Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) (11 page)

William sighed at the renewal of hostilities and went to fetch her horse for her. 

She took the reins with a nod of thanks and swung into the saddle without assistance. William watched her ride away from him for a moment before he put a boot in his own stirrup. He was utterly perplexed. 

Who
was
this little vixen? Was she a common slut or a practiced flirt? As far as he knew, she had only inflicted her affections upon the gypsy, so the first seemed unlikely. And she really seemed to have an attachment to the man or she would not be plotting to run away with him…
 

William shook his head. He strongly suspected that she was playing him like a fish on a line, diverting him while she continued to race off to her secret meetings. He had decided to make her fall in love with him in order to protect her from herself, but who would protect him from her? 

Despite his best efforts, William could not pin Grainne down about the gypsies, nor could he find where they had camped. He had followed her all over the countryside, but she always managed to give him the slip. His lilting attempts at flirtation were met with biting sallies; she seemed unwilling to forgive him for turning away from her that evening in the meadow. William himself was reduced to a confusing mish-mash of emotions. Was he protecting her from her silly whims and ill-guided plots, or was he falling hopelessly in love with the girl himself?

The former, he hastily told himself whenever the unwanted question popped up in his mind. At breakfast, at luncheon, at tea-time, at supper. Riding beside her, watching her comb out a horse’s tail, waiting for her in some damp meadow while she consorted with her hidden gypsy, sitting across from her in the Spencer’s dining room. He was protecting her, not falling for her.

It would be a folly to fall in love with such a girl, who was so loose in her morals, who was happily using her body to charm a man into taking her away from her father’s house. Who was so foolish that she did not see that she was being taken advantage of.

Who was so careless with hearts that she would toy with the affections of the man who would protect her.

Not to mention that it would be a cruelty to
her
should he actually admit his affections, and secure hers, only to go back to England, as planned, the moment he heard that Violetta had given up her hopes for him and found another husband. For of course, as lovely as she was, he could never think of marrying her himself. A wild Anglo-Irish girl, with the manners of a peasant, on his arm for a waltz — just imagine it! His father really
would
drop dead. It was even worse than the very bad behavior he was engaging in at the moment, snubbing his own betrothed and hiding in Ireland like the coward that he was.

The coward that he was.

There was no denying that, he told himself, after all the day had gone by and he was nodding over his whiskey. He was a coward in every way that mattered.

But the short, cold days went by so quickly: cleaning out the stables, riding the novices in the menage and the older horses out in the fields, watching Grainne in her breeches, swaying past him like a vision of sin, losing her, again and again, when he tried to tail her through the fields and forests that she had grown up in.
 

And at night, he sat at table like a member of the family, while Mr. Maxwell, so frequent a guest in the home that William wondered he did not move into the guest room, flirted in his awful, awkward way with the disbelieving Grainne. William found himself watching her hungrily, unable to deny his utter fascination with the girl, while she sat at her place with her face downturned, barely touching her food, excusing herself at the earliest possible moment. He knew that Maxwell saw him, and silently fumed, but he could not stop himself.

He knew why Maxwell was there, of course, and he knew, too, that unless he could find the gypsies, Grainne would be gone before the stammering squire made his declaration. And the more the fool irritated her with his endless sheep stories, the more certain her disappearance was.
 

At last, William had to admit that his endurance had not the strength to carry on.

The fortnight the gypsies had mentioned was nearly up, and his patience was utterly gone.

***

He came upon her in the tack room. She heard the door open and close behind her, the slight squeak of hinges that no amount of grease could ever fully silence. It was as good a warning system against intruders as any, though. But Grainne did not turn away from the saddle she was slipping  a soft cloth over, polishing the worn brown calfskin to a gleaming shine.

“You will be late to dinner again,” he said, still behind her, and her body thrilled to the velvety depths of his voice. How it struck her in her heart, in her belly, in her secret places… So that she felt like a mare, helpless with longing for the ardor of the trumpeting stallion in the next field. He made her feel like that far too often, of late; a trembling of nerves and temper that could not be cured so long as his presence was near. These nights that he had trailed her through the meadows and escorted her home had been hours of torturous longing for her, her body fairly throbbing with her desire for him; but her way was already set. And he was just a huntsman dependent on her father and the earl; he could not save her.

“Tack can never be too clean,” she said, keeping her voice low to mask her uneasiness. “And dinner is an affair I would rather not attend of late.”

“Poor company? Or poor appetite?” He put a hand out and touched the tendrils of hair slipping out of their knot at the nape of her neck. She shivered, goosebumps rising at his touch… And something else quivered within as well…

“Both, I am afraid,” she answered with a sigh. Her nerves had been uneasy, and her stomach too queasy for much more than tea and toast. She had thought it was mainly to do with Maxwell’s constant presence, and with her fears over running away. The date had been set, and it was nearly upon her, and she no longer knew how she felt about her choice. With her entire body a-flutter at William Archer’s touch, nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

His fingers skirted her neck, touched her cheek, rested at her chin. Without the willpower to resist him, her heart skipping in her chest, she gave in to the gentle pressure of his touch and turned her head. 

He kissed her.

It was a slow, sensuous, luxurious kiss. He took his time, curving his hand around her face and pulling her closer, until she was rising from her rickety wooden chair on unsteady knees, melting into him, while his lips and tongue teased out all the sweetness of her mouth. He growled, deep in his throat, and she could not repress a little moan of pleasure. She gave in, more than she ever had before, more than she had allowed herself that day in the meadow, and let the sensations take her into a shimmering darkness.

When their lips parted at last, slowly, reluctantly, she felt she could never separate her body from his. They stood locked together, her hands clasped behind his neck, his hands gripping her about the waist, gazing at each other hungrily in the dim yellow lamplight of the tack room. She knew then. She knew. She was lost. Whatever happened, whatever choices she made — her heart would live with William Archer, the huntsman. She felt a tendril of fear, deep within, and squashed it ruthlessly.
Let me have this moment to love.
 

He spoke as she did. “Your eyes are so dark,” he whispered, even as she sighed “Your eyes are so blue.” Then they both smiled, enchanted with one another, and what they had discovered. 

“I didn't know —” Grainne began, eager to share her shock and delight, that a look, that a touch, that a kiss could send such a shock wave through her entire soul. But William put a finger to her lips. 

“Tommy is outside, checking horses. And I left Seamus at the gate. We are not alone.”

She nodded, but the gleam did not leave her eyes nor the smile her face. “We must be discreet,” she whispered. “I know.”

“I told them I have come to escort you home for dinner,” he explained. “Let me take you.” His eyes smoldered, and she felt a thrill at the double meaning. She nodded, hardly certain what she was agreeing to. She thought of the hay-loft, so warm and inviting —
 

But William Archer was a gentleman, not a gypsy. He detached himself from her curves with resignation and took her elbow. “Miss Spencer,” he said gravely. “Do allow me the honor of escorting you to dinner.”

She smiled. She was a fool to think he would dishonor her. “It would be my pleasure.”

***

All through dinner, William watched Grainne pick at her food, eating no more than a bird, and knew that he was doing the same. Mrs. Kinney set a fine table considering their means, and he felt like a terrible guest as the excellent soup went hardly tasted, the fowl was only sampled, and the bread crumbled up in nervous fingers. Only the wine seemed to go down easily, and he had to remind himself to go gently on the glasses, lest his empty stomach lead him to a drunken embarrassment before his employer and his sweetheart. 

His sweetheart! Sitting there across from him, her fork next to her plate more often than in her hands, smiling at him through her blushes, chewing at her lip when Mr. Maxwell made one of his hesitating, breathy speeches. She had dressed in a simple dark blue gown with a hint of creamy fichu at the modest neckline, and the contrast of dark gown and milky throat and coppery dark hair was doing more to strain his manners than any of the daringly cut French confections he had seen on the ladies of London. He had to admit that he was throughly and utterly bewitched with Grainne, although he could not think what to do about it.

Marriage was out of the question, he told himself stoutly as he turned away a pretty dish of berries and cream with a regretful smile. While in England she would be regarded as an imprudent match at best and an impudent fortune-hunter at worst, here in Ireland
he
was the disadvantage. William Archer the huntsman was not William Archwood the future earl, and Mr. Spencer would not marry his precious daughter to a jockey without name or portion. Although Maxwell was hardly an ambitious choice for marriage, he did have a prosperous estate, a generous income, and the advantage of being a close neighbor. William guessed that Spencer would not want his daughter going far away. 

But marriage
would
be a fine way of stopping her from going through with her plan. Although he could not find a way to ask her about it, he had no reason to believe that she was going to go back on her determination to run away with the gypsies. It seemed impossible, now, with what they had found they shared. That kiss, by God, that kiss! He had never been so utterly lost in a kiss before. He had wanted to pull down her boy’s blouse and run his mouth over her lush breasts, he had wanted to unbutton those improper breeches and find her warmth with his fingers, with his tongue, with his very manhood. He wanted everything about Grainne, everything, her mind, her body, her soul.

He realized he was clenching his wine glass very tightly and set it down with a clink.

Grainne looked up at him.

Her eyes were wide and dark in a face grown increasingly white and pinched. Her lush hair, slipping as always from its chignon, framed her wary face. She looked tired, and confused, and frightened. He wondered if it was all about him. He supposed he looked much the same. Love could be a very wretched beast, especially when one wasn’t ready to admit that it was real.
 

Or when there was nothing that could be done to remedy it.

On a frosty morning that had all the horses in the height of gaiety, the stable turned out for the first cubbing.

The young hounds were nipping at each other, rolling and playing in the shimmering grass, and the horses were milling about with high heads and wide eyes, looking for trouble. It was going to be a long, testing morning for everyone: the first time the horses had gone out in a pack in months, and the whippers-in and the master of hounds concentrating all their energies on keeping the young hounds on task.

Grainne, mounted on the edgy Gretna, was in a frightful mood. Her father had insisted that she ride in sidesaddle and skirts today, to help prepare the mare for the young ladies who would be riding her through the hunting season.
 

He couldn’t possibly have worse timing, she thought. Today, of all days, she needed to be in her breeches, and have a secure seat
astride.
 

Gretna fed off of Grainne’s outrage and was a devil to ride, dancing in circles and forever threatening to rise up on her hind legs. Grainne snatched at her mouth and kicked the mare forward whenever she threatened to rear up, but it was still an interminable wait for all the lads to spill out of the yard on their assorted horses, and for her father and the whippers-in to get the hounds in order.

The young hounds were a danger to themselves and everyone, weaving in and out of hooves with abandon, seeming to have forgotten everything they had learned under her father’s tutelage over the summer. The excitement of being turned out in the yard with all the adult pack, and two dozen horses neighing their heads off, was simply too much for them. Tommy’s horse gave a plunge as one of the pups brushed against a hind leg, then the horse snapped back a kick in response; the little hound was on the cobbles in an instant, laid out flat.
 

Grainne gasped and covered her mouth in despair, and Tommy went white with shock; what would the Master say when he saw Tommy’s gelding had killed one of the young hounds? But in a moment the little wretch was up and howling again, this time with a wary eye on the horses’ hooves. He’d never go that close to a horse again.
 

Sighing with relief, Grainne turned her attention back to Gretna, rubbing a hand through her bristling dark mane in hopes of settling the mare. Then there was motion beside her, and she looked over to see William, looking eminently at home in the saddle of his big chestnut, so close that if she’d been astride, their knees would have brushed.