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.
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.
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