Francesca scanned the huge hunters, then arched a brow at Gyles.

He sighed. “If you promise not to go tearing off, faster than the wind over the downs, then I suppose, seeing I’ll be with you-”

“Thank you.” Francesca gifted him with a glorious smile, then turned it on Jacobs. “That one, I think.”

Gyles glanced at the black she’d selected, then nodded, ignoring Jacobs’s stunned look. “Wizard’s at least reasonably biddable.”

Francesca pulled a face at him. They walked back out to the yard. In a minute, Jacobs, still looking unsure, walked the black out.

His hand at her waist, Gyles urged Francesca forward. She stopped by the black’s side and he lifted her to the saddle. Jacobs held the horse steady while she got settled. Gyles mounted and picked up his reins, glanced at the small figure perched atop the massive hunter, then wheeled. She brought the black alongside as they trotted out of the yard.

“Is it possible to ride through the village, then up to the downs that way?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Why?”

“We need to speak with Mrs. Duckett and Harris about the supplies for the Festival-I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”

He nodded. Instead of taking the track to the escarpment, he led the way along a ride that circled the house, running under the trees of the park to eventually join the main drive.

When they slowed and clattered through the main gates, Francesca laughed. “That’s a lovely gallop.”

They trotted on to the village.

Francesca went into the bakery to speak with Mrs. Duckett. Gyles strode down to the Red Pigeon, arranged the supply of ale with Harris, then returned to liberate Francesca from Mrs. Duckett’s clutches, that lady having been as honored and delighted as Cook had predicted.

Both once more in the saddle, Gyles led the way up the street to the church. A path to the downs lay beyond it. Five minutes later, they crested the escarpment, the horses stepping into the wide, treeless expanse with evident anticipation.

The black pranced; Francesca held the big gelding back, waiting, watching for Gyles’s direction. He glanced her way. “Any preference?”

A fleeting recollection popped into her head. “What about those barrows Lancelot Gilmartin mentioned? They must be close.”

“A few miles.” Gyles studied her, then added, “I wouldn’t, myself, term them romantic.”

“Well, you may take me there and let me see for myself.” Francesca looked around as the black jigged impatiently. “Which way?”

“North.”

Gyles sprang the grey and she went with him. Shoulder to shoulder, the huge hunters thundered across the rolling green. The wind of their passing whipped back Francesca’s curls; exhilaration sang in her veins.

The sky was slate grey and no sun shone, yet there was a glow in her heart as they swept on. Again and again, she felt Gyles’s gaze, on her face, her hands, checking her posture. This was no race; although they rode hard, the gallop was severely controlled, judged to a whisker so as not to feel restricted-an indulgence, yes, one held just within the limits of safety.

It was comforting to feel so watched over, to know that he was there, with her.

They gained the top of a low rise and he slowed. She followed suit, drawing the black in. The gelding was still frisky, still wanting to run. She patted his glossy neck as she trotted up to Gyles.

He nodded ahead. “See those mounds?”

She saw a cluster of earth mounds about a mile further on. “Is that it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His tone alerted her; she looked and found him gazing at a point much nearer to hand. Another rider, previously hidden in a dip, came riding toward them.

“Lancelot Gilmartin?”

“Indeed.”

Lancelot had seen them. They waited. Gyles steadied his grey as Lancelot came pounding up. Pounding too furiously. He hauled his bay to a too-precipitous halt. It snorted, backed, reared.

The black jerked and sidled; Francesca’s arms were tugged sharply as he shook his head.

Gyles angled the grey closer. The presence of the more experienced horse calmed the black.

By then, Lancelot had his showy bay under control. “Lady Chillingworth.” He swept her a bow, then nodded at Gyles. “My lord.” Before either could reply, his glowing gaze locked on Francesca’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t resist the lure of the Barrows. I was on my way there when I saw you and turned back.” He glanced at Gyles. “My lord, I would be happy to escort her ladyship farther. No doubt you have much business to attend to.”

Francesca jumped in before Gyles could annihilate Lancelot. “Mr. Gilmartin, you misunderstand. I really couldn’t presume-”

“Oh, nonsense. I insist. Tell you what, I’ll race you.”

Lancelot wheeled the fractious bay to come alongside-the horse stumbled sideways. Rumps bumped, Lancelot’s mount jarring the increasingly nervous black, bumping it into Gyles’s grey.

“No!” Francesca felt a tremor of panic rush through the black, felt the bunching of powerful muscles beneath her. “Hold steady,” she snapped at Lancelot.

The bay had other ideas. It reared and lashed out. Lancelot was nearly unseated. His left arm flailed-his crop came down hard on the black’s rump.

The black shot into a gallop.

Gyles lunged for the reins and missed. One glance at Francesca bobbing awkwardly on the black’s back was enough. She was unbalanced and heading for a fall.

Cursing freely, he flicked a scorching glance at Lancelot. “You blasted fool!” He set the grey after the black, leaving Lancelot still struggling with his mount.

Gyles didn’t spare another thought for Lancelot, not even for retribution, not for anything beyond the small figure bouncing as she struggled to retain her seat. Sidesaddle, she had no room for error on a hunter. Jouncing as she was, she had no hope of controlling such a strong beast. The downs thereabouts were uneven-the horse’s pounding strides would jar all the way through her, wrenching her arms, weakening her hold on the reins.

Until she fell.

Gyles refused to think of it-to think of the occasional rock embedded in the sward. Refused to remember his father, lying so still on the ground.

Shutting his mind, he gave chase. And prayed she’d have the wit and the strength to hang on.

Francesca gritted her teeth, vainly trying to stop her breath being slammed out of her with every stride the black took. She’d had a plan in case one of Charles’s hunters ever did run away with her: hang on until the horse tired. All very well in the forest, where the paths were flat but twisting, slowing a horse, tiring it quickly. Here on the open downs, the black was just getting into his stride-he could run without restriction.

The dips and folds meant little to the horse; they meant much more to her. Her arms felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets and still the horse flew. Only her boot firm in the stirrup and her leg locked around the saddlebow allowed her to keep her seat.

She wouldn’t be able to do so much longer.

The thought crystallized in her mind. In that instant, she heard the heavy thud of hooves behind her, closing, slowly closing.

Gyles.

She locked her fingers more firmly on the reins, tried to balance her weight, to ease the jolts that with every stride were shaking her like a rag doll.

She could no longer draw a full breath-her lungs had forgotten how. Panic clawed at the back of her throat. Heat rushed up her nape.

Glancing ahead, she saw a series of folds lying like shadows over the green. Up and down, up and down-she’d never make it. Never retain her seat through that.

The grey was still closing. She couldn’t risk a glance back to see.

Dragging in a breath, she threw what little strength she had left into hauling back on the reins. In vain. The black had his head down, and she didn’t have the strength to fight him.

The grey’s head drew alongside.

“Kick your feet free-now!”

She heard Gyles’s command-pushed aside the thought that with her feet free, she’d surely fall-and did as he said.

In the instant her boots cleared the leather, she felt his arm around her waist, felt him seize her. She dropped the reins and pushed away from the saddle. Reached for him.

He lifted her, swung her over, pulled her to him.

She grabbed, clung, sobbed as she held fast, hands fisting in his shirt. She curled herself into him, pressed herself to him, her cheek to his chest, her boots and skirts flowing over one hard thigh.

Safe.

Gyles slowed the grey gradually-no showy abrupt halt that might dislodge Francesca. All he wanted was to hold her and let the reality of her safety sink into his bones. Let his panic and fear subside and sink back behind his defenses again.

Again. Only this time had been much worse.

She was still breathing brokenly when he halted the grey; she was shaking with shock, as was he. He wrapped his arms around her, set his cheek to her hair, and held her, then he tightened his arms briefly before easing his hold and trying to look into her face-

“I say!” Lancelot skidded his horse to a halt beside them. “Is everything all right?”

Gyles lifted his head. “You witless oaf! If you had an ounce of brain to your name-”

Francesca listened. Gyles’s tone scorned, his words lashed. She agreed with every one. She was grateful he was there to deliver them, because she didn’t have the strength, the breath, to do the occasion justice. She concentrated on breathing, on listening to her heart, and his, slow. Concentrated on the fact that they were both still whole. Still together.