“Stop that nonsense, Tommy Boxton, or I’ll box you,” Grainne snapped. She slipped into Magyar’s box to check his rug was straight. He greeted her with a nicker and she tried to ignore his affection; he wasn’t her horse any longer. Mr. Lark’s boy would be calling for him in the morning.
“Grainne Maxwell, with a babe on each lug,” Tommy went on. “Missus Maxwell, the lady of Boyle House, counting the eggs in the larder.”
“You’re a dolt,” Grainne said airily, changing tack. There was no reason to counter Tommy’s ceaseless teasing with temper. If it wasn’t her he was harrassing, it was someone else in the yard.
“He might be right though.”
Grainne shut Magyar’s box again and fastened the latch carefully. He was a clever horse; he’d find his way out if she didn’t finish the job properly. Only when she was certain the door was secure did she look up.
Seamus was looking at her with a concerned, fatherly expression. She sighed. The only thing Grainne found more nettlesome than Tommy Boxton’s heckling was Seamus O’Doyle’s paternal worry. For pity’s sake, the man was only a few years older than she!
And not half the rider, she thought privately.
“Father will not be marrying me off without my consent,” she assured him, patting his arm. “That’s not what this is about at all. We’ve needed a new huntsman this year and more. The yard is full, the kennels are bursting, and every meet I swear the old lord is asking for more mounts for his guests. These horses have to be kept in top condition all the time, Seamus. This English fellow is just the thing to help us out. He knows what Kilreilly’s guests are looking for in a mount.”
Seamus didn’t look much comforted. “If you say so, Grainne,” he said worriedly. He put out a brown hand and let Magyar lip at his fingers, sweet with the apples he’d been peeling into the feeds. “But you’re a woman grown, and your father must want you a woman wed, even if you are the finest rider he could ever hope for.”
Grainne lost patience then. “I’m sure that’s none of your concern, Seamus O’Doyle. Now shift yourself and get the saddle on Gretna. I want to take her out for a gallop before it rains again.”
Seamus grinned at her sharp tone and busied himself fetching Grainne’s worn saddle. It wasn’t his job to saddle her horse, but no one in the yard was willing to gainsay Grainne Spencer when she was in a black mood. The girl had a temper, Seamus thought, that would keep that silly soft Maxwell lad on his toes until he tipped them up in sheer exhaustion.
Grainne was not thinking of Edward Maxwell, and if she had been, it would have been with a decided lack of sympathy. A squire so fond of his sheepdogs he might as well marry them, she would have answered, had anyone asked her opinion of their only neighbor of any consequence. But no one ever asked Grainne’s opinion on anything but horses. And since she had so many opinions on horses, and was so eager to share them and so confident in their correctness, no one ever would. Grainne Spencer had a well-deserved reputation as a ruthless, roughshod know-it-all.
But for a rare moment, Grainne was flustered, and only by retiring to check the hind hooves of a young hunter who had recently gone lame could she hide the pink in her milky cheeks. She had felt the heat of those blue eyes on her body. That Mr. Archer… he was a handsome devil, she could tell already. She pressed a calloused thumb against a discolored spot on the sole of the hunter’s hoof and whispered a soothing command to be still when the horse jumped, nearly jerking his hoof from her grasp.
“Hush, love, it’s only a little abscess,” she told him, straightening and letting the horse drop his hoof back to the straw. She went to his head and stroked his neck in long rhythmic sweeps of her palm while he nuzzled at her pockets.
“You are a darling,” she told the horse. “I shall sell you to a young lady and you shall climb into her pockets just like this, yes?” The horse wriggled his nose along her side, tickling her sensitive waist. She pushed at his nose. “Now you stop. You are as lascivious as a man. You are as naughty as…” she thought. “As that Mr. Archer is, I daresay.” Grainne smiled despite herself. “I’m sure he’s a dreadful flirt,” she went on hastily, digging out the boiled sweets that the horse had been rooting for the entire time.
He lipped them from her palm with a velvety muzzle and watched her worshipfully while he crunched them between his teeth, dripping sweet sugary foam from his lips. “He looked at me as if he wanted to undress me,” she whispered to the hunter. “And believe me, I know what that looks like. Len looks at me in such a hungry way every time we meet.”
Len! Her whole body seemed to clench up at the thought of him. His greedy kisses and his roving hands — he was exciting, there was no doubt about that, and he was waiting for her this very moment. She must hurry.
“Seamus!” she bellowed, barrelling out of the stall. “Is Gretna saddled yet?”
“Aye, she is saddled and bridled and waiting here for you.”
“Perfect.” Grainne softened both her tone and her expression as she came out of the stall. “Thank you, Seamus.”
“Will you want a leg-up?”
“Not at all,” she said pleasantly, and, sticking a foot in the stirrup, swung aboard the dark mare as cleanly and quickly as a man.
Everyone thought of her as a man, anyway, she thought grimly, nudging Gretna forward. Everyone except for Len.
And perhaps that terrible Mr. Archer.
CHAPTER THREE
Gretna, Grainne’s favorite mare, was eager to stretch her legs that afternoon. It had been a wet fortnight, indeed a wet year, and Grainne was always careful not to over-work her horses on heavy going; it was hard enough on them when they had to hunt all day in sucking mud and slippery turf. But horses still needed to be built up, and the winter’s hunting was nearly upon them: the leaves were turning golden on the trees, and the wheat was being brought in from the fields on the estate. Soon the big house would be filling up with guests from other country houses, Dublin, even London, and the old lord would be calling for horses nearly every day.
Novices, rank amateurs, dandies, these were the sort of men who rode Grainne’s good horses, and it took all her skill to settle the mettlesome hunters into mounts quiet and reliable enough for the house guests to ride across the countryside. The real riders amongst them would bring their own horses, never thinking to enjoin a country party without bringing at least two hunters of their own. There was another yard of boxes, the cobwebs being scrubbed from it this very day, set aside for just those guests’ horses, as well as the sundry carriage horses that would bring them all here.
Winter-time was for merry-making in the gentry set, and for hard work and frostbitten fingers for the huntsmen who made it all possible.
Grainne set the bay mare up for a hedge looming in their path, separating two fields of close-cropped pasture, and smiled as the mare lifted her forelegs and cleanly jumped the obstacle, galloping away smoothly afterwards without a thought of a buck, all her attention focused on finding even ground for her hooves. “You’re a lovely, steady girl,” she told Gretna, and the mare flicked her ears back to listen.
Then the mare pricked those black-tipped ears forward, her head lifting up and her stride shortening abruptly, staring into the copse at the bottom of the field. Grainne sat back in the saddle and brought her to an uneasy halt, sitting deep while Gretna danced worriedly from side to side, never taking her attention from the little wooded valley.
Then the mare made a mighty leap as, with a crash of brambles and branches, a big chestnut horse, rider poised and still above his neck, came plunging out of the thicket. As his hooves touched the grass the chestnut lurched into a canter and came rolling up the slope towards her. With a start, Grainne recognized that the horse was her own Bald Nick, a horse she had started some years ago who was now a stalwart of the hunting meets, and the rider grinning between Nick’s pricked ears was none other than her father’s new huntsman, that dangerous Mr. Archer.
“You took the hard way,” she ground out as she foug
ht to settle the over-excited Gretna. “There are nettles down that path.”
“Thankfully done for the summer,” the huntsman laughed, pulling up Nick next to her. He let the chestnut touch his big white nose to Gretna’s and laughed when she squealed and pawed in disgust. “Typical mare, isn’t she! Lovely little girl, though,” he added, letting his eyes rove over the mare. “Like the whole yard. Not a donkey in the lot.”
“I should say not! We have the finest horses in this part of the world. Perhaps the Empire.” Grainne ran a hand down Gretna’s wet neck. “But they have to cart about a lot of undeserving folk. I hope you can settle a horse as well as you can ruffle one up.”
“I can turn a raging stallion into a lady’s pony in one afternoon,” Mr. Archer drawled. “I just prefer not to. It’s so unfair to the stallion. To say nothing of the lady.”
Grainne colored, although she wasn’t perfectly certain why. Something to do with stallions and ladies… it just wasn’t delicate. Not that she had been raised to be the sort of woman who blushed… delicacy was not really the thing in a stable full of men. Why did it sound different, coming from Archer’s cultured vowels? He was not your typical stableboy, that was for sure.
“Well, that’s what you’ll be expected to do,” she went on after a pause, as if the jest had never happened. “So be sure to keep anything you ride under your strict control at all times. They have to learn to do as they’re told at all times.”
“An unfortunate trait in a hunter, which must be clever enough to get itself out of trouble whilst a rider is slithering around on its back trying to keep their own balance.”
“You’ll find a happy medium,” Grainne said carelessly, trying to turn her mare away from him. Gretna shook her head and argued, mouthing the bit.
“Shall we ride together?” Mr. Archer asked blithely, ignoring her clear lack of enthusiasm, and when he nudged his horse forward, Gretna happily fell into stride beside him.
Traitorous mare.
“This is beautiful country for hunting,” Mr. Archer remarked after a few strides, glancing around at the patchwork of fields and hedgerows which spread out below the ridge. “I myself thought there was no place finer than my home in England, but I see that I am mistaken.”
“I suppose everyone thinks their own place is perfect, so it is odd the way they should travel,” Grainne said, just a little too sharply for good manners.
“I am happy to be wrong,” William said simply. He looked over at her and she felt his gaze travel over her, from her flat tweed cap to her scarred black boots. “You sit that mare beautifully.”
She colored, and looked down at her reins.
“I suppose you hear that often, though. I should think of more creative compliments.”
“You need not compliment me at all.” She could probably number the honest compliments she had received in the past five years on one hand. Before she had met Len, of course. Len thought her the finest rider he had ever seen, and he told her so with such fierce passion… she felt her lips curl into a tiny smile at the thought of him. Her own Len! He wanted her as she was, and in return offered her all she ever wanted. None of this nonsense about manners and dresses and not acting like a hoyden that Mrs. Kinney was always going on about every night when Grainne came home.
Grainne sighed. Her entire day was about the half an hour she stole with Len, and now she was on the verge of losing it. If she couldn’t keep Len hungering for her… She simply must shake this foolish flatterer and see him before the day got away from her.
“Indeed I must pay you compliment, for you are a striking young lady, a fierce horsewoman, and my employer’s daughter, besides,” Mr. Archer insisted, with a twisted smile she did not dislike. He had a very expressive face. Len’s was so often a dark mask, it was hard to guess what he was really thinking most of the time. “But it must be tiresome to be admired by all the countryside.”
Grainne looked at him incredulously. “Admired? A hoyden like me?” She shook her head. “England must be a different place than I imagined, if a young lady who rides astride can be considered admirable.”
“You are unique,” Mr. Archer admitted. “You are an Original, let us say. That can be considered admirable.”
“But rarely is. Certainly not before a person cocks up their toes. I can assure you that I am considered barely respectable, let alone a person of great accomplishment.”
“Would you prefer to be respectable?”
“And sit indoors, knitting stockings? I think not,” she said decidedly. There were no difficulties on that point.
William laughed. “Tell me true, my dear Miss Spencer, do you care what others think of you?”
She thought. “I suppose it would depend on the person.”
“What about me?”
“Oh, aren’t you clever? Trying to trap me into returning a compliment, Mr. Archer? I shall not do it. You shall just have to wonder.”
A rabbit shied from the brush and ran nearly under Gretna’s hooves. The mare spooked hard, rearing back, and Grainne immediately flung herself forward, wrapping her arms right around the mare’s neck. In a moment Gretna put her feet back to the earth and Grainne righted herself in the saddle, settling the prancing mare with cooing whispers and a soft hand on her hot neck.
“That was some fine riding,” Mr. Archer commented. “Many a man would have tried to control her head by pulling back on the reins, and end only by flipping her over.”
“I have seen it,” Grainne agreed, catching her breath. “A silly mistake. Gretna, my dear, you must not behave like that on the hunt, or some earl’s daughter will get mud on her new riding habit, and you shall not be forgiven.”
“How long have you been riding these horses?”
She looked over at Mr. Archer. He was gazing at her with genuine interest. Probably gauging how long it would be before he could oust her out of the yard and run it to his own liking. She didn’t trust this man — or her father. “Ten years,” she said simply.
“Since you were…”
“Ten.”
“An unusual pastime for a young girl.”
She sighed. “My mother died. Things were… things were difficult. It was easier to go out to the yard and work with the horses than stay in the house. And I was good at it, so… I stayed.”
He nodded, and she hoped that explanation was satisfactory enough. Yes, it was unusual for a young lady to spend her time riding hunters instead of learning to dance and set a table for a dinner party. But things had never been usual for her. Even if they hadn’t lived in such a remote spot in the country, not aristocratic enough to be invited to the Big House and not common enough to sit in the village public house, her mother’s death, and her own wild grief, had been enough to convince her father that she could not be cooped up in the schoolroom, nor sent away to relatives. He hadn’t known what else to do, she reflected, and so he gave in to her. And here she was, twenty years old, riding astride and wondering wildly how she would be able to hold her life together when her father decided to force her to be a lady at last.
The day couldn’t be far away, and despite her scoffing words to Seamus that morning, she really did fear that William Archer had been brought here to replace her when she was sent off to Boyle House as Mrs. Thomas Maxwell.
She wouldn’t be able to bear that, she knew. The squire’s wife, with all that came with it: the squalling children, the church committees, the endless talk of sheep!
No, she could never be Thomas Maxwell’s wife. She could never give up her horses. And so she had to take her life into her own hands.
However unconventional, however mad her escape might be, she had to make it.
Grainne glanced at the sinking sun; the day was passing too quickly. “Can you find your own way home? I want to show Gretna the ditches a few fields over. I’ll be back before evening feeds.”
“I’ll join you,” Mr. Archer said smoothly. “I’m sure Nick would love a ditch.”
“No!” Grainne bit th
e inside of her cheek to stop herself from panicking aloud. “He’s quite competent with ditches, I mean. Gretna must learn to jump them without anyone else to show her the way. She can be quite dependent on other horses for confidence. I like to take her out alone to build her up.” She realized she was starting to gabble and shut her mouth quickly.
But Mr. Archer just raised a dark eyebrow and then nodded. “I see your point,” he conceded, and Grainne could barely stop herself from sighing with relief. “As long as you are quite certain she will go over the ditch without a problem. It would be a shame if you were stranded out there and all you needed was another horse to show her the way.” He thought, giving Nick a rub on the neck. “Perhaps I could come and watch from a distance, just to be certain she was willing to go alone.”
This man was impossible, Grainne thought unhappily. And clever enough about horses to have seen the hole in her argument: if Gretna did choose not to go over a ditch, and there was not another horse to lead her over, Grainne would have to choose between staying out for hours fighting with the mare or taking her in without going over the obstacle, teaching the mare that she didn’t have to jump ditches if she didn’t want to. Ruining her, in short. It had been a silly thing to say, she thought ruefully, but she was committed now.
“She has jumped it alone,” Grainne tried again. “I just want to reinforce it every chance that I can.” She chanced a smile, hoping a little flirtation might tip the scales in her favor. It really was getting late; she had to get away or she would run out of time, and Len would be angry. His dark eyes would be hooded, like a falcon’s, and he would turn away and refuse to touch her.
Mr. Archer smiled very slowly, and Grainne found herself catching her breath. He was quite ridiculously handsome, especially on horseback, with tan skin showing through the unbuttoned collar of his shirt and dark stubble just dotting his strong jaw. His mahogany hair, tumbling over his ears and collar and pushed back from his deep blue eyes, looked as soft as a new foal’s fur. He grinned at her with very white teeth and she felt the tiniest bit woozy. Should have eaten luncheon, she scolded herself, but she knew that wasn’t the problem. She had felt this dizziness the first time Len had touched her bare skin with his rough finger. The excitement had faded, though. Mr. Archer seemed to reawaken a part of her she had forgotten about.
Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) Page 2
