All About Passion (Cynster 7)

He nodded ahead. “See those mounds?”

She saw a cluster of earth mounds about a mile further on. “Is that it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His tone alerted her; she looked and found him gazing at a point much nearer to hand. Another rider, previously hidden in a dip, came riding toward them.

“Lancelot Gilmartin?”

“Indeed.”

Lancelot had seen them. They waited. Gyles steadied his grey as Lancelot came pounding up. Pounding too furiously. He hauled his bay to a too-precipitous halt. It snorted, backed, reared.

The black jerked and sidled; Francesca’s arms were tugged sharply as he shook his head.

Gyles angled the grey closer. The presence of the more experienced horse calmed the black.

By then, Lancelot had his showy bay under control. “Lady Chillingworth.” He swept her a bow, then nodded at Gyles. “My lord.” Before either could reply, his glowing gaze locked on Francesca’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t resist the lure of the Barrows. I was on my way there when I saw you and turned back.” He glanced at Gyles. “My lord, I would be happy to escort her ladyship farther. No doubt you have much business to attend to.”

Francesca jumped in before Gyles could annihilate Lancelot. “Mr. Gilmartin, you misunderstand. I really couldn’t presume-”

“Oh, nonsense. I insist. Tell you what, I’ll race you.”

Lancelot wheeled the fractious bay to come alongside-the horse stumbled sideways. Rumps bumped, Lancelot’s mount jarring the increasingly nervous black, bumping it into Gyles’s grey.

“No!” Francesca felt a tremor of panic rush through the black, felt the bunching of powerful muscles beneath her. “Hold steady,” she snapped at Lancelot.

The bay had other ideas. It reared and lashed out. Lancelot was nearly unseated. His left arm flailed-his crop came down hard on the black’s rump.

The black shot into a gallop.

Gyles lunged for the reins and missed. One glance at Francesca bobbing awkwardly on the black’s back was

enough. She was unbalanced and heading for a fall.

Cursing freely, he flicked a scorching glance at Lancelot. “You blasted fool!” He set the grey after the black, leaving Lancelot still struggling with his mount.

Gyles didn’t spare another thought for Lancelot, not even for retribution, not for anything beyond the small figure bouncing as she struggled to retain her seat. Sidesaddle, she had no room for error on a hunter. Jouncing as she was, she had no hope of controlling such a strong beast. The downs thereabouts were uneven-the horse’s pounding strides would jar all the way through her, wrenching her arms, weakening her hold on the reins.

Until she fell.

Gyles refused to think of it-to think of the occasional rock embedded in the sward. Refused to remember his father, lying so still on the ground.

Shutting his mind, he gave chase. And prayed she’d have the wit and the strength to hang on.

Francesca gritted her teeth, vainly trying to stop her breath being slammed out of her with every stride the black took. She’d had a plan in case one of Charles’s hunters ever did run away with her: hang on until the horse tired. All very well in the forest, where the paths were flat but twisting, slowing a horse, tiring it quickly. Here on the open downs, the black was just getting into his stride-he could run without restriction.

The dips and folds meant little to the horse; they meant much more to her. Her arms felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets and still the horse flew. Only her boot firm in the stirrup and her leg locked around the saddlebow allowed her to keep her seat.

She wouldn’t be able to do so much longer.

The thought crystallized in her mind. In that instant, she heard the heavy thud of hooves behind her, closing, slowly closing.

Gyles.

She locked her fingers more firmly on the reins, tried to balance her weight, to ease the jolts that with every stride were shaking her like a rag doll.

She could no longer draw a full breath-her lungs had forgotten how. Panic clawed at the back of her throat. Heat rushed up her nape.