Glancing ahead, she saw a series of folds lying like shadows over the green. Up and down, up and down-she’d never make it. Never retain her seat through that.
The grey was still closing. She couldn’t risk a glance back to see.
Dragging in a breath, she threw what little strength she had left into hauling back on the reins. In vain. The black had his head down, and she didn’t have the strength to fight him.
The grey’s head drew alongside.
“Kick your feet free-now!”
She heard Gyles’s command-pushed aside the thought that with her feet free, she’d surely fall-and did as he said.
In the instant her boots cleared the leather, she felt his arm around her waist, felt him seize her. She dropped the reins and pushed away from the saddle. Reached for him.
He lifted her, swung her over, pulled her to him.
She grabbed, clung, sobbed as she held fast, hands fisting in his shirt. She curled herself into him, pressed herself to him, her cheek to his chest, her boots and skirts flowing over one hard thigh.
Safe.
Gyles slowed the grey gradually-no showy abrupt halt that might dislodge Francesca. All he wanted was to hold her and let the reality of her safety sink into his bones. Let his panic and fear subside and sink back behind his defenses again.
Again. Only this time had been much worse.
She was still breathing brokenly when he halted the grey; she was shaking with shock, as was he. He wrapped his arms around her, set his cheek to her hair, and held her, then he tightened his arms briefly before easing his hold and trying to look into her face-
“I say!” Lancelot skidded his horse to a halt beside them. “Is everything all right?”
Gyles lifted his head. “You witless oaf! If you had an ounce of brain to your name-”
Francesca listened. Gyles’s tone scorned, his words lashed. She agreed with every one. She was grateful he was there to deliver them, because she didn’t have the strength, the breath, to do the occasion justice. She concentrated on breathing, on listening to her heart, and his, slow. Concentrated on the fact that they were both still whole. Still together.
As the tremors racking her faded, she shifted her head, registering the drift of Gyles’s tirade, approving his tack-that of the sense and responsibility Lancelot should have shown, that instead he’d been grossly irresponsible, that through silly, childish behavior, he’d placed her at considerable risk.
She glanced at Lancelot-and realized Gyles’s comments, pointed though they were, were glancing off Lancelot’s self-conceit.
He waited for Gyles to cease speaking, then contemptuously waved. “Yes, very well, but I didn’t mean it to happen. Lady Chillingworth knows I didn’t. And it’s not as if she got hurt.”
Francesca raised her head. “I’m unhurt because Lord Chillingworth was with me. If he hadn’t been, courtesy of your stupidity, I might well be dead!”
Lancelot paled. Francesca continued, “You’re a child, Lancelot-you play at being an adult, but it’s all a mask, a pose.” She waved at the rise from which they’d come. “Back there, you heard only what you wanted to hear and behaved like the spoiled brat you are. Now, again, you’re doing the same, thinking our words beneath your consideration.
“You’re wrong. Behavior matters. Who you really are behind the mask matters. You will never succeed in life, let alone the ton, until you pay attention to what is, rather than playing an affected charade.” She gestured dismissively. “Now begone! I do not wish to set eyes on you again, not until you gain in maturity.”
His face another mask, this one more fragile than his usual Byronic imitation, Lancelot gathered his reins.
“One word of warning.” Gyles’s tone was a warning in itself. “Do not attempt to call at the Castle until I, or my wife, give you leave.”
Lancelot glanced at Gyles. And blanched. He bowed, wheeled his horse circumspectly, and cantered off.
Francesca blew out a breath and dropped her head back against Gyles’s chest. “He is brainless, that one.”
“I fear so.” For a long moment, they simply sat and let time pass. Then Gyles said, “Incidentally, you will not again ride one of my hunters.”
Francesca leaned back to look into his face. “I have no wish to ride any of your hunters ever again.”
Gyles humphed. “We’ll have to get you a second mount.”
“No-Regina is enough. I’ll likely ride less than every day, so if we have another horse just for me, someone else will have to exercise her.” She wriggled around to sit facing forward between Gyles’s thighs.