Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) (12 page)

She blushed at the idea. William smiled as if he knew where her thoughts had strayed. She blushed harder. She knew what would come next. Their passionate kisses in private had seemed to lead only to sharp little barbs in public. She knew why
she
kept trying to drive him away — to stop him from being hurt, she thought, when she disappeared. But why he came back at her with those twitching lips, those dry sarcasms, when every kiss said that he loved her — that she could not understand.
 

“My dear Miss Spencer,” he now said blandly. “Your mare seems distressed.”

“Perhaps she is alarmed at the close quarters, Mr. Archer,” Grainne replied snippily, tenseness and unhappiness and embarrassment making her sharper than she meant to be. What could she do, when they had shared so much and she was about to throw it all away? Why must he be close to her, talk to her, torment her now? She had made her course, she could not back away from it now. “Indeed, you give her little room to move away,” she continued acidly. “And you, Tommy, you are no better.”

Tommy Boxton had stationed the magnificent hindquarters of his bay gelding immediately to her left, and Grainne thought Gretna would feel just as pinned in and helpless as she was at this very moment. She longed for the open fields ahead. When
would
her father sound his wretched horn?

“Your father is awaiting the vicar,” William supplied. How had he known what she was thinking? “He rather fancied a blessing this morning.”

“How odd,” Grainne mused. “For just a cubbing? That’s an unusual step.”

“Perhaps he is feeling unlucky,” William suggested. Bald Nick moved still closer to Gretna, and the riders’ faces were bare inches apart. Grainne took a deep breath. William’s eyes were so
very
blue. “It’s a dangerous thing to go out hunting without your luck.”

Grainne slipped a hand from her reins, against her chest, to touch the little Celtic cross within her bodice. The one piece her mother had left her. “I have my luck, Mr. Archer,” she said softly, still mesmerized by his closeness. “Have you yours?”

William’s eyes crinkled suddenly, his mouth arching in a sad half-smile. “I quite lost my luck some time ago, Miss Spencer,” he replied gently. “But I do hope to find new luck here in Ireland. They say this is the place to do it.”

“You can look for a four-leaf clover if you like,” Grainne suggested. “But I fear those are best located from the ground, and that is precisely the place you do not wish to find yourself today.”

“At that juncture, I could only hope it was a sign that my luck was turning,” he chuckled, and she could not help but join him. Tommy Boxton turned in the saddle, curious to see what joke he was missing, but Grainne and William were unaware of anyone around them. In the noise and bustle of the gathering hunt, the two felt curiously alone.

And then Mr. Spencer sounded the hunting horn, its sweet call echoing through the green hills and valleys, and Gretna jumped, and the hounds howled, and Grainne remembered. She didn’t cast so much as a farewell glance at William; her course was set, and not even the charming Englishman would dissuade her from it. She concentrated all her effort on controlling the plunging Gretna as the hunt set out from the yard in a surge of chestnut and grey and bay. It would take all her strength to keep speedy Gretna to the back of the pack today.

***

The hounds picked up a scent in good order, and Spencer sent them dashing ahead, their voices haunting and beautiful in the cool autumn air. William let his horse canter easily on the far right of the main body of horses, keeping his distance while he learned how the horse jumped, and reacted to the changes in going. Bald Nick was a sensible, experienced horse, if a bit heavy in the hands, and he took the first couple of hedges with ease, jumping out of stride nicely. William relaxed a little and took a look around.

He was surprised to see Grainne lumbering along well behind the party, her hands full of frustrated mare. She was clearly struggling: Gretna’s mouth was gaping open against the tug of the bit and the mare’s head was high as she fought for control. But what confused William was
why
Grainne was going to so much trouble to hold the mare back. Gretna was a strong horse, but a steady one; if she was allowed to canter along where she was comfortable, somewhere near the front, she would cart the most novice rider around the hunt without putting a foot wrong. Grainne seemed to be deliberately upsetting her. He wondered if it was another one of her hare-brained training schemes, as far-fetched as teaching the mare to jump without a partner to show the way.

A ploy, as that had been.

This was the day she would run away.

The thought struck him like a lightning bolt, terror rushing through his limbs. It had been a fortnight, but he had thought she would go tonight. Now he thought otherwise. She would use the confusion of the cubbing to make her escape.

He must watch her carefully. He could not, must not let her run away, let her make this horrible mistake. Even if she had been just a foolish girl, and not a bold young woman he had fallen hopelessly in love with.

William turned back to face the terrain ahead and saw that they were sweeping down into a low water-meadow. Nick snorted as his hooves touched water, but soon he was splashing along comfortably, pricking his ears at the hounds as they leapt about, confused by the water, searching for scent on the grasses and hillocks. There was a momentary lull as everyone brought their horses down to a walk while the hounds found the scent again.

“Bloody good horse, that,” Tommy Boxton said, splashing up on his bay. “Ye picked a fine one to school this season.”

“I liked his eyes,” William said, running his hand down Nick’s sweated neck. “Sensible, but bold. Perfect hunter.”

“Aye,” Tommy nodded. “This ‘un here has more bold than brains, but ‘e means well. Tell him where to go and ‘e won’t kill ye.”
 

“That’s something,” William agreed gravely. He looked around and felt that shiver of fear again. “Say, have you seen Miss Spencer?”

“Grainne?” Tommy looked keen for a moment. He stood in the stirrups and turned, eyes sweeping the field. “Funny,” he said after a minute.

William didn’t think it was funny at all. “Could she have been thrown?”

“Ah, if she did she’ll soon be catchin’ up.”

William couldn’t believe the groom’s attitude. “Are you truly not concerned for her well-being?”

The lead bitch sounded, her voice high and clear, and Mr. Spencer blew his horn in response. The grooms and huntsmen gave a shout, the whippers-in rounded up the straying pups, and they went pounding through the water and back up the hill after the pack of hounds.

All except William.

Hands taut and still as Nick shook his head, fighting furiously to join the hunt, William gazed back up the hillside they had come from. As the last horses disappeared over the rise, he made his decision, kicking Nick into a gallop in the opposite direction. The chestnut ducked his head, wringing his tail and trying to buck, outraged that the hunt was leaving him behind. But William had made his decision, and he was far too strong a rider to let a horse change it for him. He was going back for Grainne.

The muddy hoof-prints had torn up the turf of the hillside, and as they thundered up the slippery slope, it wasn’t difficult to find the solo path leading away from the hunt. William didn’t even have to slow Nick to see that Gretna had first trotted, then galloped briskly away from the others, heading up the steep rise and into a forest. Nick, catching the scent in his flared nostrils, stopped arguing about following the herd and pricked his ears, eager to chase down Gretna. William leaned up on his neck and squinted into the wood ahead.

Grainne gritted her teeth as yet another branch pierced her foolish little riding cap. A man’s hat would have served her better in this endeavor, as would nearly every other item of clothing and tack she could have used. Len was going to laugh when he saw her, dressed up as if she were a lady coming down from the big house.
 

If she made it down this hill.

The forest started out civilized enough, but it had quickly turned into a primitive tangle of tree roots and brambles after one crested the hilltop, and the path Gretna was slithering down was treacherous with slick clay, sharp roots, and the aforementioned branches that poked at her from every direction. The mare herself was furious at the path she was being forced to take: her ears were pinned flat and Grainne could hear her teeth grinding against the bit.
 

“I’m sorry darling,” she told Gretna soothingly. “When we first agreed on this meeting place, it was much drier. I hadn’t known it would be so slick.” But Gretna just snorted, unappeased.

“Nearly there, anyway,” Grainne added, and then subsided. Below, through the grey tree trunks, she could see a flash of color. Len’s caravan.

Nearly there.

Len was waiting for her down there, dark-skinned, white-toothed Lennor in his barbarous embroidered vest, his black hair hanging shaggily around the gold hoops in his ears. He would press her up against his chest and kiss her, long and deep, and then they would tie Gretna to the caravan with his long-legged Thoroughbred and they would go inside and he would take her to bed until darkness fell and they could safely leave the sanctuary of the forest.
 

She would be happy with him. She would be free with him. It was everything she had dreamed, of course. Grainne thought fleetingly of William’s blue eyes, his lips on hers, and shivered.

And then the mare stumbled, bringing her back to herself. She must be more careful. She must keep Gretna safe and sound, above all. The dark mare was part of their escape plan. Len had explained it to her day before. She wasn’t going to
steal
Gretna from her father, he had told her, she was going to take her as dowry. Between the sale of Gretna and Len’s Thoroughbred, they would make enough of a profit in Brittany to see them halfway across Europe. They would go driving in their swaying caravan through the countryside, seeing the world, without limits, without laws, without society looming over her shoulder, telling her what to wear and who to talk to.
 

Horse-traders, living on love in their little painted caravan. All her dreams were coming true.

She sighed and bit her lip.
 

And bit it nearly through, as there was a crash through the trees behind her. She whirled, tasting blood on her tongue, even as Gretna spooked wildly and smashed sideways into a crooked oak. Grainne nearly shrieked as her knee was slammed into the wood. She bit down on her sore lips instead, waiting to see who had pursued her.

When she saw the chestnut horse come careening down the wet deer trail, she felt a rush of emotion that she could not name. But she sought to recover herself immediately. It would never do to appear flustered before him, when he had caught her red-handed, running away. She tried not to worry about what he thought of her.

“Mr. Archer,” she said dryly when he had pulled up beside her. She put one hand on her throbbing knee. “I see you have been hunting larger quarry than fox today.”

“I was afraid you might have taken a fall,” William said. His face was scratched from twigs and brambles, and there was a drop of blood on his high cheekbone that she wanted to wipe away with her finger. When he edged his horse closer, she reached out, and did just that.

He looked at her curiously as she caught the round red drop on her little finger. She thought he might snatch at her wrist, but he seemed immobilized by her touch.
I could run away now,
she thought, but she didn’t touch her whip to Gretna’s flank, and the mare was content to stay in Bald Nick’s presence.
 

They sat in silence for a moment, her finger upturned, adorned with the drop of blood.

“You hurt yourself chasing after me,” she said eventually, watching his eyes.

“A few scratches.” William shrugged. “Your mare might have hurt you, taking this path. Did she spook at something in the hunting field? A pup? A pheasant?”

Did he truly not see? “She didn’t run away,” Grainne said levelly.

“Oh no?”

“I did.”

She watched the muscles in his jaw tense. She felt the slightest bit afraid. But surely he knew, after all this time he had spent following her around the countryside?

After her shameless kisses, kisses no maiden should have knowledge of.
 

Oh, he knew. He had been trying to catch her all this time.

He was not in love with her at all. He was simply setting a trap, waiting for her to fall into it. And now she had. The drop of blood on her finger — crimson heart’s blood — she had fallen in love with him while he toyed with her, and now all was come crashing down…

Grainne felt shame flood her from her top to her toes. And she waited for William to pass judgement on her at last.

He spoke at last. “The horse trader.” His voice was flinty. “Tell me your horse ran away, Grainne. Please.”

“I’m going to him,” Grainne said, but her voice lacked conviction, and she knew it, and it appalled her. Where did her determination go, when this man was near? Why did he make her stop and second-guess all of her choices? Why did he make her heart beat so hard she could scarcely hear her own thoughts?

Why didn’t she turn away from him and ride down the hill to Len?
 

She could still run away from all this. Even from him and from heart-ache. She turned her head —
 

He reached out suddenly, quick as a snake, and took the reins from her hands. In one swift movement he flicked his wrist and the reins flew over Gretna’s black-tipped ears, out of her reach. Grainne gasped, as much in appreciation of the trick as in the realization that she couldn’t escape him now. He had control of her horse. He had control of her.

She looked down the hill to the little splash of crimson where Len was waiting for her.
 

“I’ll send him a message,” William said grimly, nudging Nick into a walk and hauling on Gretna’s reins to turn her. “That you’re not coming.”