All About Passion Page 6

  Clinging to the bay’s saddle, she rocketed on. She couldn’t risk a glance back—didn’t dare—couldn’t spare the instant. At this pace, she needed all her concentration for the track before her. It twisted and turned. She could feel Chillingworth’s gaze locked on her back, hot as a flame.

  An icy tingle touched her nape, then slid down every nerve. Fear, but not a simple one. A primal one—primitive—as primitive as the expression that had flowed across his face in the instant before he’d come for her. Twisted within the fear was a strand of heat, but it gave her no comfort; it only added another dimension to her panic—fear of the unknown.

  Her only thought was to escape. The knot in her gut swelled; her senses unfurled, whispering of surrender.

  She tried to think, to plan how to lose him. The bay and the chestnut seemed well matched, but the paths were too narrow for him to draw alongside. Soon, they’d reach the next glade. Luckily, he rode much heavier than she.

  The trees thinned. She slowed the bay, then sprang him into the open glade, racing flat out, bent low to the horse’s withers. The chestnut stayed with her. She flicked a glance back and to the side—and nearly swallowed her heart as her eyes locked with Chillingworth’s, mere feet away.

  He was gaining steadily. He reached for her reins—

  She swerved away. The opening of another path, to her side, closer than the one she’d been heading for, was her only possible route. She sent the bay racing down it; the chestnut thundered on his heels. What came next?

  The answer appeared before she was ready, the trees ending abruptly at the edge of a narrow field. The terrain sloped down to a shallow brook, then rose steeply beyond it. Only one path led out of the glade—its opening lay directly across the field.

  She flung the bay at the brook. Its hooves clattered on the smooth stones in the watercourse, the chestnut’s hooves sounding an instantaneous echo. The bay attacked the upward slope, back legs churning as it hauled its considerable weight up the rise.

  The top of the rise was one bound away when the chestnut drew level.

  A hand whipped across her and grabbed her reins.

  Gasping, she wrenched them back—the bay staggered.

  A steely arm wrapped around her; it locked her, shoulder to chest, against an even harder frame. Instinctively, she struggled. The reins were hauled from her grasp.

  “Be still!”

  The words thundered, lashed.

  She quieted.

  The horses jostled, then settled, held steady with an iron hand. They sidled onto the short stretch of level ground at the top of the rise. Separated only by his booted leg, bay and chestnut coats flickered, then both horses eased, expelled long horsey sighs, and lowered their heads.

  The arm around her felt like a manacle; it didn’t ease. Breathing raggedly, her pulse racing, Francesca looked up.

  Gyles met her wide gaze—and felt primitive, possessive fury surge. His head was reeling, his heart racing. His breathing was as tortured as hers.

  Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted. Her eyes, glittering green, fixed on his, flared with an awareness as old as time.

  He took her lips in a searing kiss.

  He gave no quarter. Even had she begged he would not have granted it—she was his. His to brand, his to seize, his to claim. He ravaged her mouth, demanded her surrender—when it came and she softened in his arm, he tightened his hold on her and deepened the kiss—sealed her fate and his.

  She was soft, submissive—all woman. Her lips were as lush as he remembered, her mouth a cavern of wanton delight. She surrendered and opened fully to him, yielded on a sigh that was half moan, half entreaty. The sound drove him on; desire flicked, whipped. She offered her mouth in appeasement—he seized and demanded more.

  Swept up on the tide, Francesca released her last hold on the bay’s reins and gave herself up to his embrace. The hot tangle of their tongues commanded her full attention, her complete and absolute devotion. The arm about her, muscles rigid, tightened even more. Perched sidesaddle as she was with her legs curled between them, he was lifting her from her seat. She didn’t care. All that mattered was the gloriously heady tide that raged between them. Mentally finding her feet in the torrent, she steadied, then she caught her breath from him and reached for him.

  Sent her hands pushing over his shoulders, then twined her fingers in his hair; reached for him with her body, arching, pressing deeper into his crushing embrace. Reached for him with her lips, ardently returning the heated, hungry kisses—feeding his desire, satisfying hers.

  Beneath it all, she reached for him with her soul, with all the passion and love she had in her—this, this! her heart sang, was what should be.

  He claimed all she was, drank it in, took it all from her, and in the taking gave. He was far from gentle but she wanted no gentleness—she wanted fire and flame, passion and glory, desire and fulfillment. That was the promise in the hard lips that bruised hers, in his almost-brutal conquest of her mouth. She met each invasion with joy in her heart, with desire racing down her veins.

  Beneath them, the horses shifted; his attention deflected for the briefest moment—she felt him transfer the tightened reins to the hand at her waist. Then his lips hardened—he tipped her back, bending her over the arm at her back. His freed hand closed about her jaw, framing her face, holding her steady for an invasion so powerful, so devastating, it left her senses reeling.

  His hand left her face to close, hard, about her breast.

  She reacted as if he’d set a sexual brand to her body, arching, pressing nearer. She felt that first touch all the way to her toes, a pleasure unlike any other spearing beneath her skin, then melting, spreading. Her temperature rose—her skin heated. Like a fever, yet not—like the warmth from an inner flame. A flame he stoked as his fingers firmed, caressed, then provocatively kneaded. Through the thick velvet, he found the peak of her breast, and teased it with hard flicks.

  He swallowed her gasp and ruthlessly drove her on. She went willingly, eagerly, wanting all he would give her, all he would show her—wanting, ultimately, him. She put up no resistance. Instead, she focused what wit she still possessed on following his lead as swiftly as she could, on giving the response he demanded, on feeding and satisfying the hunger that was theirs—on making love with him.

  Gyles knew it, sensed it—victorious triumph surged through him. She was his—she would surrender completely and take him into her body. There was nothing to stop him having her. One slight lift and she would be off her saddle, in his lap, then he could take her to the grass . . .

  An image flashed across his brain—the grass was coarse, tufty, the ground rocky and uneven. The horses were near. The vision of her as he would see her, watching her as he took her, her glorious hair lying tangled over that unforgiving ground, her body unprotected from his onslaught, uncushioned as she struggled to take him all, to meet his thrusts, her eyes widening then hazing with pain . . .

  No!

  His recoil was so violent it loosened the grip of his lust, the unforgiving grip of his passions. Dragging in a breath, he fought to clear his head—fought the compulsion that beat steadily in his blood. Momentarily lost, he mentally groped for his identity—the persona he showed to the world. He’d lost it—left it behind in the first glade, when he’d first seen her once again on a dangerous hunter.

  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.

  H
is 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.

  But she pressed Charles’s hands and allowed him to believe all was well. Indeed, she wasn’t seriously worried.

  Not after their interlude today.

  After experiencing what had risen between them, flowed like a raging river through them, regardless of her betrothed’s insistence on the publicly cold-blooded approach, there was patently no need to worry.

  A letter from Chillingworth’s mother arrived three days later. The Dowager Countess, Lady Elizabeth, wrote to welcome Francesca into the family with such transparent joy and goodwill that all qualms Francesca had harbored on that front were laid to rest.

  “She says the rest of the family is delighted with the news. . . .” Francesca shuffled the leaves of the lengthy letter. She was sitting on the window seat in the downstairs parlor; Franni was curled on the seat’s other end, clutching a cushion, her blue eyes wide. Ester listened from a nearby chair. “And she’s working on Chillingworth to allow her to extend the guest list, as the family’s such a far-flung one, and there are so many branches, etcetera.”