All About Passion (Cynster 7)

“No, they’re not!” A frown leaped into Franni’s eyes. Her hands tightened about the pistol-it hadn’t wavered in the least. But the feel of the wooden butt between her hands seemed to reassure her. The tension gradually lessened; Franni’s shoulders lowered. “You just don’t understand. Gyles wants to marry me-there’s no point you trying to say that isn’t so, because I know! I know how such things are done-I’ve read about it in books. He walked with me and listened politely-that’s how gentlemen show their interest.” Her expression stern, Franni frowned at Francesca. “You can stop trying to tell me I’m wrong. You didn’t see Gyles’s face when he turned and looked at me just before you joined him at the altar.”

No, but Francesca could imagine it-could imagine the draining of expression,

the momentary blankness, the dawning horror. Gyles had thought he was marrying Franni-she could recall the moment when he’d stared at her cousin, then his gaze had whipped around to her.

Franni nodded. “Gyles wanted to marry me, but the earl had to marry you, because you had the land.”

Her jaw set; her pale eyes blazed. “Grandpa was a fool! He told me I was just like him and he was going to make sure I got the best inheritance, not you, because you were devil’s spawn. So he changed his will, and my papa inherited Rawlings Hall. But Grandpa was stupid-the best inheritance was that silly piece of land you got!” Her eyes were twin flames. “It should have been mine!” Franni leaned forward. “It would have been mine but for you.”

Francesca said nothing. Despite Franni’s rantings, the pistol barrel remained pointed at her chest. She felt faint, the cold and shock draining life from her; she was suddenly very aware of that other life-such a precious life-she carried within her. Slowly reaching with one hand, she gripped the back of the pew beside her.

“It’s all Grandpa’s fault, but he’s dead so I can’t even tell him-”

Franni raged on, heaping scorn on Francis Rawlings, the man in whose honor they both were named.

It was the longest journey Gyles had ever taken. Francesca was in danger; he knew it with a certainty he couldn’t deny. He might be generations removed from his barbarian ancestors, but some instincts remained, dormant but not dead.

As the hackney raced through the City, then out past St. Paul’s, he struggled to keep his mind focused, to ignore any thought of Francesca coming to harm. If he thought of that, acknowledged the reason for that roiling black fear and thus gave it credence, gave it purchase in his mind, he, and therefore she, would be doomed. The barbarian within couldn’t face, couldn’t endure, that.

He concentrated on the fact that once he was with her, she’d be safe. He could and would rescue her. He had twice before. There was no question-not in his mind, not in his heart, not even in his soul-that he would save her. Whatever it took, he would do. Whatever was demanded, he would give.

They rattled into Cheapside. The jarvey had proved a demon driver, swearing and cursing his way through the tangled thoroughfares. They’d covered the distance in record time; although the road had narrowed to a single lane, the jarvey cracked his whip and they raced on.

“Tip him well and tell him to wait,” Gyles said, as the reckless pace slowed. Osbert had remained silent all the way; he only nodded now as, grim-faced, Gyles reached for the door. He was out on the cobbles before the hackney halted.

John Coachman was waiting beside the town carriage.

“Thank God, m’lord. Her ladyship went up to the church twenty minutes ago. She told us to wait here. She took two footmen with her-Cole and Niles. I think they’re up there”-John gestured to the fog-shrouded church yard-“but I can’t be sure, and we didn’t like to yell.”

Gyles nodded. “Osbert, come with me. John-wait here. Mr. Charles Rawlings will be along soon-send him straight up to the church.”

Gyles opened the lych-gate and strode up the path, Osbert at his heels. They both slowed as some way to the left through the thickening fog they saw a light glimmering through the transept windows. Gyles halted. A single figure was outlined, but he couldn’t make out details.

“Francesca?” Osbert whispered.

It was the hair that decided it. “No. I think that’s Franni.” She seemed to be stationary. Gyles strode on.

Alerted by their footsteps, Cole and Niles materialized from the gloom.

“Her ladyship’s in there, m’lord-she told us to wait here. The door’s open so we can hear if she calls.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“Just some distant talking-can’t make anything out.”

Gyles nodded. “Remain here. When Mr. Charles Rawlings arrives, direct him inside. Tell him to be as quiet as he can, at least until we learn what’s going on.”

The men stepped back. Beckoning Osbert to follow, Gyles entered the church. The padded carpet muffling their steps was a boon. Quickly, he made his way to where flickering light shone from the side chapel.

Gyles heard Franni’s voice as he neared.

“I thought he loved me, but he couldn’t have! He gave you the best inheritance even though he’d never seen you!”

“Franni-”

“No-don’t try to argue! People always tell me I don’t understand but I do! I do!”

Still in the shadows, Gyles stepped to where he could see through the archway-and froze. He put out a hand to stop Osbert following. “Franni’s there, with Francesca.” His voice was a thread, carrying no further than Osbert. “Franni’s standing before the altar, one step up. Francesca’s by the second pew in the central aisle.” Gyles drew a tight breath, let it out with the words, “Franni’s holding a pistol aimed at Francesca.”