shot into his scalp. His friend’s reaction to the Comtesse de Beaucaire was clearly far from indifferent, even if it wasn’t warm. However, he only said lightly, “She’s always been something of an
enfant terrible, I
grant you.”
The hounds caught a scent and with a great hue and cry set off after it, the field following with rather less enthusiasm than they’d shown at the beginning of the morning.
“The problem with hunting,” Miles observed as he and Nathaniel cantered side by side, “is that it alternates frantic bursts of energy and excitement with long periods of boredom and idleness in the cold. How about peeling off here for some sustenance? There’s an inn across the next field which does a very tolerable shepherd’s pie. And an excellent stilton.”
Nathaniel shook his head, his eyes on the black horse and his black-clad rider ahead of them. He realized with a sense of the inevitable that he had no intention of leaving the field before Gabrielle de Beaucaire. “I’ll see what this run brings, Miles.”
“As you wish. I’m for a tankard of ale and some nuncheon. My toes are frozen.” Miles turned his horse aside and galloped away from the hunt.
A few minutes later the fox broke cover and the hounds were in full cry. Nathaniel gave his horse hishead and came up with Gabrielle as they charged hell for leather across a plowed field. She shot him a quick sideways glance as he reached her and he called, “This time, Madame Reckless,
I
am going to give
you
a lead.”
Her laugh was rich and exultant. “You won’t lose me, Lord Praed, I can assure you.”
“Oh, I know that,” he called back, his eyes glittering. And neither of them missed the underlying meaning of their words. Something had been started that would not soon be finished. But neither of them was as yet prepared to put a name to what it was.
The chase took them across four fields and Gabrielle was at his heels throughout. They sailed over hedge and stream and he could almost feel her breath on his back. The frigid January air whistled past their ears; the hooves crashed over the hard-ridged furrows of the plowed fields; they plunged into a copse and he heard her laughing curse as a branch whipped her cheek and she dropped low on the horse’s neck.
And at the kill she sat her panting horse steadily, with no sign of flinching from the swift and bloody slaughter.
Nathaniel felt again the power emanating from the tall, taut figure. He was responding to the wildness, the passion, the force that drove her, and he couldn’t help himself. Fearless and unconventional, Gabrielle de Beaucaire spelled a form of trouble he didn’t think he could resist, not if he stayed in her vicinity.
He waited for her to show some fatigue as the day wore on. Or at least to say that she was hungry. But she stayed at the head of the field, unflagging and uncomplaining. He was famished and knew she must be too, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit a need that his indomitable companion ignored. They exchanged few words but their paths never veered. Sometimes Gabrielle took the lead, sometimes he did. And Nathaniel began to feel they were engaged in an unspokencompetition. Which of them would call a halt first?
In the end it was Gabrielle who said, “We’d better turn back. We’re about ten miles from Vanbrugh Court and we’ll be lucky to make it home before dusk.”
“The horses are tired,” he offered in assent.
Gabrielle shot him a quick glance at this bland observation and her lips twitched. “So am I.”
“Oh, are you? I feel as fresh as I did this morning.”
“That’s a Banbury story if ever I heard one,” she said, refusing to rise to provocation. “If we go this way, we can clip a mile off the ride.” She gestured with her whip across a style.
“And how many times do we risk breaking our necks?”
She seemed to consider the question. “Twice.” Chuckling, she turned her horse and jumped the style.
It was nearly dusk when
enfant terrible, I
grant you.”
The hounds caught a scent and with a great hue and cry set off after it, the field following with rather less enthusiasm than they’d shown at the beginning of the morning.
“The problem with hunting,” Miles observed as he and Nathaniel cantered side by side, “is that it alternates frantic bursts of energy and excitement with long periods of boredom and idleness in the cold. How about peeling off here for some sustenance? There’s an inn across the next field which does a very tolerable shepherd’s pie. And an excellent stilton.”
Nathaniel shook his head, his eyes on the black horse and his black-clad rider ahead of them. He realized with a sense of the inevitable that he had no intention of leaving the field before Gabrielle de Beaucaire. “I’ll see what this run brings, Miles.”
“As you wish. I’m for a tankard of ale and some nuncheon. My toes are frozen.” Miles turned his horse aside and galloped away from the hunt.
A few minutes later the fox broke cover and the hounds were in full cry. Nathaniel gave his horse hishead and came up with Gabrielle as they charged hell for leather across a plowed field. She shot him a quick sideways glance as he reached her and he called, “This time, Madame Reckless,
I
am going to give
you
a lead.”
Her laugh was rich and exultant. “You won’t lose me, Lord Praed, I can assure you.”
“Oh, I know that,” he called back, his eyes glittering. And neither of them missed the underlying meaning of their words. Something had been started that would not soon be finished. But neither of them was as yet prepared to put a name to what it was.
The chase took them across four fields and Gabrielle was at his heels throughout. They sailed over hedge and stream and he could almost feel her breath on his back. The frigid January air whistled past their ears; the hooves crashed over the hard-ridged furrows of the plowed fields; they plunged into a copse and he heard her laughing curse as a branch whipped her cheek and she dropped low on the horse’s neck.
And at the kill she sat her panting horse steadily, with no sign of flinching from the swift and bloody slaughter.
Nathaniel felt again the power emanating from the tall, taut figure. He was responding to the wildness, the passion, the force that drove her, and he couldn’t help himself. Fearless and unconventional, Gabrielle de Beaucaire spelled a form of trouble he didn’t think he could resist, not if he stayed in her vicinity.
He waited for her to show some fatigue as the day wore on. Or at least to say that she was hungry. But she stayed at the head of the field, unflagging and uncomplaining. He was famished and knew she must be too, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit a need that his indomitable companion ignored. They exchanged few words but their paths never veered. Sometimes Gabrielle took the lead, sometimes he did. And Nathaniel began to feel they were engaged in an unspokencompetition. Which of them would call a halt first?
In the end it was Gabrielle who said, “We’d better turn back. We’re about ten miles from Vanbrugh Court and we’ll be lucky to make it home before dusk.”
“The horses are tired,” he offered in assent.
Gabrielle shot him a quick glance at this bland observation and her lips twitched. “So am I.”
“Oh, are you? I feel as fresh as I did this morning.”
“That’s a Banbury story if ever I heard one,” she said, refusing to rise to provocation. “If we go this way, we can clip a mile off the ride.” She gestured with her whip across a style.
“And how many times do we risk breaking our necks?”
She seemed to consider the question. “Twice.” Chuckling, she turned her horse and jumped the style.
It was nearly dusk when
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