Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) (4 page)

“It’s late,” Len grumbled, watching her skip across the stepping stones of the stream. “I expected ye two hours ago.”

“I was delayed,” Grainne sighed, wishing Len was not always so displeased with her. The only way she could make him happy was with her riding, and with her body, and even then he always turned away from her. “My father has hired a new huntsman. His coming upset the whole yard, and then he came upon me in the field and I was hard-pressed to dissuade him from following me.”

“Has he followed ye without yer knowin’?” Len looked suddenly alarmed, his dark eyes piercing into the tangle of forest around them. “Suppose he is yer father’s spy?”

“My father would not spy upon me!” Grainne exclaimed, appalled. “He has no cause!”

Len got up then and put a brown arm around her waist, pulling he close. She gasped as he pressed his pelvis against hers, feeling light-headed in an instant. “No cause, eh?” he growled against her neck, teeth snatching at her skin. “With such a wanton daughter, the poor man probably gets no sleep for worryin’.”

She gasped and wriggled, pretending to try to escape, but he tightened his grasp and took her mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Grainne closed her eyes and gave in, letting her curves melt to his hardness, feeling the heat in her body rise and flush her face. And then he was suddenly done with her, pushing her away and walking back to the caravan to sit upon one gaily painted wheel. He watched her idly, one leg crossed over the other, while she shook her head and touched the curls escaping her hat. She knew she looked foolish whenever he dropped her suddenly, and she couldn’t think why he did it to her. To test her, perhaps, to judge her affections. She ought to have been terribly insulted, not just by his attentions, but by his abrupt lack of them. Except, of course, that his suspicions were warranted.
 

He surely knew that she was here seeking escape, not love. But why would he care? Men only wanted one thing, of course. She wasn’t ignorant.

Len shrugged. “Wanton, all right,” he nodded, picking up his pipe. “I’ve not enough time for ye now,” he went on without regret. “I’ve got a meetin’. Ye should’ve come sooner. I expected ye.”

“I couldn’t,” Grainne began again, annoyed, but he interrupted her.

“Come tomorrow, at noon, and we’ll have a bit of fun.”

She nodded, frustrated, her body aching. She wanted a bit of fun
now.
And she wanted to feel secure in his affections. This Mr. Archer’s coming… she shivered. The walls were really growing close now.
 

Gypsies never stayed in one place long. When he left, she needed to go with him.

“Mad at me, lass?” he asked softly.

Grainne looked at the grass. It was time to play the lady. “Do I not please you, Len?” she asked, hating herself as she said the words. “Do you not want to be with me?”

Len laughed. “Please me? Please me, Grainne Spencer? My God, lass, I want to lock us both inside this caravan and not come out for a month! But ye’ve got yer honor, and I’ve got my own, of a sort. Things have to be done proper, love.”

She was at his side in an instant, gripping his arm with strong hands. “You tell me what you mean by that, Lennor,” she demanded, for once as strong with the gypsy as she was with everyone else in her life.
 

“I’ve a meetin’ to get to,” he repeated. “The cousins are thinkin’ of buyin’ a wee ship.”

“A wee ship!” Grainne was outraged. “And what has that to do with
me?”

“We was thinkin’a leavin’ Ireland,” Len continued, unperturbed by her temper. “Cross to Brittany. See the continent.”

“There are wars there,” Grainne said unsteadily. She had not thought to leave Ireland, just to quietly disappear. “And what of
me?”

“There are ways around wars,” Len said easily. “And as for ye, lass, why, I’m takin’ ye as my fair bride.”

She let go of his arm, for the strength had gone out of her and she thought she might have to sit down. She put a hand to her swimming head.
Bride!
 

She had done it!
 

“Ye’d make a bonny gypsy,” Len said, catching her about the waist again. “What say ye, sweet Grainne? Will ye share my fire? Will ye warm my bed?”

Grainne closed her eyes, dizzy with excitement. She thought of she and Len, pressed close together on the box of the caravan, swaying through the night with the stars their only ceiling and their horses their only company. She thought of lying beside him as the fire burned down to glowing embers, keeping one another warm. She thought of waking beside him, stroking her fingers down his lean, tanned body, and feeling his lips upon hers for a sweet good-morning kiss.
 

He was a good kisser, after all, she thought.

She thought of never,
ever,
sitting in a parlor knitting stockings.

She thought she’d die of happiness.

“Of course I will, my love,” she declared throatily. “Just say when.”

Grainne begged to be excused from the supper table, her dishes nearly untouched.

Her father watched her curiously. “Are you sick, Grainne? Perhaps you had better take tomorrow easy. I would rather not see you falling ill with the hunting season upon us.”

“Oh no!” She flushed with horror. If she could not go out on the morrow, she would not be able to meet Len at noon as she had promised. Suppose he should be angry and leave without her! She nearly fainted with terror, putting a hand to her temple in order to keep from swaying in her chair, and her father’s eyes narrowed even more.

“Look at you, you can barely sit up! Mrs. Kinney!” he bellowed. “Mrs.
Kinney!”

An aproned women peered through the dining room door, her cap just covering a dome of silver curls. “Mr. Spencer?”

“Mrs. Kinney, take Grainne to bed and see that she has a cup of tea, will you please? She is quite out-of-sorts from these autumn rains.”

Mrs. Kinney eyed Grainne’s untouched plate. “Perhaps a nice broth, sir,” she suggested.
 

Grainne sighed.

“Excellent notion,” Mr. Spencer nodded.

From across the table, William sat very quietly and watched the display with interest. He had been asked to join the Spencer table at supper and accepted with pleasure; having never cooked for himself, he had been thinking of the pub as his only respite from cold meat and stewed tea, and was resigning himself to a diet of meat pies and ale without much joy. When Mr. Spencer had insisted that it was a very quiet and informal household, with only he and Grainne rattling around their big house, William had accepted without reservation. If dining at the boss’s supper table had the fringe benefit of allowing him to observe the lovely and deceptive Grainne at his leisure, he was not going to lament his fortunes.

Deceptive? Oh yes. He was fascinated by her false flushes, the way she kept her lively eyes downcast as if she was in the depths of despair, the way she hunched her elegant shoulders to accentuate little coughs. She had duped him today in the field, claiming nonsensically that it would make perfect sense to go and school a problem horse all alone, and now she was duping her own household, pretending to be ill. He was simply dying to know why.

But now, watching her drag after Mrs. Kinney, he thought she might be regretting her little feigned illness. She looked altogether wretched.

Perhaps, he thought, she had meant to put on a repeat performance of today’s charade in the fields, and being locked away in her bedchamber would foil her plans.
 

How fascinating.

He supposed life in the Spencer house might be interesting enough to quite distract him from all that he was missing back in England.

***

Mrs. Kinney tucked Grainne into bed quite ruthlessly, punching at the pillows before she’d allow her to settle back against them, tugging at the ends of sheets and quite locking her beneath them. She pulled the coverlet up tenderly, leaving it a scant inch beneath Grainne’s chin. Then she looked over her handiwork.

“Oh dear! I haven’t left your hands free to hold your teacup.”

She sighed and loosened the bedclothes so that Grainne could be freed of her informal straitjacket. “That’s better, isn’t it dear? How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Grainne said blithely. “I should think I will be perfectly well in the morning.”
And even better by noon,
she thought, scarcely able to keep a smile from curling her lips.
Tucked into Len’s arms, while he plots to buy a ship and take me away from all your schemes.

“Well, no need to rush things. Your father works you too hard. If your mother were here, you wouldn’t need to work like a groom in that stable-yard. She would have sent you down to Dublin for your debut. I always was at your father to send you, but he never listens to me about anything.”

Ugh, a debut. What a horrid thought. “There was never any hope of my having a season,” Grainne said soothingly. “I’m not well-bred enough for any of that.”

“Well-bred! How you do talk. Your mother was a lady.”

“My mother was a gentlewoman,” Grainne conceded. “As am I, I suppose. But she was hardly a peer of the realm. And I am the daughter of a master of hounds. Did you think I would snag an earl, with such credentials?”

“Oh, my dear!” Mrs. Kinney smiled fondly and pressed the china teacup into Grainne’s hands. “You could enchant a duke. But speak of earls, your mother was the cousin of an earl; you might have had a few invitations, and met a gentleman, perhaps an Army man! But out here, galloping about on horseback, like a stableboy…” she sighed gustily. “You’re wasted, my dear, that’s all. It makes me want to cry!”

“Don’t cry,” Grainne said hastily, horrified that the housekeeper might eke out a few tears. “I’m perfectly happy. And I’m sure I’ll meet just the right gentleman out here. I don’t need to go down to Dublin.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Kinney sniffed, shaking out a voluminous handkerchief. “Why, the big house will be filled up in a few days. Perhaps your gentleman will be staying with the old lord this winter.” She paused. “Or perhaps he is right here under our noses.”

Maxwell
. The only person she could possibly mean. Hardly, Grainne thought.
 

Grainne sipped at her tea while Mrs. Kinney got up and fussed about the fire and bullied Emer, the young chambermaid. She looked around her cozy bedroom with pleasure and nostalgia; the lace window hangings and the heavier velvet curtains, their burgundy fabric dusty with age, that kept out the cold on winter nights; the rose-patterned wall-paper dotted with the portraits of racehorses which she had begged for as a little girl. On the mantlepiece danced a green jade horse from China, a gift from old Lord Kilreilly when she had found his favorite niece a quiet little pony to carry her around the hunting fields safely. She would take that with her, she decided, when she went to Brittany with Len. The rest could stay, even the charcoal of Magyar that Timmy Bagshawe had done for her last week and was now propped against the top of her little-used writing desk. There would be little room for mementoes in the caravan, and anyway, she and Len would be creating new memories and gathering new mementoes on their wanderings abroad.

“You know who seems a lovely gentleman,” Mrs. Kinney said suddenly, interrupting Grainne’s happy reverie. “That Mr. Archer.”

“Mr. Archer!” Grainne put down her teacup with a clatter. “The huntsman!”

“He isn’t as coarse as I might have expected. He’s not so ill-bred as most horsemen.” Mrs. Kinney thought Mr. Spencer himself a gentleman
despite
his passion for horses.
 

“I’m sure he’s very nice,” Grainne said without meaning so at all. She thought of the way he had harried and delayed her in the fields that afternoon. The thought of his very chiseled cheekbones and startling blue eyes popped into her mind and she promptly chased it away again. “But he’s a very nosey man. Not at all discreet,” she went on, thinking of the way he had pressed her for information.

“How so?” Mrs. Kinney was interested now. She loved a little gossip.

“Oh! He cannot mind his own business, that is all. Forever asking questions.” Grainne shut her mouth very tight.

“Hmmph.” Mrs. Kinney gave the girl an assessing gaze. “Well, all the same, I think we could have done much worse. So many horsemen are drunkards and gamblers. I asked, and Mr. Archer tells me he only takes a little brandy for his digestion. And he does not follow the racing.” She took up the teapot and the cup and set them back on the wooden tray. “I’ll leave you to rest now, my dear. Good night!” And the housekeeper was out of the bedroom, the little chambermaid creeping after her and shutting the door with a click.
 

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.”