Hiding that side of himself from her had never been an option; he’d stopped worrying about it on their wedding night. With her, being himself, his true self, simply didn’t matter…
He stared out at the night.
That was why, with her, he felt so complete. So whole. Being himself, with her, was permissible, even desirable. She delighted in calling the barbarian forth, delighted in throwing herself in his arms-delighted in giving herself to a maruading rapacious barbarian. And she couldn’t care less if he was incoherent at the time.
His lips curved in a smirk. Her own lack of coherence was telling-attempting any degree of conversation during coitus was wasted effort. He only had to touch her, and she became a totally sensate being-the only avenue of communication she was interested in was by touch and feel.
His gaze steadied on her face.
She was a field he would willingly plow for the rest of his life.
He didn’t think she’d mind.
Shifting his hand from her head to her breast, he continued stroking. She made a smoky, purring sound and shifted suggestively. He smiled and lifted her across him.
It was time to sow some more.
So he could reap the harvest of her loving again.
Chapter 16
“My lord, if I could have a moment of your time?”
Caught watching his wife, Gyles turned his head. Wallace had entered the breakfast parlor and stood by his side, a covered salver in one hand.
“Her ladyship’s, too.” Wallace directed a bow down the table.
The morning of the Festival had dawned misty but fine. The sun shone benignly on all those scurrying about the Castle grounds, setting up trestles and boards. Most of the staff were outside; only Irving and one footman were attending them. Wallace caught Irving’s eye; Irving directed the footman to the door, then followed, closing the door behind him.
“What is it?”
“One of the maids was instructed to fill the vase on the stair landing with autumn branches, my lord. To brighten up the spot for the Festival. When she tried to insert the branches, she encountered some difficulty. When she investigated, she discovered…”- Wallace lifted the cover of the salver-“this.”
Gyles stared at a crumpled scrap of green, sodden and darkened. He knew what it was before his fingers touched it. He lifted the fragments. The bedraggled feather, shredded of its fronds, hung limply.
Francesca stared. “My riding cap.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Millie mentioned to Mrs. Cantle that it was not in your room. Mrs. Cantle told the maids to keep an eye out in case it was elsewhere about the house. When Lizzie found it, she brought it straight to Mrs. Cantle.”
Gyles turned the remains of the cap in his fingers. “It’s been destroyed.”
“So it appears, my lord.”
Francesca gestured. “Let me see.”
Gyles dropped the wet scrap back onto the salver. Wallace took it to Francesa. Gyles watched her pick it up, spread it in her hands. The material had been ripped, the feather broken and stripped.
She shook her head. “Who… Why?”
“Indeed.” Gyles heard the steel in his voice. He glanced at Wallace. His majordomo met his gaze, his expression impassive. Wallace knew no more than he.
Francesca’s expression cleared. She dropped the cap on the salver. “It must have been an accident. Get rid of it, Wallace. We’ve more pressing matters to deal with today.”
Replacing the salver’s cover, Wallace glanced at Gyles.
Lips thinning, he looked at his wife. “Francesca-”
The door opened; Irving entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Harris has arrived with the ale. You wished to be informed.” He bowed to Francesca. “And Mrs. Cantle asked me to tell you, my lady, that Mrs. Duckett has arrived with her pasties.”
“Thank you, Irving.” Laying aside her napkin, Francesca rose. She flicked a hand at the salver. “Dispose of it, please, Wallace.”
She glided up the table, heading for the door. Gyles reached out and shackled her wrist. “Francesca-”
“It’s nothing but a ruined cap.” Leaning closer, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. “Let be. We’ve so much to do, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”
There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”
She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.
He rose and followed her-into the chaos of the day.
He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.
While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.
Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.
The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down to talk to her.
In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.
Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.
Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.
She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”
“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”
“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”
Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”
“No-not since then.”
Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”
“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”
Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”
“How? The cap was in my room.”
“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”
Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly-”
“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”
“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”
“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot…”
Gyles halted; Francesca glanced at him, then followed his gaze. He was looking at the pit where a whole ox was roasting under Ferdinand’s exacting eye.
“It makes even less sense to suspect Ferdinand. He’s not the least bit angry with me-or you.”
Gyles glanced at her. “He wasn’t annoyed that you weren’t receptive to his impassioned pleas?”