Her riding habit was in her second trunk. She wrestled it free, then unearthed her riding boots, gloves and crop. The hat she could do without.

Ten minutes saw her dressed and booted, sliding through the huge house. She heard deep voices-she turned in the opposite direction. She found a secondary stair and took it down to the ground floor, then followed a corridor and found a parlor with French doors opening onto the terrace. Leaving the doors closed but unlocked, she headed for the stable block she’d glimpsed through the trees.

The trees were old oaks and beeches; they welcomed her into their shadows. She strode along, secure in the knowledge no one could see her from the house. The stable block proved to be interestingly large, two long stables and a coach barn built around a courtyard. She slipped into the nearest stable, and started down the aisle, gauging the nature of the horse in each box. She passed three hunters, even larger and more powerful than those she’d ridden at Rawlings Hall. Recalling Chillingworth’s comments, she continued on, looking to see if he had a smaller mount-

The door at the end of the aisle opened. Light bobbed, illuminating tack stored in the room beyond, then the light danced into the aisle as two stablelads, one carrying a lantern, stepped through and pulled the door shut.

Halfway along the aisle, Francesca had no chance of regaining the stable door. The light had yet to reach her. Slipping the latch of the stall she stood beside, she eased the door open, then whisked around it and pressed it closed, then reached over and lifted the latch into place.

A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her. The horse whose stall she’d invaded was well mannered, and not large. It had turned its head to view her, but with her vision affected by the lamplight, she could see little more. But there was plenty of room for her to slide down against the stall door and wait for the stablelads to pass by.

“There she is-a beauty, ain’t she?”

The light suddenly intensified; glancing up, Francesca saw the lamp appear just above her head. The stablelad rested it on the top of the stall door.

“Aye,” the second lad agreed. “Smashing.” The door shifted as two bodies leaned against it. Francesca held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t look over and down. They were talking about the horse. She looked, and for the first time, saw.

Her eyes widened; she only just managed to suppress an appreciative sigh. The horse was more than merely beautiful. There was power and grace in every line, a living testimony to superior breeding. This was precisely the sort of horse Chillingworth had spoken of-a fleet-footed Arabian mare. Her bay coat glowed richly in the lamp light, dark mane and tail a nice contrast. The horse’s eyes were large, dark, alert. Its ears were pricked.

Francesca prayed it wouldn’t come to investigate her-not until the stableboys moved on.

“Heard tell the master bought her for some lady.”

“Aye-that be right. The mare’s hardly up to his weight, after all.”

The other boy chortled. “Seems like the lady was.”

Francesca glanced up-to see the lamp disappear. The stablelads pushed away from the door; the light retreated. She waited until the dark returned, then rose and peeked over the stall door just in time to see the two lads step out of the stable, taking the lantern with them.

“Thank God!”

A soft nose butted her in the back. She turned, equally eager to make friends. “Oh, but you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” The mare’s long nose was velvet soft. Francesca ran her hands along the sleek coat, gauging by feel; her night vision had yet to return.

“He told me I should be riding an Arab mare, and he’s just bought you for some lady.” Returning to the horse’s head, she stroked its ears. “Coincidence, do you think?”

The horse turned its head and looked at her. She looked at it. And grinned. “I don’t think so.” She threw her arms about the mare’s neck and hugged. “He bought you for me!”

The thought sent her spirits soaring. Higher and higher, tumbling and turning. The mare was a wedding present-she would bet her life on it. Five minutes before, she’d been anything but pleased with Chillingworth, anything but sure of him. Now, however… she would forgive a man a great deal for such a present, and the thought behind it.

On such a horse, she could ride like the wind-and now she would be living on the edge of a wilderness made for riding wild. Suddenly, the future looked a lot more rosy. The dream that had teased her for the past several weeks-of riding Lambourn Downs on a fleet-footed Arabian mare with him by her side-was so close to coming true.

“Having bought you for me, he must expect me to ride you.” She couldn’t have resisted to save her soul. “Wait here. I have to find a saddle.”


Gyles rode home through the dark, weary in mind rather than in body. He was damp after wrestling with wet timbers, but the summons to the wrecked bridge had been a godsend. It had saved his sanity.

He’d refused Devil’s offer to ride out with him, even though he could have used the help. His temper was worn too thin to allow him to deflect Devil’s ribbing, which would have turned to probing the instant he lost his temper and snapped. Devil had known him too long to be easily avoided. And despite his protestations to the contrary, Devil was sure that, like all the Bar Cynster, he’d succumbed to Cupid and was, in reality, in love with his soon-to-be wife.

Devil would know the truth soon enough-the instant he laid eyes on Gyles’s meek, mild-mannered bride.

Turning his grey onto the path across the downs, he let the reins lie loose, letting the beast plod at his own pace.

His thoughts were no faster. At least he’d managed to keep the guest list to a manageable hundred or so. He’d had to fight his mother every step of the way; she’d been writing furiously to Franscesca over the past weeks, but he was sure it wasn’t at his bride’s insistence his mother had pushed and prodded, trying to make the wedding into a grand occasion. That had never been a part of his plan.

It occured to him to wonder if his bride had actually arrived. The service, after all, was scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning. His impulse was to shrug. She’d either be there, or she’d arrive later and they’d marry whenever. It was of little real moment.

He was hardly an impatient bridegroom.

Once he’d gained Francesca’s agreement and ridden away from Rawlings Hall, all urgency had left him. The matter was sealed, settled; she’d subsequently signed the marriage settlements. Since leaving Hampshire, he’d barely thought of his bride-to-be, only when his mother brandished a letter and made another demand. Otherwise…

He’d been thinking of the gypsy.

The memory of her haunted him. Every hour of every day, every hour of the long nights. She even haunted his dreams, and that was undoubtedly the worst, for in dreams there were no restrictions, no limits, and for a few brief moments after he awoke, he’d imagine…

Nothing he did, nothing he told himself, had diminished his obsession. His need for her was absolute and unwavering; despite knowing he’d escaped eternal enslavement by the skin of his teeth, he still dreamed… of her. Of having her. Of holding her, his, forever.

No other woman had affected him to this degree, driven him so close to the edge.

He was not looking forward to his wedding night. Just thinking of the gypsy was enough to arouse him, but he couldn’t, it seemed, assuage his desire with any other woman. He’d thought about trying, hoping to break her spell-he hadn’t managed to leave his armchair. His body might ache, but the only woman his mind would accept ease from was the gypsy. He was in a bad way, certainly not in the right mood to ease a delicate bride into harness.

But that would be on his wedding night; he’d cross that bridge when he reached it. Before then, he had to endure a wedding and wedding breakfast at which the gypsy would most likely be present, albeit swamped by a hundred other guests. He hadn’t asked if any Italian friend of Francesca’s was expected to be present. He hadn’t dared. Any such question would have alerted his mother and aunt, and then there would have been hell to pay. It was going to be bad enough when they met his bride face-to-face.

He hadn’t explained to them that his was an arranged marriage, and from what they’d let fall, Horace hadn’t either. Henni and his mother would know the truth the instant they laid eyes on Francesca Rawlings. No meek, mild-mannered female had ever held his interest, and they knew it. They’d see his reasoning instantly, and disapprove mightily, but by then there’d be nothing they could do.

It was also because of them-Henni and his equally perspicacious mother-that he’d insisted on restricting the time the bridal party spent at the castle prior to the wedding. The less time for unexpected meetings with the gypsy the better. One exchange observed and they who knew him best would guess the truth there, too. He didn’t want them to know. He didn’t want anyone to know. He wished he could ignore that particular truth himself.

Reaching the lip of the escarpment, he drew rein and sat looking down on his home, perched above a curve in the river. Lights shone in some windows-and red pinpricks glowed about the forecourt, the doused flares which would only have been lit if the bridal party had arrived.

It dawned on him that fate had been kind. The rain had been a blessing, the bridal party delayed until the last reasonable minute to a time when he’d had a legitimate excuse not to be there to greet them-to risk meeting the gypsy under everyone’s eyes. He now only had the wedding and wedding breakfast to endure-the absolute minimum time.