“I have not,” he admitted. “But for you, I’ll try.”
She circled Albert in little figure eights in the center of the ring, trying to help him learn to balance himself, while Mr. Archer warmed up the dark horse, Hercules, around the menage. He was such an elegant rider, with his long legs wrapped around the horse’s barrel and his sympathetic hands so gently placed above the horse’s withers, that he looked one with his mount. And he certainly filled out his coat. Grainne watched him with frank admiration, biting her lip a little when Hercules napped at a shadow or tried to duck out of a circle.
Finally Mr. Archer pronounced him ready. “We’re going to have a canter now, whether he wants to or not!” Grainne nodded tensely and hoped for the best. Hercules had refused to canter ever since he’d arrived at the yard; he would just trot faster and faster, until he got so angry that he went into a bucking fit. And Hercules was a world champion bucker.
But Archer looked grim and determined. He choked up the reins so tight that Hercules had to lift his head up high, then he slammed his spurs into the horse’s sides and let go of the reins at the same time. Hercules burst forward so quickly it was as if a gust of wind had come up behind him and flung him.
“Well, he’s cantering,” Grainne had to admit. At last.
But he was out of control, she suddenly realized. He was as scrabbly and dangerous at the canter as he had been in the angry trot he gave all the other lads. And suddenly he ducked his head with tremendous strength, wrenching the reins from Mr. Archer’s grasp, and went into a bucking fit like some sort of deranged thing.
“Oh no,” she gasped, but she could not rush to his aid; it was all she could do to hold back the fascinated Albert, and she could only watch in horror as Hercules shook Mr. Archer from his back and went on leaping, alone and unfettered, across the menage. Then she could not help herself; she ignored the wild horse and Albert’s fussing and went straight to Archer’s body, lying on his back in the wood chips.
“Mr. Archer!” she shrieked, leaping down from her horse’s back and flinging the reins over a handy fence post. “Mr. Archer, are you hurt? Lie still, you mustn’t get up —” for of course that was exactly what that wretched man was doing, moaning and shaking his head and trying to sit up.
She swooped down upon him like a hawk upon prey and pressed his shoulders back to the tanbark of the menage. He groaned as his head hit the ground again. “Mr. Archer, you must be still. You could have broken something in your fall.”
“I could have broken something when you flung me to the ground,” he murmured, obviously healthy enough to maintain his sarcasm. “And shouldn’t you go and catch that horse?” As if on cue, the bucking and plunging Hercules went hurtling by, snorting and grunting.
“Oh! Of course!” Grainne was startled by her own lack of concern for the horse; that was not at all like her. What had come over her? She turned her head towards the stable. “Timmy! Seamus! Lads! We have a loose horse!” Then she turned back to Mr. Archer, leaning over him, pressing her hands against his arms, feeling for broken bones. Her hair came loose and hung over her shoulder; she pushed it back with an impatient huff, but it kept slipping from behind her ears. The coppery curls brushed against Mr. Archer’s cheek, and he suddenly smiled, slowly, sensually. And the change that came across his face, from slightly pained and irritated to a primitive wolfishness, made her catch her breath.
“You do not seem hurt,” she managed to say, cursing her suddenly confused tongue. “It was a good fall.”
“A lucky fall,” he agreed, his voice husky. “I landed exactly where I needed to.”
Grainne was mesmerized by the smokiness of his eyes. She could not look away from his arresting gaze, so blue, so deep; she thought she could drown in them.
“Miss! Is everything alright?”
“Damn,” Mr. Archer said conversationally. “We are found out.”
She shook her head, confused. “What?”
“Hop up, my dear,” he instructed, and before she could register the endearment and protest, he had pushed himself up on his elbows, placing his face alarmingly close to hers. For a moment she was still, breath quickening, lips parted, still completely distracted by his eyes, and then his grin seemed to take over his entire face and she realized how deeply inappropriate their position was.
“Oh!” Grainne scrambled up, blushing furiously. Mr. Archer’s sloppy grin only made it worse.
“You would doubtless make a remarkable nurse,” he said, hopping up and brushing the dirt from his breeches. “I shall send for you the moment I take a truly serious tumble.”
“You are not hurt,” she realized stupidly. And then: “I did not mean to behave so… so…” She could not think of a word that would not leave her feeling like a strumpet.
“You were making certain I was not injured,” Mr. Archer said gently. “You are a kind and caring woman. I am lucky to not have hurt myself, and I am lucky you were here to take care of me.”
She smiled despite herself, the warmth on his face too charming for her to ignore. “I have had a few hard falls myself, Mr. Archer,” she replied. “I know what it is to hit the ground and not know whether it is safe to rise.”
“Hitting the ground is always disagreeable,” he agreed. He stepped a little closer and her heart leapt in her chest. He was so tall and broad. On a horse, they were equal; it was easy to forget how large he was. “But being helped to one’s feet by a lovely woman… that is agreeable indeed.”
Grainne gaped up at him, careless of how silly she must look with her jaw open and her eyes shining, and that was when Seamus came walking up with the wide-eyed Hercules and asked if Mr. Archer would be liking a hand in mounting up again. Archer smiled ruefully at her. “I must get back on my dragon,” he said with a shrug. “But before that…” he took her rough hand in his. “Allow me to express my most sincere thanks to my rescuer.” And he bent over her hand and kissed it.
Grainne didn’t know what happened next. She didn’t see if Seamus was staring at her, goggle-eyed, or if Mr. Archer had any trouble mounting the ebullient Hercules, or if any of the other stable lads had seen the romantic gesture. All she could think of, as she dazedly walked towards the waiting Prince Albert and unhooked his reins from the fence-post, was the hot pulse that had raced through her body when Mr. Archer’s lips touched her skin.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Peregrin had told him to “lie low,” and William had decided that those words probably did not exclude an occasional evening down at the village pub, especially when to refuse the invitation from his colleagues, such as they were, down in the stable yard would probably have left them most curious. Having finishing up the yard early on a wet, misty day when it had simply grown too inhospitably drizzly (to say nothing of bone-chillingly cold) to take any more horses out of their boxes, he joined the lads, much to their pleasure, in a soggy stroll down to the Old Goat.
Dark stout, creamy on top with a thick layer of foam like milk fresh from the diary, was passed all around, and William subsided into a corner to watch and listen as the boys roared around him. They certainly played as hard as they worked. Tommy Boxton had his hand down the barmaid’s blouse within moments, it seemed. William smiled into his glass. He was quite content to watch the ribald fun. It would do him no good at all if people had any real cause to notice him.
There was a sudden creaking of the wood behind his head, as another pub patron settled into the next booth. Then a voice with a foreign accent began to speak in hushed tones, evidently never suspecting that someone sitting on the other side of the booth’s headboard could clearly hear every word.
“The girl is all secured, and the horse as well,” the voice murmured. “I’ll have them ready to go when ye are.”
“She’ll do the job?” Another voice, but the same accent. William sat very still.
“Oh aye.” The first man sounded amused. “T’master of t’foxhound’s daughter, if you please. Finest rider in Ireland. She’ll serve us as well as a
ny gypsy. Better. And dark looks, besides; we won’t be hounded for stealin’ an Anglo woman on t’other side of t’channel.”
“Finest rider in Ireland!” The second man guffawed. “Yer only sayin’ that because yer beddin’ her.”
“Nay, nay, not yet. Whaddya take me for? But once we’re away, now… She’s mine.”
“Oh aye,” the second man agreed, sounding crafty. “Unlessen I want a taste, or Peter Crookshanks. Ye owe us that much.”
A chuckle. “Of course. Don’t we always share? But I get first taste.”
William’s head was pounding, the blood thundering in his ears. The master of the foxhound’s daughter — Grainne — what in God’s name was going on?
And then he remembered, with a sinking sensation, the gypsy who had watched Grainne that first day at the horse fair, his dark gaze never leaving her lithe body as she put the dapple grey through its paces.
The look she’d thrown the gypsy in return: intimate, triumphant.
And all her disappearances into the forest.
Oh Grainne, he thought wildly, what have you gotten yourself into?
The men on the other side of the wall were laughing, and while William wanted to leap up, overturn the bench they sat upon, and pummel both villains into the ground, he knew he could not. For one thing, he couldn’t afford to make a scene. There would be questions, and notoriety… and before he knew it he’d be standing with Violetta before the altar. For another, they might go on talking and let slip more information: where they were planning on taking Grainne in that fortnight’s time, for an example. He drank deeply, hoping to calm his rattled nerves, and set his tankard on the boards before him.
Too loudly. The chuckles behind him immediately ceased, and he felt the bench shift as the gypsy first tensed, then turned around to look over the wall at him. William buried his nose in his beer again and willed himself to stay calm. It would never do if the gypsies realized that one of the huntsmen had overheard their plotting. They could prove dangerous to everyone at the yard — Grainne included.
He must have been convincing as a half-conscious drunk, for the men left him alone. He heard them drink up and then hastily leave, the clink of coins on the rough-hewn table the last sounds they made. After that, the general racket of the pub seemed to come back all at once, flooding his ears as if he’d been deaf to everything else while the gypsies spoke. But he could not shake their words from his head, nor the image of Grainne locked up in a gypsy’s caravan, clothed in rags, serving the needs of any ragtag bohemian who decided to have her.
William wondered if he should go directly to Spencer. No, he decided immediately. Too risky. The gypsies could hide in plain sight; they were as wily as old foxes. If Spencer sought them and they did not wish to be found, they could easily outwit him and still convince Grainne to come away with them. She must be in love, after all, to agree to such an utterly mad scheme in the first place. And a girl of her spirit would have no difficulty choosing love over her father’s commands.
He sighed. Grainne in love with a gypsy. Grainne in love, period.
It bothered him more than it should have.
“Your glass is empty!” Tommy cried, startling him violently. “That will never do! Come on Rosie!” And he dragged the laughing barmaid by her thick gingery braid to fill his tankard from a brimming pitcher.
By four o’clock in the afternoon, William had had enough of the local brew to decide he ought to save Grainne from herself… by turning her head.
***
Grainne moped around the house like a ghost, Mrs. Kinney complained. She didn’t much approve of Grainne’s tomboying around the countryside in boots and breeches, but it wasn’t any better having the girl in the house, gazing out of the wet windows and wishing the rain would stop like a child who wanted to go out and play.
“I haven’t any indoor pursuits that I enjoy,” Grainne explained, after being scolded for pulling at the parlor drapes for the dozenth time that afternoon. “I do not wish to sew, I cannot play the pianoforte, there is not an interesting book in the library that I have not read a hundred times. Perhaps if I went to the stable I could clean some saddles,” she mused, brightening a little at the thought. “I do think you cannot clean good leather enough.”
“You shall do no such thing,” Mrs. Kinney snapped, her nerves quite frayed. “There is not a soul at the stables. I saw your father half an hour ago and he said they’d all gone down to the pub.”
“Lazy sods,” she sighed. “Even Mr. Archer?”
“Of course Mr. Archer, why would he not?”
“Tommy Boxton said Mr. Archer is a terrible swell; he has a genteel accent and doesn’t like go to out for a pint with the lads,” Grainne reported. “He does have the most elegant accent. One would think he was from the best circles, instead of just a jockey.”
“It’s a wonder you don’t talk like a jockey yourself, always thick with those village boys and their slang. You may not dress like a lady, nor walk like a lady, but thanks be to God you sound like a lady.”
“It gives me authority.” Grainne shrugged. “It’s not easy to be a woman governing men.”
Mrs. Kinney just shook her head. Grainne sighed and looked back out the window. It had been so wet, she had not even taken out Gretna. The mare would be fretting; she hated to be shut up inside all day long. Like her rider, Grainne thought with a little smile. Darling Gretna! She had not been so fond of a horse in a very long time. It was going to be very hard to part with her when Len sold her on the Continent. But it was all for the best, she told herself. One must be steadfast and look to the end result. Selling Gretna would give she and Len a good start, enough money to travel through Europe. Living on love sounded pretty enough, but it would be nice to be able to eat, as well, and she wasn’t so in love with Len that she couldn’t see that.
Should she be? It would be well if she were desperately in love with the man she was running away with. She thought she ought to conjure up a little passion. If such a thing were possible. Perhaps she simply needed to concentrate.
Grainne tipped her head back on the plush of her armchair and closed her eyes, thinking of Len’s kisses, Len’s touch, Len’s husky voice in her ear, Len’s blue eyes…
Wait.
Len didn’t have blue eyes. She furrowed her brow, eyes still shut tight. Just what the devil…?
There was a tap at the door and Emer’s pinched little voice announcing a caller to Mrs. Kinney. It was probably some tiresome messenger from the Big House, something for her father to concern himself with, not her… now who had blue eyes, and how had they snuck into her daydream?
“Miss Spencer is asleep, I fear,” said a deep, amused voice.
Her eyes flew open. William Archer was laughing down at her from the doorway of the parlor, his wet hat in his hands. “Good gracious, you’re sopping wet!” she exclaimed. “What are you thinking, to pay calls in this weather?”
“I thought you might be out-of-sorts with nothing to do,” Mr. Archer said. “And here I find that I was wrong. You are going to sleep the afternoon away.”
“Emer, take that wet hat,” Mrs. Kinney scolded. “I fail to see how you could take his overcoat but not his hat.”
The maid bobbed her head and went after the dripping hat. Mr. Archer relinquished the article with a kindly smile and then turned the brilliance of his gaze back to Grainne.
And Grainne knew why blue eyes had invaded her dreams.
She licked her lips nervously, and realized her mistake when his eyes flicked down to her mouth and back up again.
Curse William Archer! Why had her father brought this handsome interloper from England? She did not want him here; she did not want his competition for the supervision of the stable yard, she did not want his amused eyes watching her every move, she did not want to feel this tingling warmth every time he smiled. She should have her father ship him straight back to wherever he’d come from…
Why should she care? She was leaving soon enough, wasn�
��t she? Shouldn’t she be turning over the yard to Mr. Archer with grace as she disappeared with her love over the sea?
“Pray have a seat, Mr. Archer,” Mrs. Kinney said with a hard look at Grainne, who should have been the one to issue the invitation. “Emer will bring you a cup of tea to warm you up.”
Mr. Archer sank into a blue armchair facing Grainne’s. “Thank you, Mrs. Kinney,” he said warmly. “I know that we horsemen are not easy people to manage. Our minds are rather single-minded, I’m afraid, and we do not think much of social customs when there are horses to fret over.”
Mrs. Kinney smiled. “Now, now, you’re all right,” she replied, and went bustling from the room to continue dressing-down Emer.
“I see there is little nonsense about chaperones here,” Mr. Archer noted with some surprise, watching the door close behind the housekeeper.
“Oh, we are together nearly all day long, what difference could it make if we are in the parlor?” Grainne pointed out. “Mrs. Kinney already thinks that I am allowed to break every rule in Christendom. But when I come inside she makes me dress like a lady. See —” she profferred one long leg, draped in deep-blue skirts. “She forgets I am quite helpless without my breeches!”
Mr. Archer gazed at her gown. She supposed he admired the way the fabric pooled and folded around her curves. It was not… not dreadful-looking, at any rate.
“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.
Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) Page 7
