Francesca looked down as she descended the steps to a flagged walk above the river, grateful for the support of Gyles's hand and the fact he was watching her steps, rather than her face.

"For how long?"

His tone suggested he didn't really care.

"A week. Perhaps a little longer."

It was the obvious solution to her worry over Franni. She would write to Charles and insist he read her invitation to Franni. She would make it clear that if Franni didn't wish to come, she'd understand.

And she would. Franni had enjoyed traveling in the coach. The only reason she'd refuse another journey would be if she had indeed been upset by Gyles marrying Francesca, having imagined that he was interested in her.

"I thought I'd write tomorrow, then they could come up in a few weeks."

Gyles considered, then nodded. "If you wish."

He didn't wish, but voicing his reasons for wanting to keep her to himself, keeping others at bay, was beyond him. And the last thing he wanted was to disturb the moment, having successfully escaped to spend some time alone with her, away from the house, away from his responsibilities, and hers, away from their servants and all other interested eyes.

Time alone with her had become precious.

"This way." He turned her sharply, to where another path joined the one they'd been following.

"Good heavens! I would have walked right past and not known this path was here."

"It was created like that. The folly's hidden, very private."

They descended a series of steps traversing the bluff. The stone steps were clear of leaves courtesy of the army of undergardeners, all more attuned to their noble employer's wishes than Edwards. The path led to a wide ledge jutting out from the bluff, much closer to the river than the top of the bluff yet still well above the flood line.

The ledge was thickly grassed. Shrubs lined its edge, while closer to the wall of the towering bluff, trees grew and leaned out, casting their shade over the path and the folly at the path's end. A solid structure built of the same grey stone as the castle, the folly filled the end of the ledge, stretching from the bluff wall to the drop to the river. It was not an open structure, but had windows and a proper door.

"It's a garden room out in the gardens." Francesca studied it as they approached along the path.

Gyles opened the door.

"Oh! How beautiful." Stepping up to the polished floor, Francesca looked around, then was drawn to the windows. "What a magnificent view!"

"I'd forgotten," Gyles murmured, closing the door. "I haven't been here for years."

Francesca glanced around at the comfortable furniture. "Well, someone comes here-it's aired, and there's not a speck of dust in sight."

"Mrs. Cantle. She says the walk does her good." Leaving Francesca by the windows, Gyles walked to where, beside a sofa, a tapestry frame stood, a piece of linen stretched on the hoop, silks dangling. "My mother used to spend a lot of time here."

The tapestry stirred long-buried memories; Gyles eventually recognized it as the one his mother had been working on at the time of his father's death. "It's too far for her these days."

And she wouldn't come anyway-that he now understood. Francesca had asked if he'd ever watched his parents making love-he'd denied it. But he had seen them together once. He'd been playing on the ledge and had heard their voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, it had all been a jumble of sounds, so he'd crept closer and peeked in. They'd been here, on the sofa, in each other's arms, kissing and murmuring. He hadn't understood what they were doing, and it had interested him not at all. He'd gone back to playing and had given the incident no further thought.

His mother had loved his father deeply-he'd known that all along. Known the reason for her overwhelming sadness at his death, her withdrawal from the world at the time. He'd never questioned that love, never doubted its existence. But he'd forgotten just how strong love was-how enduring. How it held true through all the years.

Now he was here with Francesca. His wife.

A sound reached him; he turned and watched her open a window, pushing the halves wide. The back of the folly butted against the bluff, but its other walls were half window. A sill ran around the room at hip height, with windows set in panels reaching up, nearly to the ceiling.

Placing her hands on the wide sill, Francesca leaned out and looked down, then to either side. "The river's so close you can hear it murmuring."

"Can you?" Halting behind her, Gyles slid his arms around her and drew her back against him. She chuckled warmly and leaned back, tipped her head back. Gyles bent his head and set his lips to the curve of her throat. She shuddered delicately.

"The view is tantalizing."

He murmured the words against her skin, then shifted his hands to cup her breasts. His teeth grazed the taut line of her throat, then lightly nipped.

She reached back, down, sliding her hands down his thighs. "It's the ambiance," she whispered. "I can feel it."

It was his turn to chuckle; he knew precisely what she could feel. She pressed her head against his shoulder and her eyes found his, searched them, read them. He didn't try to hide his desire, his need, what he wanted, that minute, from her.

Her lips curved, sirenlike, and she turned in his arms, turned to him.

Her hand touched his cheek as he bent his head. They kissed, and it was sweet. Addictive enough for them to take, and give, and take again.

They didn't stop until they were breathless, both aching and wanting and eager. It was she who stepped back, drawing him with her, until her back met the ledge.

He arched a brow at her. "Here?"

She arched a brow back-pure challenge. "Here, my lord."

She'd never pretended to an innocence she didn't possess. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her; she wriggled and got her balance. He lifted her skirts and pushed them back to her hips. She parted her thighs eagerly and he touched her, cupped her, lingeringly caressed her, then slid one long finger deeply into her.

"Oh!" She clutched his shoulder as her lids drooped in involuntary reaction.

He stroked, then reached deeper and she gasped.

"Don't you dare," she managed, but he only smiled. He stroked and probed until she was frantic. She was hot and wet; he delighted in the abandoned response of her body to his touch, to him.

Then she pushed his hand away and her fingers were at his waistband. He was fully erect, iron-hard, and very ready when her fingers found him and stroked, then closed. But they couldn't afford to let her have her way with him. He drew her hand away, pressed her knees wide, and guided himself to her entrance.

He pressed in and she gasped, tightened, then eased and wriggled. He clamped her hips between his hands and pressed deeper, then deeper still. Her body welcomed him, slick, scalding hot, yielding. She laced her fingers behind his nape and leaned back, gripping his flanks with her thighs, tilting her hips to take him all, settling herself about him.

With one final thrust he seated himself fully, embedded within her lustiness. Their eyes met; all laughter was gone. She lifted one hand, laid it along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers, offering them to him.

He took them, and her, and she urged him on. Desire, passion and need filled them, caught them in a net of pleasure and bound them together, linked them ever more deeply as their bodies searched for, and found, delight.

Experienced delight. As she shattered in his arms, Francesca inwardly smiled, and waited, feeling her body surrender, unfurl and soften, feeling him plunder even more deeply. Then, with a harsh cry, he joined her, and filled her with a warmth far more pervasive than the physical. Joy, happiness-intangible but priceless.

Together they clung, together they gloried. She gloried even more that he'd come to her outside of her bedchamber. There was no possibility this was a duty-driven exercise, not that she'd seriously imagined their nightly interludes were such, but the confirmation was comforting. Encouraging.

She stroked his hair, soft against her palm, listened to his breathing ease, felt his heart slow.

Felt ridiculously exposed-vulnerable beyond belief, even with his strength surrounding her.

But if that's what it took, she was willing. More than willing to take the risk. She was committed to loving him and could not now draw back. Never would.