Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback)

by Alexander, Sydney

  What a relief, Grainne thought. Gossiping with Mrs. Kinney was about as interesting as listening to the church choir argue about their holiday program. The old woman was a darling, but she didn’t seem to understand that horses, and horses, and horses, were the only subjects worth talking about in this world.

  And she was a monkey’s uncle if Archer didn’t drink whiskey and bet on horses.

  ***

  “And then we bred Hartley Miss to Smiling Tiger, and you can see the result,” Mr. Spencer said proudly, pointing to an engraving of a wild-eyed horse leaping to the finish line, his jockey’s spindly whip raised high in triumph. “Hartley Smile. Won the Cup down at Dublin three times before we retired him to stud. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Of course,” William lied, making every effort to admire Hartley Smile. It was difficult, of course, from the engraving, which was just an artist’s idea of what a horse ought to look like winning a race. It would have been more convincing if Mr. Spencer would actually show him the horse. And he thought he’d like to see him, actually. He was always on the look-out for a good new stallion. “Is Hartley Smile here?”

  Spencer shook his head. “The breeding horses are all kept down the valley at Ivan O’Kelley’s farm. Whenever I get one into the yard that I find promising, I tell his lordship and O’Kelley comes up for it.”

  “I rather thought the chestnut I was on today might be worth breeding.”

  “Bald Nick?” Spencer smiled. “You know, I’ve often thought the same. We might race him against the clock and see what his times are like.”

  William silently congratulated himself. “But why the name Bald Nick? I thought that an odd moniker for such a good-looking horse.”

  “Oh, when he was a youngster, he took Grainne through the middle of a five-barred gate and left his forelock and scalp behind. As well as Grainne.” Spencer got up and put away the heavy stud book.

  “Good heavens. That must have been rather traumatic.”

  “Grainne’s a hard girl to frighten,” Spencer said off-handedly. “Got right back on and jumped him on the way home, just to teach him he couldn’t be afraid of the fences. She was plucking splinters out of her arms and face for a fortnight, though. Has a bit of a scar on her neck from it, as well. But Bald Nick, now, he’s never touched another fence. It’s made him terribly careful. So it’s an ill wind.”

  “Indeed.” William was imagining that slim, beautiful figure he’d seen on horseback today, galloping away from him on her dark bay mare, as she must have been that day, bloodied and trembling, picking herself up from a pile of shattered wood and brushing herself off before she put a boot back in the stirrup and swung aboard her terrified horse, unwilling to allow him to be ruined by fear. She was really an astonishing woman, he thought. He wanted to know more about her.

  “Miss Spencer is truly an accomplished horsewoman,” William said experimentally, hoping Spencer would take the bait and boast about his daughter. But he was disappointed, for the subject was quickly changed.

  “Well, it’s an early morning tomorrow,” Spencer announced, yawning theatrically. “Hope you don’t mind if we keep country hours here, William. Mrs. Kinney will see you out.” He gestured at the door and the grey-haired housekeeper appeared as if summoned by magic, William’s coat in hand.

  William jumped up, stuttering out his good-nights, and in just a moment found himself out on the moonlit cobbles. He crossed to the road and began the short walk to the cottage near the stable-yard. Home, as he’d have to think of the tiny pile of stones.

  The cottage was damp and cold, and the fire a chore to light. For a moment, he wished he’d made some excuse to stay at the pub instead of living here alone, but he shook away the idea. He’d made his decision to come out here to the ends of the earth, to lie low and to wait, and while the gossips chattered on the other side of the Irish Sea he would just have to learn to light a fire properly on his own. But he did decide, cursing at the stubborn flint and the even more stubborn kindling, that tomorrow night he would bring a lantern to the Spencer house, and be sure to bring home a flame to do this task for him.

  It had been a funny first day on the job, he thought as he settled at last into the moth-eaten armchair, putting his toes up to the feeble flames he’d conjured in the hearth. The warning from Spencer to treat his daughter like a lady, her mocking smile, the way she’d stammered and made excuses before galloping away from him, her feigned illness at supper, the off-handed way her father had described what must have been a terrible fall that would have kept any other lady — and most men — away from the hunting field forever. The story she’d told him about her mother had been graceful, but he was still astounded that Grainne Spencer was training horses for her father to this very day, instead of sitting uncomfortably on a divan in a Dublin drawing room, dancing at a few parties, and falling into the arms of some minor military man or a permissive vicar.

  But there, he mustn’t grow too interested in this galloping harridan. There was the way she’d threatened the life of the gropers at the horse fair to remember, for one thing. And there was the absolute necessity to be as uninteresting as possible, and stay well below the notice of the guests who would soon be arriving at the old lord’s house for the hunting, to consider. He had better just concentrate on the horses, and leave the boss’s daughter well enough alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Noontime the next day, despite her feigned illness the night before, saw Grainne urging Gretna down the stream-bed, the mare picking her way carefully through the scattered stones, wrinkling up her nose in displeasure at the splashing water. There were not many instances in which Grainne had not been able to cajole her father into giving her her own way, and that morning at the breakfast table had been no different. She had been out the door in her riding breeches, ready to start her day in the yard, before her father had time to drink his tea. And having worked three young horses in the menage already, no one could say her nay when she took Gretna out for a lone gallop in the fields just before noon.

  She saw Len before he noticed her. He was sitting bareback on the big chestnut blood-horse with his legs hanging loose on either side, letting the mare graze as she wished while the reins hung slack on her neck. The horse saw Gretna and picked up her head, and that was when Len looked up and saw Grainne riding down to meet him.

  She smiled brilliantly in greeting, feeling her heart swell with excitement, but he only raised a hand in casual greeting and then lowered his head again. She saw his lips moving and realized he must be talking to someone that she couldn’t see.

  It must be someone very important, if he couldn’t even be troubled to greet her properly. She pursed her lips and nudged Gretna to hurry it up. She thought a man who had proposed marriage to her the day before might be a bit more attentive.

  But Len didn’t even pause in conversation as she rode her mare out of the shallow stream and into the clearing, or when she hopped down from the saddle and tied Gretna to one of the iron rings on the side of the caravan, nor even when she walked around to the other side to see him. Leaning against the caravan was another gypsy in a bright red-and-blue colored vest and a dirty white shirt, talking in a very animated fashion, and Len didn’t take his eyes away from the man for a moment.

  Grainne was annoyed. She was wearing her most becoming breeches, the ones her father had actually taken one look at and suggested that perhaps she stop riding in trousers like a man. It had taken her a week of cajoling before he’d relented, and the promise to never order such tight breeches again.

  But for Len, she thought she’d break any number of promises she’d made to her father. And running away with him would surely nullify any obligations they might have had to one another. She arranged herself in as seductive a pose as she could muster, leaning one elegant hip against the corner of the caravan, and putting her hand on her other hip, riding crop sticking out like a dangerous promise. She thought she must look very fine indeed.

  The gypsy on the
ground, evidently agreeing, stopped talking and looked up at her. Then he looked at Len, thick eyebrows raised in question.

  “This is the lady herself,” Len explained. Then he looked at Grainne. Then he looked some more. He gave her a slow nod to let her know he appreciated the effort. Then he spoke. “Grainne, lass, would ye go and make us a pot of tea? Our business is nearly finished.”

  Grainne took a deep breath, which was the minimum amount of calming that her nerves would require if she was to avoid rushing at Len and murdering him for being so dismissive of her, and then nodded, lips tight. She spun on her booted heel and went stomping up the narrow steps of the caravan.

  She banged around the cramped quarters within, yanking down the dented old teapot from its hook and rooting around in a despicably unkept cupboard for the tin of tea. Just go inside like a dear and make us a spot of tea, darling! Don’t mind the menfolk doing their important menfolk business! All men were the same, weren’t they? Len was just as bad as the rest of them. Funny how she hadn’t seen that before! Did he think he was going to treat her like the little wife once they were out of Ireland? He had another think coming.

  She leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to recover her composure before she went out to put the kettle in the fire, and then realized that she could hear the men’s voices through the wall.

  It’s a risk, bringin’ some gentleman’s daughter. There’ll be search parties, rewards. And nae dowry, Did ye think of that?

  Of course she’ll bring a dowry. What kind of a fool do you take me for?

  Ah. That horse?

  Aye. Good blood-mare, ought to bring a fine sum on the other side of t’channel. Keep us in clover for months.

  Good thinkin’, man. Good thinkin’.

  I’m not thick-headed, whatever ye may have thought. I know what I’m about.

  Grainne was very still. The men outside were laughing; their business, she supposed, was completed at last. Their trip to the Continent was financed. She was financing it. Gretna was financing it. Grainne realized, somewhat belatedly, that she was committing herself to stealing a horse and running away with a gypsy. When you put it in so many words… She put a hand to her head, dizzy with horror.

  Then there was a step on the caravan, and a shadow in the door. Len was standing there, looking worried. “Alright, lass?”

  “A touch of headache,” Grainne lied.

  “Ye’ll want the tea for that. Hand me that pot and then have a lie-down in the bunk. I’ll bring ye a mug.”

  She nodded mutely and when he’d gone she clambered up into the bunk. The straw mattress was prickly beneath the quilt and she squirmed, trying to find a comfortable way to lie. She’d never been up here before; Len loved to lie her down on the grass and kiss her senseless, but he wouldn’t take her to bed. Not yet, he always said. Not yet.

  If he had loved her as passionately as a man who wanted to marry a woman ought, he wouldn’t have been able to resist bringing her to bed, she was sure of that much. Grainne worked with a bunch of lads who gossiped like auld grannies. She knew about fits of passion, and compromised girls, and babes born five months after the wedding. Len had had ample opportunity to drag her up to this poky mattress and put her in a family way. But he hadn’t even suggested it.

  So perhaps Len didn’t love her, she thought. Perhaps he needed money, and she was a pretty girl who was good with horses and willing to be bedded and could steal a nice horse on her way out of her father’s house and good graces.

  But no, that couldn’t be. She remembered the smoldering fire in his dark eyes when they were together, playing their dangerous games in the hidden meadow. The rasp in his voice when he finally ended their embraces, the way his hands would shake as he pushed her sleeves back upon her shoulders, her hair back into its net. He wanted her. Not just any girl. Her. Grainne.

  But he didn’t come inside soon enough, and Grainne had been awake half the night before, dreaming of her wild, runaway life with him, and the straw mattress wasn’t that terrible, not once you had sort of settled down into it and gotten used to the prickling sensation. She gazed at the dark ceiling a few feet above her head, listening to the mumble of conversation outside, and she never realized that she fell asleep until her eyes were suddenly snapping open, staring wildly at Len’s laughing face above her.

  She gasped.

  His smile vanished, to be replaced with that smoldering hunger she knew so well, and his mouth dipped down and captured hers in a long, deep kiss. She could feel him just above her, supported on his elbows and knees, and some naughty instinct sent her arching up against him, pressing her pelvis against his.

  It was Len’s turn to gasp. He pushed her back down and ground his hardness against her, rubbing that heat, so terrifying in its size and mystery, against her body. She felt his hands hard on her throat, sliding around to the nape of her neck, to pull her head up into his demanding kiss, and she trembled all over, half aroused and half terror-stricken.

  He growled deep in his throat and moved his other hand to her breasts, slipping inside the loosely tied top of the boy’s blouse she wore instead of some tight bodice, rubbing his calloused thumb over her nipple, so that she felt a surging of something that must have been panic —

  And then he was getting up, and then he was climbing down from the bunk, and then he was outside, and she clambered up frantically, pulling the blouse back over her abandoned breast, to see that evening had fallen, blue dusky light visible through the open caravan door, and as she scrambled down from the loft she heard Len grunt oddly, and slap his hand against the caravan wall. She felt a different kind of panic then. He mustn’t tire of her so easily!

  She came outside and saw him doing up the laces of his breeches. She started to back away, uncertain what she had walked into. But he shook his head. “Yer alright, lass,” he said reassuringly. “But ye had better take yerself home before dark.”

  Grainne could scarcely draw breath and here Len was dismissing her, waving his hand at her horse, who had loosened her rope after all this time and was grazing contentedly, bit rattling in her mouth.

  “You left me so suddenly,” she managed to bite out.

  “Had to.” Len came up and took her hands, and she felt her heart leap at his touch. She bit her lip to stop from trembling. “Yer not mine…” Her heart sank again. “…Yet.”

  She looked up with glistening eyes.

  “When we sail away from here…”

  “Yes…”

  “Ye will be my little gypsy bride…”

  “Oh… yes!”

  “And then I won’t leave ye wantin’ more.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  William turned Bald Nick away from the path back to the yard for what seemed like the hundredth time. The horse was not happy with him, swishing his tail and grinding his teeth against the bit to show his frustration. But William knew he couldn’t go home without Grainne.

  He’d watched her all that morning, her eyes dark-shadowed with lack of sleep, her temper short with God knew what on her mind, going through the motions of riding horses without any real idea of what she was doing. She’d put a young mare to a five-barred gate with only three strides’ warning, and nearly crashed the poor thing. She’d done up Hercules in Martinet’s bridle, and had the outraged Hercules with a bit two inches too high in his mouth, stretching his lips into a fierce grimace, before Tommy Boxton pointed out the mistake. And then she’d snapped at the luckless Tommy.

  And then, when most of the grooms were disappearing, floating towards the pub for their noon pint, she’d put a saddle on Gretna and headed out into the meadows alone.

  William had been as hungry, and just as eager for a pint, after riding three young horses that morning, as all the other lads. But he couldn’t very well just let a young lady go galloping off into the fields alone. Especially after the strange way she’d been behaving all that morning, and, to be sure, the night before, when she’d picked at her dinner and gone to bed with an illness he still
thought was fake. She obviously wasn’t thinking clearly, and it would never do to let her get hurt out there on her own. He’d follow after, just to keep her safe. It was only the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Not to mention, he was a little besotted with the girl, and he wanted to know what secrets she was hiding behind that beautiful coppery mane of hers. That she was keeping secrets, he had no doubt; he simply couldn’t imagine what they might be.

  But he had lost her trail somewhere near a stream that ran into a tangle of forest, the very stream he had met her at the day before, when she’d been out jumping alone, and he had a very unpleasant suspicion that the lovely Miss Spencer was not alone on these afternoons.

  Nor that she was not out of sorts simply because she was feeling ill.

  Could the master’s daughter have taken a lover? It was a horrible thought. Couldn’t possibly be the case. He should put it out of his head immediately.

  But there was no doubt that she was disappearing to the same place two afternoons in a row, and it was such a well-hidden trail that he wasn’t able to track her. He had gone round and round, as the afternoon had passed, and his hunger had stabbed at his belly, but there was simply nothing for it — she knew a path he could not find, and had disappeared into the forest. Now, exhausted, he looked thoughtfully at the stream that ran into the wood. Perhaps she had thrown him as a fox throws a hound — by going to water.

  Bald Nick pricked his ears suddenly, and in the dying light, William saw it too: the dark shadow image of a horse, picking a careful route through the rocky stream bed. He shook his head. That little vixen…