His lips were still on hers, his tongue tangled with hers, his hand firm about her breast. It was a struggle to draw back from the brink, knowing he didn’t have to, that she would prefer him to go on, not retreat.

When their lips parted, he shuddered, and pressed his face to her hair. “Damn it!” The words were a hoarse whisper. “Why did you run?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca breathed. Blindly, she lifted a hand and touched his cheek. “Instinct.” That was what had made him seize, what had made her flee.

She was his-they both knew it. It all followed from that-his reaction, her response, like some predestined plot.

His hand left her breast and she felt bereft-she waited for him to lift her to his lap.

He tipped her face up and his lips closed over hers-for one instant, passion reigned supreme, the glory, the heat, the promise-then she felt him rein it back. Through his lips, through his gentling touch on her face, she sensed the war he waged to releash all that had flowed so freely. Disbelieving, she felt his arm slide, slowly, reluctantly from about her. Then his hands gripped her waist, his fingers tensed, flexed… instead of lifting her to him, he pressed her back into her saddle.

With an effort she felt, he dragged his lips from hers. She looked into his eyes, stormy, dark as a thundery sky. Beyond the grey, something raged. They were both breathing raggedly, quickly-both barely free of the power that had flared.

“Go!” The command was low, strained, as if forced from him. He held her gaze mercilously. “Go home-back to the Hall. Ride but not wildly.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her skin was still heated, her heart still yearned…

His gaze hardened. “Go! Now!”

The command cracked like a whip, impossible to defy. On a gasp, she grabbed her reins and wheeled-jerked from its rest, the bay took off down the slope.

She didn’t get a chance to glance back until she was in the trees.

He was where she’d left him, sitting the chestnut he’d wheeled to watch her go. Head bowed, he was looking down, staring at one hand fisted on the saddlebow.


He’d been within a heartbeat of taking her.

As he stood before the window of his bedchamber at the inn and watched the sun sink behind the trees, Gyles faced that fact and all that it meant.

She’d done it again-effortlessly reached through his shield and called to all he hid behind it. And his feelings for her were so strong, so ungovernable, they had nearly driven him to do something he never normally would. Something that, in his right mind, he would never even consider. She had the power to drive him mad.

If he’d taken her to the ground, no power on earth would have stopped him from taking her-passionately, violently, regardless of the pain he would have caused her. Regardless of the fact that she was-his experienced senses were sure of it-virginal. Far from dampening his ardor, that last only heightened it. She would be his and his alone.

But she wouldn’t be. She would never be his because he would not let any woman wield such power over him. If he made her his, he’d risk becoming her slave. Surrender at that level was not in his nature.

He uttered a harsh laugh and swung into the room.

She’d stripped away every vestige of civilized behavior and laid bare the conqueror that, underneath the elegant glamor, was what he truly was. He was a direct descendant of Norman lords who’d seized whatever they’d wanted-who had simply and ruthlessly taken any woman who had captured their eye.

Yesterday, she’d triggered his protectiveness, yet today he’d chased her through the forest like a marauding, rapacious barbarian. When sane, he worried over her safety, yet the instant he’d seen her once again atop a hunter, that deeply buried part of him that had far more in common with a marauding, rapacious barbarian than with the elegant gentleman who paraded before the ton had come rampaging to the fore.

All he’d known was that she was openly flouting his decree, flagrantly disregarding his worry; all he’d known was an elemental need to impress on her that she was his-to possess her so utterly she couldn’t deny it, deny him, deny his right to command her. He hadn’t cared that he’d forced her to flee like a wild thing-his whole being had been concentrated on capturing her, subduing her, on making her his.

Even now, the remembered feelings-the primal force that had flowed through him and made the transformation from gentleman to conquering barbarian-rocked him.

Scared him.

He glanced at the window; the light had almost died. Crossing to the bed, he picked up his crop and the gloves he’d flung there earlier, then headed for the door.

It was time to call on Charles Rawlings and arrange the final details of his wedding.

He would leave Hampshire immediately after.


* * *

“Good evening, my lord.”

Gyles turned as Charles Rawlings entered the study and shut the door.

Charles approached, concern in his eyes. “I hope nothing’s amiss.”

“Not at all.” His elegant mask in place, Gyles shook Charles’s hand. “My apologies for calling so late, but an unexpected matter intervened and prevented me from calling earlier.”

“Well, no harm done.” Charles waved Gyles to a chair. “Now, are you sure you wouldn’t rather hear Francesca’s decision from her lips…?”

“Quite sure.” Gyles waited while Charles sat. “What is her decision?”

“As you’re no doubt expecting, she’s agreed to your proposal. She’s very conscious of the honor you do her-”

Gyles waved the formal words aside. “I fancy we both know where we stand. I am, of course, pleased that she’s consented to become my countess. Unfortunately, I must return to Lambourn immediately, so I’d like to confirm the details of the marriage settlements-Waring, my man-of-business, will send you the contracts in the next few days-and we’ll need to discuss the wedding itself.”

Charles looked slightly stunned. “Well-”

“If Miss Rawlings is agreeable,” Gyles ruthlessly continued, “I would prefer the wedding be held at Lambourn Castle-the chapel there is the traditional place in which our ancestors have celebrated their nuptials. It’s now the end of August-four weeks will give sufficient time for the banns to be read and should allow ample time for Miss Rawlings to assemble her bride clothes.”

Without pause, he switched to the details of the marriage settlements, forcing Charles to scurry to his desk and take notes.

After half an hour, he’d tied every loose end-tied himself into matrimony as tightly as he could.

“Now”-Gyles rose-“if there’s nothing else, I must be on my way.”

Charles had surrendered long since. “Once again, it’s a most generous offer and Francesca is delighted-”

“Indeed. Please convey my respects to her. I look forward to seeing her at Lambourn two days before the wedding.” Gyles headed for the door, forcing Charles to catch up with him. “My mother will coordinate the social details-I’m sure Miss Rawlings will receive a missive within a few days.”

Charles opened the door and accompanied him down the corridor and into the front hall. Pausing before the front door as Bulwer hurried to open it, Gyles smiled sincerely and offered Charles his hand. “Thank you for your help. And thank you for taking such good care of your niece-I look forward to taking on that duty in four weeks’ time.”

The concern that had hovered in Charles’s eyes lifted. He grasped Gyles’s hand. “You won’t regret this evening’s work, you may be sure of that.”

With a brief nod, Gyles strode out. The stablelad was walking his horse in the courtyard. Mounting, he raised a hand in salute to Charles, then he tapped his heels to the chestnut’s flanks and cantered down the drive.

Never, Gyles vowed, would he return to Rawlings Hall.


If he’d turned around and looked at the house, he might have seen her, a shadowy figure at an upstairs window, watching him-her betrothed-ride away. He didn’t.

Francesca watched until he disappeared into the trees, then, frowning, turned inside.

Something was not right.

By the time she’d reached the lane home that afternoon, she’d accepted that making love al fresco might not have been the way he’d wanted to celebrate their first joining. Her practical side had also pointed out that, despite her eagerness, beneath the trees might not have been the best venue to commence her career in that sphere.

So she’d accepted his decree and ridden home at nothing more than a canter. But why, after all that had passed between them, had he held to his determination not to speak with her face-to-face?

Where was the logic in that?

Immediately after lunch, she’d gone to Charles and informed him of her decision. Then she’d waited for her would-be husband to call.

And waited.

They’d been finishing dinner when he’d finally arrived.

A tap on her door had her smoothing the frown from her face. “Come in.”

Charles looked in, then entered. He noticed the window open at her back. “You saw?”

She nodded. “Did he say…?” She gestured. Had he mentioned her?

Charles smiled fondly; coming forward, he took her hands. “My dear, I’m sure everything will work out splendidly. Business kept him from calling earlier, and he must return to Lambourn immediately. He did say all that was proper.”

Francesca returned Charles’s smile with equal fondness. Her mind was all but spitting the word “proper.” Proper? There was nothing “proper” about what lay between them-“proper” was certainly not what she would settle for. Not once she was his wife.