“Shall we go?”
Francesca swung back to the bookcase. “This Bible-may I borrow it? Your mother mentioned there’s a family tree in the front.”
“There is. By all means.” He pulled the heavy book out for her; his gaze drifted down her velvet skirts to her boots. “Why don’t I give this to Irving, and he can take it up to your sitting room?”
She smiled and slipped a hand through his arm, as eager as he to saddle up and be gone. “What a very good idea.”
Ten minutes later, they were in the saddle and off. Gyles led the way up to the escarpment, then, side by side, they flew before the wind.
Francesca flicked a glance along her shoulder. Gyles caught it-with her eyes, she flashed a challenge, then looked ahead and urged Regina on. The mare lengthened her stride, steady and sure. And fast.
The grey thundered alongside, keeping pace. The wind whipped Francesca’s hair back in black streamers. Fresh and clear, the air rushed to meet them. With hands and knees, she urged the mare faster.
Stride for stride, pace for pace, they streaked across the downs. The crisp coolness of the morning enveloped them. They raced, neither intending to lose yet not thinking of winning. The exhilaration of the moment was prize enough, the speed, the thrill, the thunder. They were locked in the mome
nt, in the movement, horses and riders merging into one entity, the pounding of hooves echoed by the pounding of their hearts.
“Slow here!”
Francesca obeyed instantly, easing back in concert as Gyles slowed the grey from gallop to canter, and finally to a walk. The escarpment was less steep there. Gyles reined in where a track led down. Francesca halted beside him.
His chest was rising and falling, as were her breasts. Their eyes met; they both grinned, ridiculously pleased. Francesca shook back her unruly curls and looked around, conscious that Gyles’s gaze lingered on her face, then traveled over her with a proprietorial air.
She glanced back at him, eyes widening, questioning.
His lips quirked. Reaching out, he tugged the plume on her cap. “Come on.” He clicked his reins, and the grey stepped onto the track. “Or we’ll never leave.”
Francesca grinned and set the mare in his wake.
They ambled down through gently rolling hills. Beyond lay fields reduced to stubble, hay stacked ready to be fetched away, the corn sheaves already gathered in.
“Is this still your land?”
“Down to the river and beyond.” He pointed to the east, then around in an arc to the south until he was pointing back toward the castle. “That’s the shape, with the escarpment the north boundary. Like an elongated oval.”
“And the Gatting property?”
“On the other side of the river. Come on.”
They followed a lane between two lush meadows, then clattered across a stone bridge. Gyles shifted the grey to a canter. Francesca kept pace. The lane rounded a bend. An old house came into view, set back in the fields, a narrow drive leading to it.
Gyles drew rein at the mouth of the drive. He nodded at the house. “Gatting. It was originally a manor house, but it’s been razed and added to over the centuries-there’s little of the original left.”
Francesca studied it. “Were there tenants in it?”
“Still are. They’re related to some of my tenants, and I knew their worth. There was no reason for them to leave.” Gyles turned the grey down the lane. “Come up to this rise. You’ll be able to see the whole property.”
Francesca nudged the mare and followed. On the rise, she halted beside him. “Charles told me the tale of how Gatting came to be and how I came to inherit it.” She rested her hands on the saddle bow. “Show me the land.”
He pointed out the boundaries. It didn’t seem that important a property, not compared to the rest of the estate. She said so, and he explained. They rode across the fields as he elaborated on the management strategies he currently employed. “Without Gatting, managing the acreage on this side of the river was a perennial headache.”
She glanced at him. “One our marriage has relieved?”
He met her eyes. “One it’s relieved.”
They rode on in complete harmony, heading west through the fields. Eventually, they reached another lane, and Gyles turned back toward the river. “This’ll take us to the top of the village.”
Another narrow bridge got them across the Lambourn. They rode past orchards enclosed by stone walls. A square-towered church loomed directly ahead, perched above the village and surrounded by a graveyard. They came upon a cottage, neat behind a white fence; the lane turned sharply beyond it, just before the church’s lych-gate. Gyles halted at the turn and waited until Francesca came alongside. He gestured ahead. “Lambourn village.”