He caught her gaze, and stepped down in her wake. “Neither do I.”
They reached the stable yard to find Gyles’s grey saddled and held waiting, but no sign of Regina. They entered the stable and headed for the mare’s stall, from which Jacob’s voice could be heard, crooning.
He heard them coming and stepped out. “Don’t ask me how it happened, but she picked up a stone. Wedged tight in her rear hoof it was, poor lamb. I just got it out.” He showed them the small, sharp rock.
Gyles frowned. “How could that happen? She couldn’t have been put into the stall without someone noticing.”
“Aye-but there it is, plain as day.” Jacobs shook his head. “All I can think is some rascally lad didn’t take enough care and a stone got lobbed in with the straw. I’ll be speaking with them, you may be sure, but for now, I’m right sorry, ma’am, but the mare’s not for riding.”
Francesca had gone into the stall to inspect her darling; she nodded and came out again. “No-you’re quite right. That hoof’s obviously tender.”
Jacobs looked uncomfortable; he glanced from her to Gyles. “I’m not sure we’ve another mount suitable, ma’am.”
Francesca scanned the huge hunters, then arched a brow at Gyles.
He sighed. “If you promise not to go tearing off, faster than the wind over the downs, then I suppose, seeing I’ll be with you-”
“Thank you.” Francesca gifted him with a glorious smile, then turned it on Jacobs. “That one, I think.”
Gyles glanced at the black she’d selected, then nodded, ignoring Jacobs’s stunned look. “Wizard’s at least reasonably biddable.”
Francesca pulled a face at him. They walked back out to the yard. In a minute, Jacobs, still looking unsure, walked the black out.
His hand at her waist, Gyles urged Francesca forward. She stopped by the black’s side and he lifted her to the saddle. Jacobs held the horse steady while she got settled. Gyles mounted and picked up his reins, glanced at the small figure perched atop the massive hunter, then wheeled. She brought the black alongside as they trotted out of the yard.
“Is it possible to ride through the village, then up to the downs that way?”
“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Why?”
“We need to speak with Mrs. Duckett and Harris about the supplies for the Festival-I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”
He nodded. Instead of taking the track to the escarpment, he led the way along a ride that circled the house, running under the trees of the park to eventually join the main drive.
When they slowed and clattered through the main gates, Francesca laughed. “That’s a lovely gallop.”
They trotted on to the village.
Francesca went into the bakery to speak with Mrs. Duckett. Gyles strode down to the Red Pigeon, arranged the supply of ale with Harris, then returned to liberate Francesca from Mrs. Duckett’s clutches, that lady having been as honored and delighted as Cook had predicted.
Both once more in the saddle, Gyles led the way up the street to the church. A path to the downs lay beyond it. Five minutes later, they crested the escarpment, the horses stepping into the wide, treeless expanse with evident anticipation.
The black pranced; Francesca held the big gelding back, waiting, watching for Gyles’s direction. He glanced her way. “Any preference?”
A fleeting recollection popped into her head. “What about those barrows Lancelot Gilmartin mentioned? They must be close.”
“A few miles.” Gyles studied her, then added, “I wouldn’t, myself, term them romantic.”
“Well, you may take me there and let me see for myself.” Francesca looked around as the black jigged impatiently. “Which way?”
“North.”
Gyles sprang the grey and she went with him. Shoulder to shoulder, the huge hunters thundered across the rolling green. The wind of their passing whipped back Francesca’s curls; exhilaration sang in her veins.
The sky was slate grey and no sun shone, yet there was a glow in her heart as they swept on. Again and again, she felt Gyles’s gaze, on her face, her hands, checking her posture. This was no race; although they rode hard, the gallop was severely controlled, judged to a whisker so as not to feel restricted-an indulgence, yes, one held just within the limits of safety.
It was comforting to feel so watched over, to know that he was there, with her.
They gained the top of a low rise and he slowed. She followed suit, drawing the black in. The gelding was still frisky, still wanting to run. She patted his glossy neck as she trotted up to Gyles.