“It wasn’t the gorse that was your problem.” She struggled to sit up, but the gorse wasn’t that accommodating. He swung down from the chestnut’s back. “Damn it-you shouldn’t be riding, certainly not hell-bent as you were, if you can’t pace your mount better. The grey was tired.”
“He wasn’t!” She struggled even more furiously to rise.
“Here.” He held out a hand. When she hesitated, eyeing his hand and him through narrowed eyes, he added, “Either take my damned hand, or I’ll leave you there for the night.”
The threat was a good one-the gorse was in bloom, well endowed with spiny spikes.
With a look as haughty as any princess, she held out a gloved hand. He grasped it and pulled-then she was on her feet before him.
“Thank you.”
Her tone suggested she would rather have accepted help from a leper. Nose elevating, giving a haughty swish of her hips, she swung her heavy skirts around and turned to the grey. “He is not tired.” Then her voice changed. “Knight… come on, boy.”
The grey lifted his head, pricked his ears, then came ambling over.
“You can’t get back in the saddle.”
At the clipped, blunt words, Francesca threw a dismissive look over her shoulder. “I’m not one of your lily-livered English misses who can’t mount without help.”
He was silent for a moment, then replied, “Very well. Let’s see how far you get.”
Reaching for Knight’s reins, she gathered them, using the action to camouflage another glance at her almost-betrothed. He was standing, arms crossed, watching her. He’d made no attempt to take his chestnut’s reins.
His expression was stony-and calmly expectant.
Francesca stopped. She stared at him. “What?”
He took his time answering. “You fell into gorse.”
“So?”
After another aggravating moment, he asked, “Don’t they have gorse in Italy?”
“No.” She frowned. “Not like tha-” The truth dawned; eyes widening, she stared at him, then twisted to look at the back of her skirt. It was covered in snapped-off spikes. She grabbed at her long curls, pulling them over her shoulders. They were adorned with spikes, too. “Oh, no!”
She shot him a glance that told him what she thought of him, then fell to pulling the spiny spikes from her skirt. She couldn’t see; in places, she could barely reach.
“Would you like me to help?”
She looked up. He stood no more than two feet away. The offer had been couched in a completely flat tone. There was nothing to be read in his eyes; his expression was utterly bland.
She gritted her teeth. “Please.”
“Turn around.”
She did, then looked over her shoulder. He hunkered down behind her and started plucking spikes from her skirt. She felt nothing more than an occasional tug. Reassured, she turned her attention to the curls tumbling down her back to her waist; she pulled and plucked, reached and stretched-he growled at her to stand still, but otherwise applied himself to her skirts in silence.
His gaze fixed on the emerald velvet, Gyles tried not to think of what it was covering. Difficult. He tried even harder not to think of the emotions that had crashed through him in the instant she’d fallen.
He had never, ever, felt like that-not over anyone or anything. For one fractured moment, he’d felt like the sun had gone out, like the light had been snuffed from his life.
It was ludicrous. He’d first met her two days ago.
He tried to tell himself it had been some sense of duty-some idea of responsibility to someone younger than himself, some loyalty to Charles in whose care the gypsy presumably was. He tried to tell himself a lot of things-he didn’t believe any of them.
The repetitive task of removing the spikes gave him time to push his unwanted emotions back behind the wall from which they had sprung. He was determined to keep them there, safely locked away.
He plucked off the last spike, then rose and stretched his back. She’d finished her hair some time before and had waited in silence while he completed his task.
“Thank you.”
The words were soft; she looked at him for a moment, then turned and gathered her reins.
He stepped beside her and wordlessly offered his cupped hands-he knew she’d bite her tongue rather than ask.
With a bob of her head, she placed her boot in his hands. He threw her up easily-she was such a lightweight. Frowning, he walked back to the chestnut and swung up to the saddle.
In silence, she led the way back to the lane.
He followed, deep in thought.
Once they reached the lane, he tapped the chestnut’s flanks and moved up beside her.
Francesca was aware he was there, but kept her gaze fixed forward. The irritation she’d initially-perfectly legitimately-felt at his outburst was fading, only to be replaced by a soupcon of alarm. This was the man she might shortly marry.
Behind his terse words, his almost violent movements, she’d glimpsed a temper as fiery as hers. To her mind, that counted in his favor-she’d much rather deal with a fire-eater than a man with ice in his veins. It was his possible-now likely-attitude to her riding that filled her with concern. In the two years she’d lived in England, this country of reserve, riding had been her only outlet for the wildness that was an integral part of her soul.
An integral part of her-if she didn’t release it, exercise it now and then, she’d go mad. And as a proper young lady in England, riding like the wind was the wildest activity permissible.
What if her husband-he whom she would vow to obey and who would have control over all aspects of her life-forbade her to ride? To ride wildly-for her, they were one and the same.
She could see the problem looming, yet before she fell, she hadn’t imagined his enthusiasm. She hadn’t forgotten their mutual exhilaration, the shared enjoyment. He’d reveled in the wildness as much as she.
The gates of the Hall appeared ahead; as they slowed, Francesca shot him a glance. He was frowning. In a way that boded her no good.
“What?”
His gaze flicked to her, still aggravated, still stormy. “I’m considering riding in to inform Sir Charles you shouldn’t be riding his hunters.”
“No!”
“Yes!” The chestnut jibbed; ruthlessly, he steadied it. “You’re an exceptional rider-I won’t deny that-but you don’t have the strength to manage hunters. If you must run wild, you’d do better on an Arab, a mare. Something fleet and nimble, but more responsive to your guidance. You on the grey-or that bay you rode yesterday-if the horse bolts, you won’t be able to control it.”
She met his gaze with muted belligerence, unwilling to be bullied. Unfortunately, in this case, she knew he was right. If one of Charles’s hunters got away from her, all she’d be able to do was cling and pray. Their gazes remained locked, both gauging, assessing the shifting possibilities… ”All right.” Looking down, she gathered her reins. “I’ll speak with Charles.”
“Do that.” His tone was just short of an order. “No more hunters.” He paused, his gaze still on her face. “So you promise…?”
She threw him a glance that had a warning blazoned in it. “I promise I’ll talk to Charles tonight.”
He nodded. “In that case, I’ll leave you here.”
He hesitated, then swept her a bow that was the essence of elegant grace-on horseback, a feat not to be sneered at. With a last look, he wheeled the chestnut and cantered down the lane.
Francesca considered his departing back, then, lips curving in an appreciative smile, she turned the grey down the drive.
Her would-be husband had redeemed himself. She’d expected him to make a push to forbid her to run wild, even though he’d enjoyed the wildness, too. Understood it, too, it seemed; he’d been clever enough to avoid the pitfall. Considering his tack, she noted that he’d seemed primarily concerned with her safety.