All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page B

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.
    Twenty-four hours and he'd be a married man, tied in wedlock to a woman to whom he was indifferent. He would have secured all he'd set out to achieve—a suitable, mild, and undistracting wife to give him the heir he needed, and the Gatting property he wanted. All he needed to do was adhere to his plans for the next twenty-four hours and all he wanted would be his.
    Never had he felt so disinterested in victory.
    The grey whickered and shifted. Steadying him, Gyles heard the muted thud of hooves. Scanning the downward slope, he caught a flash of movement, shadow against shadow. A rider coming from the direction of the castle stables was angling up the escarpment.
    He lost sight of them, then looked to his left. Rider and horse burst onto the crest a hundred yards away. For an instant, the pair was silhouetted against the rising moon, then the horse sprang forward. The rider was small but in control. Long black hair rippled down her back. The horse was the Arab he'd bought a week ago. Strength and beauty in motion, they streaked out onto the downs. Gyles had wheeled the grey and set out in pursuit before he'd even thought. Then he did, and cursed himself for what he was doing, but made no move to draw rein. He cursed her, too. What the devil did she think she was doing taking a horse from his stables—no matter he'd bought the beast for her—
    without a by-your-leave and in the middle of the night!
    Grimly, he thundered in her wake, not riding her down but keeping her in sight. Anger was what he wanted to feel, but after dogging him all day, his temper had evaporated. He could too easily understand her—how she would feel after being cooped up in a carriage for days, then finding the mare… had she guessed it was for her?
    Anger would have been safer, but all he felt was a strange, wistfully compelling need—to talk to her again, see her eyes, her face, hear what she said when he told her the mare was hers—a gift so she could ride wild, but safe. The memory of her husky tones slid through his mind. As long as he didn't touch her, surely one last private meeting would be safe.
    Francesca didn't hear the thud of hooves pursuing her until she slowed the mare. The horse was perfect, wondrously responsive; she sent it circling in a prancing arc, ready to streak back to the castle if the rider was no one she knew.
    One glance and she recognized him. The moon was fully risen; it bathed him in silver, etching his face, leaving half in shadow. He was wearing a loose riding jacket, a pale shirt and neckcloth. The powerful muscles of his thighs were delineated by tight breeches tucked into long boots. She couldn't read his expression; his eyes she couldn't see. But as she slowed the mare, then halted and let him approach, she sensed no fury, no violent emotions, but something else. Something more careful, uncertain. Tilting her head, she studied him as he drew the huge grey to a halt before her.
    It was the first time they'd met since those wild moments in the forest. From tomorrow, they'd live with each other, turbulent emotions and all. Perhaps that was why they both said nothing, but simply looked—as if trying to establish some frame of reference in