The evening was drawing in. They cantered through the lengthening shadows and into the stable yard. Jacobs came running. She handed him the mare’s reins, then wriggled her boots from the stirrups. Turning to slide from the saddle, she discovered Gyles already there. He reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down.
The mare chose that moment to shift, nudging Francesca’s back, pushing her into Gyles.
His grip firmed, his fingers sank deeper. His gaze shifted to her face; she sensed the sudden focusing of his attention. She lifted her head and met his gaze. Their faces were close. She read his eyes, saw desire in the grey, and was about to lift her face to invite his kiss-when hooves clinked and the horses screening them ambled away.
“I’ll get them settled,” Jacobs called back.
Gyles released her. “Yes. Good night.”
Francesca echoed the sentiment, then glanced at Gyles. He gestured to the house; she fell in beside him. Although fully clothed, encased in heavy velvet, she felt his nearness like silk caressing naked flesh.
She lifted her head as they stepped into the yew walk. “The mare-does she have a name?”