She would accept Chillingworth tomorrow afternoon. No-she would instruct her uncle to accept him, if that was how Chillingworth wanted the scene played.

The breeze from the forest was cool. Rising from the window seat, she headed for her bed, inwardly shaking her head.

He was who he was-no matter what he said, he could not, in his heart, still be set on a loveless, cold-blooded relationship, not now he'd met her. Kissed her. He might stubbornly adhere to the role he'd scripted for himself; he might still cling to the fiction before Charles, herself-even to himself. But that could not be what his real self wanted.

Halting by her bed, Francesca tilted her head, considering her future-considering him. A challenge?

Lips firming, she set aside her shawl and climbed between the sheets.

The possibility was there-she felt confident of that-but to gain what she wanted from their marriage, she'd need much more than he'd offered thus far.

She'd need his heart.

Given openly, freely, without reservation.

Would he ever be willing to offer her that?

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and surrendered her destiny to the gods. In her sleepy mind, a distant fantasy took shape... of her streaking across the downs she'd read lay just north of his castle on a fleet-footed Arabian mare. With him by her side.

Across the forest, Gyles sat staring out at the night. A glass of brandy in one hand, the window open before his chair, he brooded on his soul-on its propensities. He didn't like what he saw; he didn't feel comfortable with the possibilities.

The gypsy was dangerous. Too dangerous to risk seducing. A wise man knew when to leave temptation alone.

He'd determined to give her a wide berth, yet the instant he'd seen her, he'd given chase. Without thought. Without hesitation.

The gypsy had his measure.

As for what he'd felt in the instant she'd fallen...

He'd offered for Francesca Rawlings. Tomorrow, he'd call at Rawlings Hall and receive her acceptance of his suit. He'd make arrangements to marry her-his perfect, meek, mild-mannered cipher-as swiftly as possible.

Then he would leave.

His hand clenched about the glass, then he downed the contents and stood.

He would not meet with the gypsy again.

Chapter 4.

Francesca spoke with Charles as she'd promised. While sympathetic to Chillingworth's concern, he'd also been touchingly aware of her need to ride.

"I can't see why," Charles had said, "as long as you exercise reasonable caution, you shouldn't continue to ride my hunters until you marry and he can supply you with a suitable mount. After all, you've been riding through the forest for two years without mishap."

Those sentiments echoed Francesca's. Consequently, early the next morning, hours earlier than she normally rode, she was on the bay gelding heading down a bridle path miles away from her normal route between the Hall and Lyndhurst. Her mood was sunny, her heart light as she galloped along. Not a smidgen of guilt disturbed her; she'd done everything she could to spare Chillingworth.

She rode into the next glade at a clipping pace.

Mounted on his chestnut, he was riding toward her.

The first thing she felt was a sense of betrayal.

Then she saw his face-watched it harden-saw fury flare, then coalesce into something hotter. Betrayal was swamped by alarm.

Then he dug in his heels and came for her.

She fled. She didn't stop to think-rational thought had no place in her brain. When a man looked at a woman like that, then charged at her, there was only one sane reaction.

A bridle path was closer than he was-she took it, plunging the bay onto the track. The chestnut swooped in behind them. She gave the bay his head. She could feel the thud of the chestnut's hooves over the reverberation of the bay's strides and the frantic pounding of her heart. A vise locked tight about her chest, squeezing her heart into her throat. The wind of her passing whipped her hair back, tossing her curls in a tangle behind her.

Clinging to the bay's saddle, she rocketed on. She couldn't risk a glance back-didn't dare-couldn't spare the instant. At this pace, she needed all her concentration for the track before her. It twisted and turned. She could feel Chillingworth's gaze locked on her back, hot as a flame.

An icy tingle touched her nape, then slid down every nerve. Fear, but not a simple one. A primal one-primitive-as primitive as the expression that had flowed across his face in the instant before he'd come for her. Twisted within the fear was a strand of heat, but it gave her no comfort; it only added another dimension to her panic-fear of the unknown.

Her only thought was to escape. The knot in her gut swelled; her senses unfurled, whispering of surrender.

She tried to think, to plan how to lose him. The bay and the chestnut seemed well matched, but the paths were too narrow for him to draw alongside. Soon, they'd reach the next glade. Luckily, he rode much heavier than she.

The trees thinned. She slowed the bay, then sprang him into the open glade, racing flat out, bent low to the horse's withers. The chestnut stayed with her. She flicked a glance back and to the side-and nearly swallowed her heart as her eyes locked with Chillingworth's, mere feet away.

He was gaining steadily. He reached for her reins-

She swerved away. The opening of another path, to her side, closer than the one she'd been heading for, was her only possible route. She sent the bay racing down it; the chestnut thundered on his heels. What came next?

The answer appeared before she was ready, the trees ending abruptly at the edge of a narrow field. The terrain sloped down to a shallow brook, then rose steeply beyond it. Only one path led out of the glade-its opening lay directly across the field.

She flung the bay at the brook. Its hooves clattered on the smooth stones in the watercourse, the chestnut's hooves sounding an instantaneous echo. The bay attacked the upward slope, back legs churning as it hauled its considerable weight up the rise.

The top of the rise was one bound away when the chestnut drew level.

A hand whipped across her and grabbed her reins.

Gasping, she wrenched them back-the bay staggered.

A steely arm wrapped around her; it locked her, shoulder to chest, against an even harder frame. Instinctively, she struggled. The reins were hauled from her grasp.

"Be still!"

The words thundered, lashed.

She quieted.

The horses jostled, then settled, held steady with an iron hand. They sidled onto the short stretch of level ground at the top of the rise. Separated only by his booted leg, bay and chestnut coats flickered, then both horses eased, expelled long horsey sighs, and lowered their heads.

The arm around her felt like a manacle; it didn't ease. Breathing raggedly, her pulse racing, Francesca looked up.

Gyles met her wide gaze-and felt primitive, possessive fury surge. His head was reeling, his heart racing. His breathing was as tortured as hers.