All About Passion (34 page)

The image of the first time he'd seen her, the fact that he'd wanted her from that moment, led his mind to his mistake, to his initial perception of Franni—to the fact he'd been idiot enough to imagine she would make him a suitable wife to the point he'd thought it was she he was marrying. God forbid. Thankfully, fate had.

He'd been as arrogantly foolish as Lancelot in his approach to finding his bride, but fate had taken pity on him, overriding his machinations to plant the right candidate at the altar beside him. And arrange matters so that, despite her temper, she'd been agreeable to marrying him. Agreeable to loving him. He'd been so wrong about his bride—was he also wrong in refusing to love her? In not allowing what could be between them, what she wanted to be between them, to grow?

Fate had been so right over the matter of his wife. Did he dare to trust in fate again over the nature of their marriage?

Blowing out a long breath, he turned down the last stretch of track. Beside him, the grey slowed. Gyles looked up.

A yard ahead, a leather strap was stretched across the path just above knee height, secured around tree trunks on either side.

It was a leather rein from some carriage harness. Gyles halted before it. He tugged—it wasn't taut, but didn't have much give. He looked at the grey, judging where the strap would hit. He tested the leather, tested the knots securing it. Thought of what would have happened if he'd come down the path at a canter.

Or up the path at a gallop.

Frowning, he untied the strap from one tree trunk, rolling it in his hand as he crossed to the other tree. He was the principal user of the path. Other than him, only Francesca rode this way. When exercising his horses, his grooms used the track along the river where they cantered under Jacobs's watchful eye. The implication was obvious. "Who?" and "Why?" were less so. He had no local enemies that he knew of… except, perhaps, Lancelot Gilmartin. Glancing at the leather rolled in his hand, Gyles stuffed it into his pocket, then caught the grey's reins and continued down the track.

Despite the boy's foolishness, he couldn't believe it of Lancelot. Such cold-bloodedness seemed unlikely—and he'd certainly have considered that Francesca might be the one caught, and surely he wouldn't want that. Then again, given her verbal dissection of his character… could youthful adoration turn so quickly to hate?

But if not Lancelot, then who? He was involved in political schemes which others vehemently opposed, yet he couldn't imagine any of the opposing camp employing such tactics. That was too fanciful for words.

He pulled the rein out of his pocket and examined it again. It was damp. It had rained last night but not since dawn. The rein had been strung there at least overnight. Possibly for longer. He thought back to the last time anyone had used the path. He and Charles had gone riding the first morning of their visit. After that, he and Francesca had gone by other ways.

Gyles reached the stable yard. "Jacobs!"

Jacobs came running. Gyles waited until he'd handed the grey to a stableboy before showing Jacobs the rein.

"It could be one of ours—heaven knows we've heaps lying about." Jacobs strung the leather between his hands. "I really couldn't be sure. Where was it?"

Gyles told him.

Jacobs looked grim. "I'll have the lads keep a lookout. Whoever put it there might come back to check."

"Possibly, but I doubt it. Let me know immediately if you or the lads see anyone or anything unusual."

"Aye, m'lord."

"And during the Harvest Festival, I want the stables closed off, and watched."

"Aye—I'll see to it."

Gyles headed for the house, trying to dismiss the notion that had popped into his head. The conundrum of how a stone had become embedded in his wife's mount's hoof when the horse hadn't been out. So the next time she'd been out, Francesca had ridden one of his hunters, a horse she couldn't easily manage. He'd been with her and they'd ridden out by a different route, but the scenario could so easily have been different. She could have gone riding by herself and taken the path up the escarpment. Flexing his shoulders, he tried to push the resulting vision aside. It hadn't happened, and all was still well.

That, he tried to tell himself, was all that mattered.

Striding up to the side door, he hauled it open and went inside.

Chapter 15

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The days leading, to their Harvest Festival were filled with activity. Gyles spent much of the time within sight of Francesca, more to appease the brooding barbarian than from any conviction she was in danger. But while in his sight, she was safe—and keeping her in sight was no hardship. His house came alive, filled with frenzied footmen; he was entertained to see Irving succumb to the pleasant panic. Even Wallace was seen hurrying, an unprecedented sight. Yet most of his mind remained on Francesca, his senses attuned to every nuance of her voice, to the tilt of her head as she considered some point, to the swish of her skirts as she hurried past. She was everywhere—in the kitchens one minute, in the forecourt the next.

And every night she came to his arms, happy and content and very willing to share all she was with him. He tried, once, to settle with a news sheet. After reading the same paragraph five times and not taking in one word, he surrendered and went to see what Francesca was up to in the conservatory. His mother, Henni, and Horace had arrived; he heard their voices as he strolled into the glass and stone edifice built out from the house beyond the library. With Francesca, they were sitting about a wroughtiron table positioned to make the most of the morning light. His mother saw him.

"There you are, dear." She held up her face; he bent and kissed her cheek. "Francesca has been telling us of all that's planned."

"I've volunteered to oversee the archery contests." Horace squared his shoulders. "Did that years ago for your father. Quite enjoyed it."

Gyles nodded and looked at Henni.

"Your mother and I will be roaming the crowd, making sure all is as it should be."

"There'll be so many here"—Francesca glanced up at him—"you and I won't be able to be everywhere."

"True." He stood by Francesca's chair, his hand on its back, and listened to her plans. He'd heard then before and approved them all; he listened not to her words but the eagerness in her voice as she recited the day's schedule.

"By tomorrow evening, all should be in readiness."

Henni set down her cup. "A pity you'll have to wait until the morning to put out the trestles and boards, but it was ever the same. A Festival at this time of year can't expect to be other than damp."

"With luck, the day'll be fine." Horace stood. "Usually was, as I recall."

"Indeed. The whole estate will be praying for a fine day—I haven't seen such excitement for years." Lady Elizabeth rose and kissed Francesca's cheek. "We'll leave you to your preparations." Francesca and Henni rose, too.

"Don't forget—if you need any help, you have only to send a footman across the park." Henni squeezed Francesca's hand, then turned to the door leading outside just as a large shadow filled the doorway.

"Ahem!" Edwards shuffled, then raised a hand to the frame and lightly knocked. Francesca recovered first. "Yes, Edwards?"

He gripped his cap between his hands. "I was wondering if I might have a word, ma'am."

"Yes?"

He drew breath, glanced at Gyles, then looked at Francesca. "It's the plums, ma'am. They need to be harvested tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But tomorrow's the last day before the Festival."

"Aye, well, trees and fruit and weather don't allow for festivals, like. The season's been late, and the fruit's just ripe—we need to get it in as soon as we have a dry patch long enough so it won't be damp." He glanced at the sky. "It's been clear for the last few days. By tomorrow, the fruit'll be right to pick—

we daren't risk the crop by waiting till after the Festival."

Francesca had learned that the plum crop and the jam it produced was almost as old a Castle tradition as the Festival.

"So you'll need all the gardeners and stablelads?"

"Aye, and the footmen, too. Even then, it'll take the whole day." Francesca frowned. They would never manage the preparations for the festival without all those hands. Lady Elizabeth turned to her. "You can have the staff from the Dower House, if that would help." Francesca nodded, then refocused on Edwards. "What if all of us pick? How long would it take then?"

"All?"

"The entire staff—everyone in the house. And the staff from the Dower House. Every pair of hands. That's more than double the number you need to do it in a day. If you have that many, how many hours will it take?"

Edwards cogitated. "A few…" He nodded. "Aye—three hours would do it if we had that many. We've plenty of ladders and such."

Francesca almost sighed with relief. "Tomorrow afternoon. We'll complete all the preparations for the Festival, then have a late luncheon—then we'll
all
gather in the orchard and bring in the crop."

"That's an excellent idea." Henni nodded approvingly.

"I'll spread the word and speak to my lads." Edwards bowed and strode off.

"I must come over," Horace said as they moved to the now vacant doorway. "Sounds quite an event in itself."

"Do come," Francesca said. "We can have tea and scones as a celebratory picnic at the end."

"What a delightful idea!" Lady Elizabeth declared.

Gyles noted the look in Francesca's eyes—the look she got when she was busily scheming. She flashed them all a smile. "If you'll excuse me, I must speak with Wallace immediately."

"Of course! We'll see you tomorrow afternoon." They waved as she disappeared back into the house, then Henni took Horace's arm and they stepped out onto the path.

Gyles gave his mother his arm. He helped her out onto the flags, conscious of her gaze on his face. She didn't move to join Henni and Horace, strolling slowly toward the park. Resigned, he met her gaze, then arched a brow.

She smiled. "You've been unbelievably lucky, you know."

He held her gaze. "I know."

Her smile deepened. She patted his arm, then set out in Henni and Horace's wake. He knew very well how lucky he was.

The next afternoon, Gyles walked beneath the plum trees, surrounded by every last member of the Castle staff as well as those from the Dower House, and drank in the music of their chatter. His mother, Horace, and Henni had arrived—Francesca had presented them with baskets and directed them to a section of low-hanging branches. Henni had plum stains on her old dimity gown; both she and his mother were giggling as they picked.

Ladders were set up around six trees; there were two pickers on every ladder and four gatherers beneath waiting to place the fruit in the big wicker baskets. The orchard was a hive of activity, powered by a celebratory air.

The preparations for the Festival were complete. Everything was ready; the staff had thrown themselves into Francesca's revised plans with single-minded determination—the present exercise was their reward. A time to play after all their work. Francesca had turned what was usually viewed as a chore into an entertainment. As he searched for her, Gyles felt sure he was witnessing a tradition in the making.

"We'll just take this basket to the dray, ma'am."

"Be careful."

Gyles looked up. His exquisite wife, dressed in a simple apple green day gown, was perched high on a ladder. She reached for two plums, deftly plucked them, then cradled them to her bosom and waited for her helpers to return.

Gyles moved into her line of vision.

She smiled gloriously. "I wondered where you were."

"I've been chasing you." He reached up, and she handed him the plums. Then she opened her arms wide. "Here I am."

Their eyes met. "So I see."

One hand on a rung, she reached out and picked another plum, then carried it to her mouth and took a bite. Red juice stained her full lips as she chewed, then swallowed.

"They're luscious." She took another bite, then held the fruit out to him. "Try it." He hesitated, then reached up and took the plum, turned it and bit, drew in a mouthful. His gaze never left her. The fruit was as luscious as she'd said. He savored the taste as he watched her tongue slide out and around her lips.

"My lord?"

Gyles looked down. Francesca's assistants had returned with a fresh basket. "Leave it there." He nodded at the ground beside him. "I'll gather for her ladyship. There's others who need help." The boys grinned and dashed off, eager to check on their friends.

Gyles finished the plum, then looked up at his wife. "Shall we?" She laughed and reached for more plums.

There was a competition running to see which group could denude the first tree. Edwards was the judge. When whoops announced one group thought they'd finished, he stumped up, scrutinized the tree for any missed plums, then declared the competition won.

The successful group whooped and danced. The others cheered, then quickly returned to finish their trees, then move the ladders to the next row.

There were twenty-four plum trees in the orchard, all gnarled veterans kept in excellent condition by Edwards's focused attention. The dray was sent rolling, groaning under the weight, to the kitchens twice before they reached the final trees.

The sun peeked out from under grey clouds, sending golden beams slanting through the trees as first one group, then another, finished their last tree. The ladders were carted away. Cook and Mrs. Cantle gathered the kitchen maids and hurried off to the house. Anticipating the fare to come, those already finished crowded around, helping those still picking.

Ten minutes later, just as the final plum was picked, Cook and Mrs. Cantle reappeared, leading a procession of maids each bearing a tray loaded with scones, freshly churned butter, and the last of the previous year's plum jam. Four footmen followed, carting two huge urns of tea. A cheer went up, then rose even higher as Cook led the way into the orchard. Francesca stepped off her ladder. Gyles took her hand, and they walked to meet Cook.

She bobbed a curtsy and served them. They both took a scone, buttered it, and piled it high with jam. Then Francesca turned to the waiting multitude.