All About Passion (Cynster 7)

Or up the path at a gallop.

Frowning, he untied the strap from one tree trunk, rolling it in his hand as he crossed to the other tree.

He was the principal user of the path. Other than him, only Francesca rode this way. When exercising his horses, his grooms used the track along the river where they cantered under Jacobs’s watchful eye.

The implication was obvious. “Who?” and “Why?” were less so.

He had no local enemies that he knew of… except, perhaps, Lancelot Gilmartin. Glancing at the leather rolled in his hand, Gyles stuffed it into his pocket, then caught the grey’s reins and continued down the track.

Despite the boy’s foolishness, he couldn’t believe it of Lancelot. Such cold-bloodedness seemed unlikely-and he’d certainly have considered that Francesca might be the one caught, and surely he wouldn’t want that. Then again, given her verbal dissection of his character… could youthful adoration turn so quickly to hate?

But if not Lancelot, then who? He was involved in political schemes which others vehemently opposed, yet he couldn’t imagine any of the opposing camp employing such tactics. That was too fanciful for words.

He pulled the rein out of his pocket and examined it again. It was damp. It had rained last night but not since dawn. The rein had been strung there at least overnight. Possibly for longer. He thought back to the last time anyone had used the path. He and Charles had gone riding the first morning of their visit. After that, he and Francesca had gone by other ways.

Gyles reached the stable yard. “Jacobs!”

Jacobs came running. Gyles waited until he’d handed the grey to a stableboy before showing Jacobs the rein.

“It could be one of ours-heaven knows we’ve heaps lying about.” Jacobs strung the leather between his hands. “I really couldn’t be sure. Where was it?”

Gyles told him.

Jacobs looked grim. “I’ll have the lads keep a lookout. Whoever put it there might come back to check.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. Let me know immediately if you or the lads see anyone or anything unusual.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“And during the Harvest Festival, I want the stables closed off, and watched.”

“Aye-I’ll see to it.”

Gyles headed for the house, trying to dismiss the notion that had popped into his head. The conundrum of how a stone had become embedded in his wife’s mount’s hoof when the horse hadn’t been out. So the next time she’d been out, Francesca had ridden one of his hunters, a horse she couldn’t easily manage.

He’d been with her and they’d ridden out by a different route, but the scenario could so easily have been different. She could have gone riding by herself and taken the path up the escarpment.

Flexing his shoulders, he tried to push the resulting vision aside. It hadn’t happened, and all was still well.

That, he tried to tell himself, was all that mattered.

Striding up to the side door, he hauled it open and went inside.

Chapter 15

The days leading to their Harvest Festival were filled with activity. Gyles spent much of the time within sight of Francesca, more to appease the brooding barbarian than from any conviction she was in danger. But while in his sight, she was safe-and keeping her in sight was no hardship.

His house came alive, filled with frenzied footmen; he was entertained to see Irving succumb to the pleasant panic. Even Wallace was seen hurrying, an unprecedented sight. Yet most of his mind remained on Francesca, his senses attuned to every nuance of her voice, to the tilt of her head as she considered some point, to the swish of her skirts as she hurried past. She was everywhere-in the kitchens one minute, in the forecourt the next.

And every night she came to his arms, happy and content and very willing to share all she was with him.

He tried, once, to settle with a news sheet. After reading the same paragraph five times and not taking in one word, he surrendered and went to see what Francesca was up to in the conservatory.

His mother, Henni, and Horace had arrived; he heard their voices as he strolled into the glass and stone edifice built out from the house beyond the library. With Francesca, they were sitting about a wrought-iron table positioned to make the most of the morning light.

His mother saw him.

“There you are, dear.” She held up her face; he bent and kissed her cheek. “Francesca has been telling us of all that’s planned.”