“Ester called me. I heard her and came running-”

“When Ester called, Franni reacted. She shut her book, gathered her shawl.”

Francesca grimaced. “She’s childish-always curious. If someone’s called, she’ll come to find out why. But surely, just from that, you didn’t assume-”

“Ester called again. ‘Francesca-Franni’-and Franni answered, ‘I’m here.’ Naturally, I assumed Franni was a diminutive of Francesca. I was convinced she was you.”

She studied him. Her anger faded; worry clouded her eyes. “You said you met Franni-walked with her-twice. What did you say to her?”

He set his jaw. “I swore on my honor I said nothing-” He broke off when she waved the words aside.

“I accept that you didn’t mention your offer, but Franni, as I said-you heard what Charles said-she’s childish. She exaggerates wildly.” Her hands gestured; her eyes willed him to understand. “What did you speak with her about?”

He frowned. “Why is it important?”

She pressed her lips together, then gave in. “Franni mentioned she had a gentleman caller, one who called twice. She interpreted his visits as meaning he would offer for her. She told me this days ago. I couldn’t get her to reveal anything more-she’s often secretive. And often what she’s sure happened is pure fantasy.”

His frowned deepened; she hurried on, “I don’t even know if the man she was thinking of was you, but it might have been, and she might have…”

“Imagined the rest.” Gyles thought back. “I introduced myself as Gyles Rawlings, a distant-” He broke off. Francesca’s eyes had widened. “What?”

“I-we-Ester, Charles, and I-always spoke of you as Chillingworth. When we arrived here, your mother and the others did the same, at least in Franni’s hearing. She might not have realized-”

“Who I was before the ceremony? That might explain her reaction. Sheer surprise makes more sense than her having read anything into our meetings.”

“Those meetings?”

“The first time I walked with her all we spoke of was the dogs. I asked if they were hers. She said they just lived there. I later made a comment about their spots, with which she agreed. Then I left her. The next day, she was absorbed with trees. She was asking which was which.” He shook his head. “I think I answered twice. Other than that, and saying good-bye, I can’t recall saying anything more.”

He studied Francesca’s face. “If your cousin imagined anything, it was unfounded. Neither you nor I can do anything about that. You said yourself you don’t know if it was me she was referring to or some other. Or no one. You don’t know if that’s why she reacted in the chapel as she did. It might, as Charles suggested, simply be overexcitement.”

Francesca held his gaze. He was right-there was nothing either of them could do, at least not at present. He reached for her-she whisked away.

“Your mistake over Franni is only the first bone we have between us, my lord.” She caught his eye as she paced around him. “I wish to understand why, imagining you were offering for Franni, you were so…”-she gestured-“intent on me.” She was sure he’d understand her allusion; the hardening of his already hard face confirmed he did. Swinging to face him, she spread her arms wide. “If you thought she was me, who did you think I was?”

His eyes narrowed to slate shards. His gaze flashed over her-she felt it like a touch, a brush of long fingers over her bare skin. Beneath her gown, her skin flickered. She suppressed a shiver and kept her gaze on his eyes.

“I thought”-the words were bitten off-“that you were a gypsy. Too consciously well endowed and far too bold to be a young lady.” He took a prowling step toward her. “I thought you a bold and eager companion.”

She tilted her head defiantly. “I know well what you were thinking, my lord.” She made no effort to retreat as he prowled closer.

“I know you do. You were thinking along the same lines.” He halted before her. Lifting one hand, he traced a finger along her jaw, then slid it beneath and tipped her face to his. His eyes held hers. “Can you deny it?”

Francesca let her lips curve. “No. But then I hadn’t come directly from offering for another.”

Gyles realized his misstep, but she didn’t let him retreat.

“How dare you!” Eyes blazing, she jabbed a finger into his chest. “How dare you make an offer for me, and then, within minutes, think, consider, and even start planning on taking another woman as your mistress?”

“That other woman was you!”

“You didn’t know that!” She jabbed him again. He took a step back and she was on him like a whirlwind. “You came after me, looking for me in the orchard-you kissed me-you almost seduced me!”

She was so much shorter and slighter than he, yet her fury burned like a flame. Hands, arms, her whole body was afire; she came at him, and he backed, step by step, before the sheer rage in her eyes.

“You left the woman you thought was your intended, and you deliberately sought me out to-”

“You were very ready to be seduced-”

“Of course I was! I knew who you were-you’d offered for me! I thought you wanted me-me, your intended bride!”

“I did want you-”

She cut him off with a torrent of Italian. He spoke the language fluently, but at the rate she spoke, he could make out less than one word in ten. Words like “arrogant,” and something he thought approximated “swine,” and one or two others gave him an idea of her tack, but not enough of the context for him to defend himself.

“Slow down-I can’t understand you.”

Her eyes flamed. “You can’t understand me? You were set on marrying a lady you’d deliberately barely exchanged two words with! It’s I who cannot understand you!”

She reverted to Italian, a flow of impassioned outpourings that, like a physical tide, swept them both along. Her gestures, always dramatic, became more emphatic, more violent. He continued to retreat while he struggled to find some point to seize long enough to gain his footing. She darted this way, then that, hands flinging wildly about.

He suddenly realized she’d opened the corridor door and backed him to the threshold. Grabbing the door’s edge, he halted. “Francesca!”

The exclamation was designed to jerk her reins, to shake her to reality.

It only evoked another furious spate of Italian. She flung up a hand as if to slap him-she didn’t-she wouldn’t have connected-it was just another histrionic gesture conveying her contempt, but he ducked back, stepped back, let go of the door.

Then he was in the corridor and she was in the doorway, hands on her hips, her breasts rising and falling, her black hair a silken jumble against the ivory of her gown. Green fire burned in her eyes.

She was so vividly, vitally, intensely beautiful, he literally couldn’t breathe.

“And then,” she said, reverting to English, “when you’ve managed to answer that, you can explain why it was, in the forest that morning, you stopped! And again in the stables-was it only last night? You want me, my lord, yet you don’t! You didn’t want me as your bride, but you thought to have me as your mistress. You thought to seduce me-then when you succeeded you turned away!” She flung up her hands. “How can you explain that?”

She paused, the silence dramatic after her tirade. Breasts heaving, she kept her eyes locked on his.

Then she drew in a long breath, drew herself up and lifted her chin. “You put it so succinctly last night. You don’t want me, you don’t need me-you only desire me. Not, however, sufficiently deeply to bother consummating a relationship. And now we’re married. You might think on that.”

She turned away. “Good night.”

He swore and leaped for the door. It slammed shut in his face. The lock snibbed as his hand closed on the knob.

The oath he uttered was not a polite one. He glared at the door. He could hear Fate laughing.

He’d plotted and planned to gain a meek and mild bride.

And landed himself with a virago.


Francesca didn’t waste any time staring at the locked door. She raced across the room to the door from his bedroom-only to skid to a horrified stop. The door had no lock.

She looked around, then ran to the escritoire. Lifting the chair before it, she rushed to jam it under the doorknob.

Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked far too flimsy for her peace of mind.

A chest of drawers stood to one side of the doorway; she stepped to its side, drew in a deep breath, and pushed with all her might. It shifted an inch. Encouraged, she tamped down her welling panic and pushed again. The other end of the chest hit the doorframe.

Muttering a curse, she hurried to that end, reached across and tried to jerk the corner free-

Hard hands closed about her waist.

She screamed with sheer shock. But she recognized the hands-they’d been flirting with her waist for the past hours. Her fright drowned beneath a wave of fresh fury. He juggled her, turned her-locked his hands about her waist and hoisted her up-up above his head.

Shocked anew, she grabbed handfuls of his hair-not to pull but to steady herself. His eyes flashed a warning-she ignored it, too busy trying to fathom how he’d got in.

“The other door-the one to your sitting room.”

She looked across the room, and for the first time saw the door in the opposite wall.

“I take it you haven’t admired the decor yet.”

His urbane tone did nothing to calm her. Releasing one hand, she glanced down. He started walking, carrying her like some dangerous captured prize, high above his head at arm’s length.