All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  “No!”

  The negative thundered about them. He refocused on Franni to see her transformed. Her head was high, her eyes blazed; her spine was rigid. Her grip on the pistol had tightened.

  “I won’t have it! That’s not how it will be. I want you to marry me, and you shall. I want it to happen so it will. I’m going to shoot her—”

  Franni ducked to the side, trying to see Francesca. Closing his hand hard on Francesca’s fingers, Gyles held her down, kept her behind him.

  “I’m going to shoot her, yes I am—I want, I want and I shall have! You don’t need her now—you have her land. There’s no reason for you to want her now. I want you to want me instead. You must!”

  Franni’s stamp echoed through the chapel.

  Francesca struggled to free her hand; Gyles crushed her fingers unmercifully. He shifted this way and that, constantly blocking Franni’s attempts to sight her. With his arm braced, she couldn’t stand, couldn’t try to distract Franni. Her cousin was mad—in her heart, she’d suspected it but had never let the thought form—but now Franni was close to threatening Gyles—didn’t he understand how the stories went? If she couldn’t have him for herself, then Franni would play out her plot to the end—she’d kill Gyles rather than let Francesca have him.

  It was her grandfather all over again but worse. Francis hadn’t been insane; Franni was. Francis had been stubborn enough to cut off his nose to spite his face. Franni was capable of worse.

  “Let me up!” she hissed.

  “No!” Gyles hissed back.

  He didn’t even look around. Francesca felt frantic. Franni would shoot—

  “Franni—stop!” There was enough command in Gyles’s voice to stop everyone. Behind him, Francesca froze, quivering, waiting. . . .

  “Franni, I want you to listen to me—listen very carefully—because I want you to understand all that I say. I want you to look into my eyes so you’ll know I’m speaking the truth.” Gyles paused. “All right?”

  Francesca waited, then she felt a slight relaxing in Gyles’s grip and assumed Franni had nodded.

  “Very well—listen carefully. I love Francesca. I always have, from the first moment I laid eyes on her. I love her completely, unreservedly—do you know what that means, Franni?”

  Bowing her head until her forehead touched their clasped hands, Francesca listened, then she heard Franni say, softly, weakly, “You love her?”

  “Yes.” There could be no question that one word was the truth—it rang with a conviction no power but one could give. Gyles paused, then said, “You were at our wedding—you heard the words of the service. ‘With my body I thee worship. With my soul I thee adore.’ I said those words, Franni, and they’re true—every one.”

  Silence followed, cool, still. Minutes ticked past, then into that stillness, Francesca heard, as if from a great distance, a soft sobbing, falling like rain. . . . Lifting her head, she drew in a deep breath and stood. Gyles’s arm eased and he let her come to her feet by his side, just behind his shoulder.

  Franni still held the pistol, but as her sobs grew, the barrel wavered, then sank. Franni lowered her arms, doubling over in unrestrained grief—

  “Franni!”

  “Aaaah!” Franni shrieked, jumped, jerked the pistol up—

  Gyles cursed, half turned, flung himself at Francesca—just as she grabbed wildly at him.

  The pistol’s report shattered the stillness and sent echoes crashing about the church.

  They fell. In a wild tangle of arms, legs and grabbing hands, they hit the flags between the pews.

  Francesca lost her breath. Immediately, she sucked air in. “My God! Are you hurt? Did you get shot?” She tugged and reached around Gyles, hands spread, searching, trying to find out—

  “No, dammit! Did you?”

  She met Gyles’s gaze, grey and furious. Relief poured through her, and more besides. She smiled. “No.”

  He frowned at her. “For the Lord’s sake! Here—sit up.” He struggled to get up but his shoulders had wedged between the pews. He wriggled but couldn’t get free. “You landed beneath me—the floor’s stone, for heaven’s sake! Are you sure—”

  Francesca framed his face. Pandemonium raged about them; she ignored it, shut it out, looked deep into his eyes. “What you just said—you meant it, didn’t you?”

  Charles and Ester were there, struggling with a now hysterical Franni. Osbert waded in, trying to help. Every sound faded to stillness as Gyles looked down at her. “Every word.”

  He found her hand, raised it, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I never wanted to love—and especially not you. Now I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He looked into her eyes; she saw the change in his—the hesitation, the uncertainty. “And you?”

  She smiled beatifically, then lifted her head and touched her lips to his. “You know very well I love you . . .”—she searched for words, then simply said—“as you love me.”

  He bent his head and kissed her, gently, lingeringly—she kissed him back, letting the moment sink into her memories, and his.

  When he drew back, she smiled through happy tears. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you would never be dull or boring.”

  “Dull or boring?” He shoved the front pew forward, then grabbed the back to lever himself from her so he didn’t crush her further against the floor. “Are those the criteria on which you judge my performance?”

  He stood and held out a hand. She let him pull her to her feet. “Among others. But now I know so much more, I have even higher standards.”

  He met her gaze. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  The wailing and admonitions had gained in volume. They turned to see Franni threshing furiously, sobbing, eyes shut, mouth wide. Osbert and the two footmen were holding her, trying not to hurt her and getting hurt for their pains. Ester, disheveled, having clearly grappled with Franni herself, was trying to frame her niece’s face, speaking soothingly, trying to reach Franni and calm her.

  Charles stood before them, facing Franni, the pistol hanging limply in one hand. As they watched, he drew in a huge breath, then turned and saw them. His face was ashen. He looked at the pistol, then stepped down and laid it on the front pew. Approaching them, he lifted his head; bracing himself, he stopped before them.

  “I am so sorry.” The words seemed to sap all his strength. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced back at Franni.

  He was more shaken than they were. Francesca exchanged a glance with Gyles. “It’s all right.” She took Charles’s hands in hers.

  He returned the pressure of her fingers, attempted a smile, but shook his head. “No, my dear. I wish it were, but it’s not all right.” He glanced again at Franni; her sobs were gradually abating. “Ester and I have been afraid something like this would happen. We’ve been watching Franni for years, wondering, hoping . . .” He sighed, then looked at Francesca and released her hands. “But it wasn’t to be.” Straightening, he glanced at Gyles. “I owe you an explanation.” Francesca and Gyles opened their mouths; Charles held up his hand. “No—please, let me say it. Let me tell you so you can decide for yourselves. So you can understand.”

  Francesca and Gyles exchanged a glance. Gyles nodded. “As you wish.”

  Charles hauled in a huge breath. “You’ll have heard that Elise, my wife, Franni’s mother, threw herself to her death from the tower at Rawlings Hall. That’s not precisely true. I was with her. She didn’t throw herself.” Charles’s face grew bleak. “She fell while trying to push me over the edge.”

  “She tried to kill you?”

  “Yes.” The word was a long, painful sigh. “And don’t ask me why—I never knew. But that’s not the whole story. It doesn’t start there. Elise’s mother, Ester’s mother, too, also . . . went mad. She was incarcerated for a time, but eventually died. I don’t know the details. I wasn’t told, never knew, not until Ester came to live with us a year or so after Franni was born. After Elise started . . . changing.” Charles dragged in a b
reath. “It runs in the women of that family, but not all of them are affected. Ester isn’t. The trouble starts, if it’s going to start, sometime after twenty years of age. Elise . . .” His daze grew distant. “She was so lovely—we were so happy. Then it turned into a nightmare. Delusions that gradually escalated to derangement. Then to violence. Then it ended.”

  Francesca reached for Gyles’s hand, grateful for the warmth when his hand enveloped hers.

  Charles exhaled, shook his head. “Ester knew about her mother. She didn’t think it wise for Elise to marry—it’s the reason Ester never has. But our fathers, mine and Elise’s, were set on the match. I’m sure Papa didn’t know at the time. He did afterward, of course. As always, such happenings are hidden away. Ester was sent to an aunt in Yorkshire until after Elise and I were married, and Franni was born.”

  His gaze exhausted and bleak, Charles looked at Francesca. “I’m so sorry, my dear, that you were caught up in this—we’d been hoping for so long that Franni would be spared . . . we just kept hoping. We didn’t realize until we were here, in London, that she was truly deteriorating. You have to believe me—we never imagined she’d go . . . so fast.”

  Visibly steeling himself, Charles faced Gyles. “What will you do?”

  Gyles looked at Charles and felt nothing but compassion, saw nothing but a man who had loved his wife and sought to protect his only daughter. Raising a hand, he gripped Charles’s shoulder. “I assume you’ll want to take Franni back to Rawlings Hall without delay. Can you manage? What can we do to help?”

  Charles blinked. He searched Gyles’s eyes. “You won’t press charges?”

  Gyles held his gaze. “Franni’s a Rawlings. Despite her illness, she’s family, and she can’t help how she is.”

  Charles looked down. Francesca squeezed his arm. His throat worked, then he whispered, “Thank you.”

  Gyles dragged in a breath, and looked again at Franni, now slumped, exhausted, supported by Ester and one of the footmen. “I’d offer to help carry her to the carriage, but I think it might be best if Francesca and I left. Franni will be more docile with us gone.”

  Charles nodded.

  “If you can manage it, call at the house before you leave London. We’d like to know all’s well.” Gyles held out his hand.

  Charles gripped it. “I will—and again, thank you.”

  “Take care.” Francesca stretched up to kiss her uncle’s cheek. “All of you.”

  Charles’s lips twisted. He turned away as Osbert came up, looking more serious than Francesca had ever seen him. “I’ll stay with Charles—help get the girl into the hackney.”

  Gyles clapped him on the shoulder. “Drop by tomorrow and fill us in.”

  Osbert nodded and turned back to the group before the altar. Francesca took one last look at Franni, eyes closed, head back, mouth agape, sagging against Ester, who was gently brushing back her wispy hair.

  “Come.” Gyles turned Francesca. His arm about her, he guided her from the chapel.

  “I want, I want, and I shall have.” In the dark warmth of the carriage, wrapped in Gyles’s arms, Francesca repeated the litany. “That Franni got from our grandfather. It was one of his favorite sayings.”

  Gyles held her close. She’d made no demur when he’d lifted her into his lap the instant they’d started off. He needed to hold her, to reassure the barbarian that all was well and she was here, still with him, safe and unhurt. She seemed equally content to rest against him, her head on his shoulder, one hand splayed on his chest, over his heart. “I thought you never met old Francis.”

  “I didn’t. Papa told me—he explained about Grandfather, about how stubborn he was. He wanted me to know just in case. . . .”

  Gyles thought of a man farsighted enough to protect his daughter into any possible future. “I’m sorry I never met your father.”

  “He’d have liked you—approved of you.”

  Never had Gyles felt more conscious of his own happiness, his own good fortune. He thought of all he had—all Charles had not had a true chance to enjoy. “Poor Franni. Not only did she inherit madness from her mother, but she also absorbed old Francis’s peculiar madness.”

  “I didn’t say anything before—to Charles. It would only upset him more. Ester told me Francis spent a great deal of time with Franni, and that that had pleased Charles.”

  Gyles pressed a kiss to Francesca’s curls. “Best leave him with that memory.”

  The carriage rattled on. They’d pulled the leather flaps down over the windows, shutting out the chilly night, creating a dark, companionable cave.

  “Thank you for not pressing charges.”

  “I meant what I said about Franni being family.”

  She’d taught him, made him see, what family in the wider sense was about—the support, the net of caring. After a moment, he added, “In a way, we’re indebted to Franni. If she hadn’t been there to appear as the cipher I thought I wanted to wed, then I would have realized who Francesca Rawlings was before we sealed the matter, and then it wouldn’t have been sealed at all.”

  “Would you really not have married me if you’d known who I was? Known that Francesca Rawlings was me?”

  Gyles laughed. “I knew the instant I set eyes on you that you were the last woman I should marry if I wanted a meek, mild-mannered cipher as wife. And I was right.”

  At her soft humph he smiled, but then sobered. “If Franni hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t be here now, married, in love, expecting our first child. My only regret is that my appearing at Rawlings Hall seems to have acted as a catalyst for her delusions.”

  “If not you, then some other.” Francesca was silent for some time, then murmured, “Fate moves in mysterious ways.”

  Gyles stroked her hair. “We won’t be able to visit Rawlings Hall. Franni will do better without seeing us again.”

  “I feel for Charles and Ester. To have watched and waited all Franni’s life, only to have their worst dreams come true.”

  “We can still help—make sure Charles can hire the best carers for Franni. And we can make sure Charles and Ester get away every now and then—we can invite them to Lambourn in summer.”

  “We could make it an annual arrangement that they visit, so they don’t get shut away, and the family don’t lose track of them.”

  Francesca wriggled in his arms so she could look into his face. The carriage had reached the City; courtesy of the streetlamps, more light was seeping past the flaps, enough to see. “I was thinking . . . Honoria told me about the gathering the Cynsters have at Somersham. I think we should do something similar at Lambourn, don’t you?”

  Gyles looked into her face and smiled. “Whatever pleases you, my lady. You may create whatever traditions you please—I and all I have are yours to command.”

  Delighted, not so much by the words as by the expression in his eyes, in his face presently devoid of any fashionable mask, Francesca smiled back. Inside, her heart rejoiced.

  All she’d ever wanted, all she would ever need, was here, and hers. After last night, she’d been prepared to accept the reality without any declaration. Now she had it all—an enduring love and the words that acknowledged it clearly stated between them.

  She studied his eyes, his face—the angular planes that gave so little away. Perhaps they owed Franni one thing more. “Why was it so difficult for you to say it—to utter such a small, simple word?”

  He laughed, but not in amusement. “A small, simple word—only a woman would describe it as that.”

  He hadn’t answered her question. Her eyes on his, Francesca waited.

  He sighed and let his head fall back against the squabs. “It’s hard to explain, but as long as I didn’t say it aloud, didn’t openly admit it, then enough doubt existed so I could pretend I wasn’t taking a chance, that I wasn’t risking misery and destruction by being so foolish as to love you.”

  Francesca frowned. Why . . . ? Then she realized. Reaching up, she framed his face, made him meet her eyes. �
��I will always be here—I will always be with you. You may put as many guards about me as you wish, for however long it takes for you to accept that.”

  Gyles read her eyes, then forced himself to say, “I learned very young that when you love, you leave yourself open to unimaginable hurt.”

  “I know—but it’s still worth it.”

  Gyles studied her eyes, then kissed her lightly, drew her back into his arms and rested his cheek against her hair. She was right. Nothing was more contrary than love. Nothing left a man more vulnerable, yet nothing could bring him such joy. In order to reap the harvest of love, it was necessary to accept the risk of losing that same love. Love was a coin with two sides, gain and loss. To secure the gain, one had to embrace the risk of loss.

  How much he’d changed since the day he’d set out for Rawlings Hall. His home had been cold, lacking warmth, lacking life—he’d set out to find a wife to rectify the deficiency. He’d found her, and now she was his. His sun, warming his house, nurturing his family, giving meaning to his life. She was literally the center of his universe.

  He decided he might as well tell her. After a moment, he murmured, “It didn’t all happen at once, you know.”

  “Oh?” She wriggled and he let her turn once again so she could see his face, and he could see hers.

  Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “Body, mind, heart, and soul.” His eyes on hers, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “My body was yours from the first instant I saw you—you claimed it as yours on our wedding night. My mind and heart you fought for and won—they’re now yours for all eternity.” He paused, sobering as he looked into her emerald eyes. “And as for my soul, it’s yours, freely offered—yours to take and chain as you choose.”

  Francesca held his gaze and thought her heart would burst, with joy, with a happiness too profound to contain. Freeing her arms, she slid her hands over his shoulders, skating one to his nape as she raised her face to his. “Thank you, my lord. I accept.”

  She sealed the bargain with a kiss—a kiss that promised a lifetime of bliss in the shackles of an enduring love.