Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) (10 page)

“I am quite helpless when you are with your breeches,” he said as if admitting weakness. “But I am in not much better a state when you are in skirts.”

Grainne’s mouth opened, then closed. Was he… was William Archer complimenting her? She remembered the way he had looked at her yesterday in the menage, as she was helping him to his feet. She remembered the feeling of his lips on her bare skin. She shivered, and then hoped fervently that he did not see it.

He was smiling yet. She was certain he’d seen. Bastard.

Oh! The word suddenly made sense of the mysterious Mr. Archer. Perhaps that would explain the genteel accent, and the well-cut breeches. He was a bastard son. He’d been raised an aristocrat but could not join his father’s society. She had read a novel about that very thing once. The explanation made a great deal of sense. Grainne felt very satisfied at having compartmented him in this romantic fashion.

“My father says cubbing will begin in a fortnight,” Grainne began, thinking they should have some sort of conversation that was not about her appearance. “He is very happy with this year’s pups, and thinks we should have the finest pack of hounds in all Ireland this season.”

“Cubbing might be one of my favorite times of year,” Mr. Archer said absently. “The horses are so fresh and wild during those first few runs. I suppose you will not ride side-saddle for that.”

“Oh, no! I can hunt side-saddle, of course, but I would not be so foolish as to take a fresh horse out with so little security.”

“So you will be in those breeches again,” Mr. Archer smiled.

This again! “Really, Mr. Archer —”

“I apologize,” he interrupted smoothly. “I forget we are not in the stable yard. I should make more civilized conversation, shouldn’t I? Tell me, Miss Spencer, how do your flowers bloom?”

Grainne looked out the window in some consternation. “It’s… it’s October.”

“Ah, indeed. Have you painted any watercolors you wish to show me?”

“Mr. Archer! You are really too bad!”

He laughed, and she couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Miss Spencer, your accomplishments on horseback make you a far finer lady, in my estimation, than the most delicate wilting flower in London. If I were to ever have need of a painting, I would commission a painter, after all.”

Grainne thought there was something odd about his speech. He was speaking with too much precision. Almost as if… almost as if he was working very hard to pronounce the words correctly. Almost as if… “Mr. Archer, did you have a nice time down the pub with the lads?”

He smiled broadly. “I did.”

“And did you keep up with them?”

“I did.”

Grainne laughed. “I think you had better go home to your bed, Mr. Archer. Before it really hits you.”

“Are you insinuating that I am foxed?”

“Oh, I am doing more than that. I am
informing
you that you have imbibed far more than you think. Those lads… every one of them can drink enough for ten men, and walk home in a straight line. I am afraid you will not have the same luck.”

Mr. Archer opened his mouth to argue, but then he hiccuped instead. And looked very ashamed of himself afterwards.
 

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Mr. Archer, go home.” Grainne could barely contain her giggles. “I beg of you.”

Mr. Archer nodded, stood with a little difficulty, and made for the door just as Emer came bursting through with the loaded tea tray. There was an awful crash as the china shattered all around them, to say nothing of the awful yell Mr. Archer let out when the hot tea splashed him from head to toe.

“Mr. Archer!” Emer shrieked, utterly horrified. “Oh oh oh!”
 

Mrs. Kinney came racing into the room to see Emer holding her apron to her face, Mr. Archer lying on the carpet amidst shards of glass and pools of tea, the sugar bowl tipped over his chest, while Grainne knelt next to him, her face very close to his.
 

“What is this meaning of this!”

Grainne’s head shot up. Mr. Archer gasped. Emer ran from the room, too overwrought to deal with Mrs. Kinney’s abuse after this latest transgression.
 

Grainne had no idea what the meaning of all that was. First she was feeling that curious heat that Mr. Archer’s sultry gaze lent to her skin, then she was laughing at him for letting the boys get him utterly drunk, and now she was leaning over him just as she had yesterday when he had come off of Hercules, feeling a little drunk herself on the fineness of his features, the glow of his glorious eyes.

There were no explanations.

Grainne rode out of the wood cautiously, her hand tight on Gretna’s reins. She knew that Archer was out there somewhere, standing his lonely sentinel on the hills like some sort of Irish folk hero. So absurd of him! Did he think that he was being romantic, and that her sensibility was such that she would be struck, nay, overcome by his determination to protect her?

Piffle. 

But if he was trying to make a nuisance of himself, he was certainly succeeding at that. She had spent half the forenoon avoiding him, only to be idling alone in the tack room when he had come in and overpowered her senses with his size and scent and… something that was undefinable. Something that was William Archer’s, and William Archer's alone. 

If she didn't already have Len, she could see how some girls might be quite attracted to him. It was a pity he was only a huntsman, and unable to marry well. He was clearly educated and —  

Grainne nearly steered Gretna into a tree and the sensible mare balked. The surprising lurch succeeded in clearing her head at once. What
was
she thinking about? How would she evade Mr. Archer if she was busy worrying over his marriage prospects? Really, his coming to the stable had quite distracted her in every way. His very presence was a source of confusion.

Recovering herself, Grainne helped Gretna find a narrow deer-trail to follow and the mare climbed up the rise towards the hill-top meadow that stretched above them. It was a lonely pasture on the far side of the forest from the path she had entered, and she would have a long circuitous route back to the yard, but she thought there would be little chance of stumbling upon her watchdog there. 

They were nearly out, Grainne pushing away the reaching fingers of the autumnal trees, Gretna ducking her head and snatching at dying leaves as she went, and Grainne was allowing herself a little triumphant smile, when Gretna spooked horribly, nearly losing her footing on the rocky little path. 

“Whoa girl, whoa whoa
whoa!”
Grainne burst out automatically, shortening her reins to help keep the mare upright. Gretna’s hind legs scrabbled in the slick mud and gravel before she regained enough purchase to go bounding up the last few yards of the path and burst into the meadow.

The gleaming golden autumn meadow, where Bald Nick was waiting. The stallion whinnied companionably. Grainne groaned, and her disappointment was such that it took her another half a moment to realize there was no rider on his back. Then she thought her heart had leapt into her throat. “Not
again
,” she muttered. “He can't have been thrown from
Nick
.”

“
You
have,” uttered a wry voice from somewhere below her. She turned, steadying her startled mare, and saw Mr. Archer crouched on the brown grass at the very edge of the wood, looking up at her with a twisted smile on his bronze face.

“What on earth are you doing down there? Are you hurt?” Fear and worry, most insensible emotions, pushed out the resentment she should have felt at the slur on her riding. “Have you been here long?”

“I didn't fall.” His voice softened at her worried tone. “I came across this unfortunate little chap, and I could not leave him. But the unraveling has not been easy.” He shifted his body, and Grainne could see the shining, fire-kissed coat of a fox. 

“What on earth?” She dismounted from Gretna and crept closer, leaving the mare to drop her head and crop the grass. “Poor chap! What has happened to him?”

”Caught in some sort of wire. Might have been a trap once, or a fence or a coop. Whatever it was, he floundered about a good deal and got himself hopelessly tangled.” He pushed back a clump of grass and she saw the wild, desperate eyes and the little pointed muzzle, neatly tied shut with Mr. Archer’s linen handkerchief.

The fox was young and gaunt; he was either not a terribly good hunter or he had been trapped in the wire for some time. His thin ribs pressed through tight flesh as his panicked breaths rose and fell. “I hope he does not die of fear,” she said gently. “Poor little laddie.”

William looked at her approvingly. “Another, more callous woman might have suggested I wring its neck and be done with it.”

“That would hardly be sporting. When we hunt the fox has a chance to outwit our hounds, and how frequently he does so! To kill an animal in a trap is a cruelty I could not countenance.” She met Mr. Archer’s blue eyes with a passionate gaze borne of her extreme feeling on the subject. She had seen too many men kill for pleasure. “It is to your credit that you feel the same, Mr. Archer. I could not respect you if you had acted any other way.”
 

“You are a passionate woman, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Archer murmured, his eyes capturing hers. “Such a depth of feeling for the innocents in your care.”

“I cannot help but care for animals; they are utterly at our mercy. And I have known many a fox to wait for the hunt, he loves the chase so. They are splendid animals, as splendid as horses and hounds.” She felt the blood in her cheeks rising as she spoke. Mr. Archer’s eyes were so arresting; she felt she could not look away.

She felt she did not want to.

She gazed down at him and he back at her, and she quite forgot about the fox.
 

“Call me William, Miss Spencer,” he murmured, his eyes somehow darkening. 

Her breath came as quick as the frightened fox's, but Grainne felt power and was wickedly proud of it. “Mr. Archer,” she insisted, unable to keep a little huskiness from her voice — why
would
it not behave? “We must not be improper.”

William Archer smiled at her and reached for the fox. With a deft move he unhooked the last twist of wire and slipped his handkerchief from the fox’s nose. The little creature was gone like a bullet. “Now,” he growled, turning back to her with a feral grin, “I can concentrate on you.”

His hand was on the nape of her neck and his lips were hovering just above hers in an instant.
William,
she thought, and supposed she could never think of this man in the formal way again. Her heartbeat was echoing in her ears, driving out the thought of anything but
William’s
touch,
William’s
hot gaze,
William’s
kiss. She could never have explained her actions. She was aching for it, body yearning with a desperation unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her back arched to get nearer to him. 

And still he waited, sensuous lips curved in a wicked smile, delighting in her passion, until she could bear his hesitation no longer and thrust forward, meeting his lips with her own in a hard, insistent kiss. 

She felt him stiffen in surprise, and through the fog of passion she thought that she was giving herself away, that no maiden would know how to kiss like this, but it was too late. When she had seen his light touch with the little fox she had known him to be a gentle soul, and the combination of his alluring body and his beautiful heart were simply too much for her to resist. 

Not even to save her reputation. 

William seemed to get over his surprise gratifyingly quickly, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, passionately taking a long, lingering taste of her. She thought her body would simply dissolve into him. And as his hand slid down her spine and pressed the curve of her body against his hardness, she thought one traitorous thought:

It was never like this with Len. 

***

He knew he was no better than the gypsy she was having her little liaisons with, but dear God, she was so sweet. She was so wicked. She was so delectable. William was utterly lost in his lust for her. 

He thought he could never break their kiss, so entwined were their bodies, so irretrievably lost their good sense. But horses have a sense of humor, and as he began to toy with one perfect breast, so long hidden beneath those loose peasant’s shirts she favored, a hoof came down alarmingly close to his head and he realized that human lust was no deterrent to a horse on the hunt for that perfect patch of clover. 

Pulling his lips away from Grainne’s — and noting with satisfaction her little mew of protest — he rolled her to safety as quickly as he could. 

Which left her sitting atop him, grass in her hair, swollen lips laughing down at him as her body pressed most alluringly against the part of him that longed for her the most.

He gaped up at her, utterly at a loss for words. He thought he might perish of longing, and he just didn’t know of a polite way to tell that to a lady. Although she was a lady of questionable character — as that kiss had just proven to him. This
was
the girl who was planning on running away with a gypsy, after all.
 

She might know exactly what she was doing.

The thought was painful.

She wiggled. The damn chit actually wiggled! “Stop,” he gasped. “For God’s sake, stop.”

“Does it pain you, Mr. Archer?” Grainne’s smile was positively diabolical. “Have you taken an injury? Perhaps I had better get up.” But she did not move to find her feet. 

William lay very still and thought of Lady Violetta’s terrifying mother, with a face like a forlorn tortoise and a body like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle with string, until he felt rather more like himself and less like a stallion discovering
 
a filly. “Let’s get up,” he suggested in a pleasant, if rather strained, tone, and he could see her disappointment as she dismounted him and stood, brushing the grass and leaves from her breeches. 

“I suppose you shall escort me to my father’s stables now,” she said blandly, avoiding his eyes. “Must not let a lady out of your sight or some villain may take advantage of her.”