A Reckless Match Page 2

  For one terrible moment he’d thought she’d been killed, and his heart had seized in his chest. A world without her in it, opposing him, was unthinkable. His pulse had only resumed its natural rhythm when he’d realized she’d survived the freak accident.

  They said she’d suffered burns to her body, although nobody had seen them to verify; her dresses concealed any damage. She’d missed her first London season, recuperating, but not the next, and by all accounts she’d been a popular addition to the various balls and amusements held in the capital in his absence.

  The fact that she’d made a full recovery filled him with inexplicable relief. As had the news that she was still unwed. Gryff cast a surreptitious glance at her left hand, searching for an engagement band, just in case his information had been wrong, but her fingers were conspicuously bare.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to marry her himself, of course. He wasn’t remotely ready to commit to something as drastic as matrimony, even if it was expected of him, now that he’d gained the title. After risking life and limb in the army, he’d promised himself a year of fun before bowing to the duties of the earldom.

  But the thought of Maddie Montgomery married to someone else—and therefore less able to continue their mutually satisfying tradition of prickly adversity—just didn’t sit right with him.

  “Lightning, eh?” he said brightly. “It suits you.”

  “I almost died!”

  “Well, obviously you didn’t, or you wouldn’t be here now, awaiting my arrival with bated breath.” He raised his brows in haughty inquiry. “Unless you’re lost?” He gestured behind him, back the way he’d just come. “Montgomery land is six miles that way.”

  She jabbed a finger in the opposite direction. “And the Davies boundary’s that way. We both know to the inch where our lands begin, Davies.”

  “So you are here to meet me. How lovely.”

  She threw her arms out in pure exasperation. “Of course I’m here to meet you, you dolt! It’s the spring equinox. You didn’t think a Montgomery would forget such an important date, did you?”

  Her disgruntled expression was so full of outraged pique that he let out a delighted snort. “You didn’t think I was coming!”

  “Hoped would be a better word,” she muttered crossly.

  “You thought I’d forfeit the land!” Gryff shook his head and sent her a pitying look. “Oh, cariad, I hate to disappoint you”—his laughing tone said the precise opposite—“but I’d never give up anything that brings us both such satisfaction.”

  Her accusing glare warmed his blood almost as much as the thought of all the other activities he could show her that involved “mutual satisfaction.” He gave himself a mental cuff around the ear.

  Stop it.

  “You deliberately waited until the very last minute to raise our hopes,” she fumed.

  He didn’t bother to deny it. “Our hopes?” He glanced around the deserted valley. “You seem to be the only one here, sweeting. In fact, why are you the representative this year? Where’s your father?”

  Her eyes darted away. “He’s not been well. I offered to come in his place to shake your hand.”

  “Because you didn’t think anyone would be coming.”

  Her guilty flush showed the accuracy of his guess. He chuckled and dismounted.

  “Well I must say, you’re a damn sight easier on the eye than your father.”

  He dropped the reins, confident Paladin wouldn’t stray. He took a step toward her, but an incongruous splash of color in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he peered over the side of the bridge. A bedraggled straw bonnet was caught in the reeds.

  He turned back and eyed her riotous hair. “Yours?”

  Her sigh was resigned. “Yes. There’s no point trying to recover it now.”

  Even as they watched, a fresh surge of water freed the bonnet from its temporary prison. It floated off down the river, ribbons swirling gaily in the current, and disappeared out of sight.

  She made a low growl of annoyance and turned to him, tilting her head back to glare into his face. She hadn’t grown much since he’d seen her last; her chin still only reached his shoulder.

  She thrust an ungloved hand toward him. “All right then, Davies. Let’s get this over with.”

  Gryff glanced down. Her hand was so small in comparison with his own—dainty, with pale skin and neat oval nails. His own were huge and tanned. Soldier’s hands: The calluses from hefting a rifle and supplies halfway around Europe had yet to disappear.

  At his brief hesitation, she said, with some asperity, “Come on. You know the terms of the decree. We must shake to ensure another year of peace.”

  “Very well.”

  Gryff tugged his leather riding glove off with his teeth, then removed the other glove in the same manner. Her gaze lingered on his lips for a moment, then rose to clash with his own. A simmering heat warmed his blood.

  He enfolded her hand in his.

  A jolt of tingling energy shot through him as their skin pressed together, as if she still retained the charge from that lightning strike of hers. She sucked in a breath and tried to back up, but it was too late; a wicked idea had seized him and refused to be denied.

  As she tried to extricate her fingers, he tightened his grip and tugged her forward until she took a stumbling step into his chest.

  “Shaking hands is so formal,” he murmured. “I think it’s time we started a new tradition.”

  Before she could utter a word of protest, he dropped his lips to hers.

  Chapter 3

  For the briefest of moments Maddie registered the shocking sensation of his mouth on hers: a flash of banked heat. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.

  She blinked in stunned bemusement as he stepped back and released her hand.

  Gryff Davies had just kissed her.

  Kissed her!

  Maddie frowned. Considering she’d spent the best part of a decade imagining precisely this moment, it was somewhat of an anticlimax. She’d dreamed of something more prolonged. More—dare she say it?—thorough.

  Yet despite its brevity, there was no denying that the dizzying brush of his skin had been enough to leave her own lips tingling, and her cheeks burning with heat.

  She was fairly certain she ought to slap him. Not because he’d offended her maidenly sensibilities, but because he hadn’t done a decent job of it. The man was supposed to be a rake. If he was going to ravish her, he could at least do it properly.

  As if sensing her violent thoughts, he took a step back, out of reach, and sent her an unapologetic grin.

  “No need to hurt yourself, cariad. I’ll consider myself slapped.”

  Before Maddie could formulate a response, he strode back to his horse—a huge, handsome bay that made poor Galahad look like a knock-kneed donkey in comparison—and mounted in one fluid movement.

  Maddie realized her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut, and strove for something pithy to say. Unfortunately, all that came out was, “Ohhh. You—”

  He held up a hand. “I know, I know. Cad. Scoundrel. Libertine.” His cheeky smile did something funny to her insides, and the way his gaze lingered on her lips caused an unwanted flutter in her stomach. “Let’s add rake and reprobate as well, just to be thorough.”

  He pulled on his riding gloves with brisk efficiency, controlling the huge stallion with just the power in his thighs, and Maddie did her best not to stare at the lean muscles that rippled beneath his tan breeches.

  “So, that’s the pact sealed for another year.” His lips twitched in amusement. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Montgomery, I’ll bid you good day.”

  He sent her a jaunty salute, fingers to eyebrow, and urged his mount forward. She had to press back against the low side of the bridge to avoid being trampled.

  Maddie finally found her voice. “Will you be taking up residence at Trellech Court?”

  His broad shoulders lifted beneath his dark jacket. “For a while. Th
ere are plenty of estate matters that require my attention.”

  A stab of sympathy pierced her. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  He shrugged again, but his smile dimmed. “We rarely saw eye-to-eye, but thank you. I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. It took three weeks for the news to reach me in Portugal.”

  Maddie nodded. “My father attended.”

  “To gloat, no doubt.” His lips quirked in cynical amusement.

  “Not at all. He wanted to pay his respects to a worthy adversary. You know how much they loved annoying each other. He hasn’t been the same these past months.”

  “I’m not surprised. They’d turned mutual animosity into an art form.”

  That was true. The two men had celebrated each other’s losses, whether with money, women, or cards, for at least fifty years. In recent times they’d taken to outbidding each other at auction, on everything from thoroughbreds at Tattersalls to the rare books they both collected at Christie’s. But that gleeful one-upmanship had ended with the old earl’s death.

  Maddie frowned. She’d initially attributed her father’s bad mood to the demise of his longtime rival. The thrill of outfoxing his adversity was gone. He was miserable without someone of equal cunning against whom he could plot and scheme.

  And of course he missed Tristan. Her older brother had taken himself off on a Grand Tour of the Continent as soon as Napoleon had been exiled on Elba, to study the art and architecture he so admired. He’d been away for months.

  But those hadn’t been the only reasons for her father’s uncharacteristic brooding. Six weeks ago he’d finally admitted the truth: The Montgomerys were teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. He’d invested—and lost—an enormous sum in the great stock exchange scandal that had consumed the capital last year.

  The debts were crippling. Not even the sale of New-stead Park, the seat of the Montgomery clan for countless generations, would cover the losses. Still, his outrageous suggestion that Maddie save them all from ruin by marrying their ancient-but-wealthy neighbor, Sir Mostyn Drake, had come as a nasty shock.

  Maddie had always thought of herself as a dutiful daughter, stoically prepared to make any sacrifice for the good of the family. But the idea of marrying the lecherous, twice-widowed Sir Mostyn was simply too much.

  Unfortunately, in the weeks since Father had made his pronouncement, she hadn’t come up with a better solution.

  The grim reality of her position chased away any lingering glow she’d felt from Gryff’s outrageous kiss. For a few brief minutes, before he’d arrived, she’d thought her problems were over. Now she was back in the same hopeless predicament as before.

  Her misery must have shown upon her face, because Gryff’s brows lowered in what, on any other man, might have indicated concern.

  Maddie choked back a bitter laugh. Gryff was a Davies. He didn’t care about her happiness; he’d laugh himself silly if he knew how low his foe had fallen. He’d relish the thought of them penniless and destitute.

  Shame and impotent frustration made her clench her jaw, even as the prick of tears threatened behind her eyes. She swallowed hard.

  “Sweeting, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head and turned away. There was more chance of her being struck by lightning again than of revealing her troubles to him.

  She caught Galahad’s reins, and by the time she’d gained the saddle she had herself firmly under control. She sent Gryff Davies a haughty, withering glance.

  “Nothing’s the matter. Nothing at all. Good day, my lord.”

  * * *

  “Nothing’s the matter, my arse,” Gryff muttered, glaring at her stiff-backed retreat.

  How could she deny it, when he’d watched all the delightful confusion he’d sparked with his cheeky kiss disappear beneath a sudden tidal wave of misery? Her eyes had darkened with the shadow of pain, and he’d had to quash the instinctive urge to dismount and comfort her.

  He shook his head at his own foolishness. “Lunacy.”

  Madeline Montgomery’s problems were none of his concern: He had more than enough troubles of his own. His recent duel had come to the ears of the Prince of Wales.

  Dueling was still strictly illegal, and even though Gryff hadn’t killed his opponent—hadn’t even wounded him, actually—Prinny’s moods were so mercurial that he was as likely to have Gryff thrown in prison as an example to others as he was to laugh about it at the club. Gryff had deemed it prudent to leave London and rusticate in Wales for a few weeks until all the fuss had died down.

  God, it was going to be dull, especially without Rhys, Morgan, or Carys to relieve the monotony. No gambling, no boxing matches, no operas or plays. Apart from the servants, the only living creatures in residence at Trellech would be the bizarre collection of animals in the menagerie—a remnant of his father’s passion for collecting exotic animals from around the globe.

  While Gryff didn’t actually mind the motley bunch of feathered and furred inhabitants—except that bloody peacock, Geoffrey, whose shrill cry never failed to incite him to violence—they were no substitute for human company.

  He took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to relax, to let the unspoiled beauty of the place ease the tension in his shoulders. Wales always did this to him; it peeled off the layers of civilization, the invisible armor he wore in London. He could feel himself becoming more primitive, less restrained, with every mile he put between himself and the city.

  He didn’t want to be primitive. He’d lived that way as a soldier for the past three years, reduced to the most basic, animalistic level of kill-or-be-killed. He wanted fun, risk-free adventures, meaningless flirtations.

  His gaze strayed ahead of him, to the haughty, irritating little baggage riding away. Not with her, though. What had possessed him to kiss her? She was the quintessential forbidden fruit, and he really couldn’t afford another scandal.

  But teasing her had always been his favorite hobby, rousing her ire impossible to resist. Unfortunately, her ire wasn’t the only thing he’d roused; he was still shockingly hard in his breeches, and his temperature was nothing short of roasting.

  He frowned at her stubbornly straight back and the alluring sway of her hips that followed the gait of the horse.

  “Why doesn’t the foolish woman have a chaperone?”

  Paladin tossed his head, picking up on the tightening of his hand on the reins, and Gryff clucked his tongue in a soothing response.

  English society hadn’t changed that much in his absence. A woman, even one as formidable as Madeline Montgomery, shouldn’t be gallivanting all over the countryside alone.

  True, she’d be back on Montgomery land after a mile or so, but that was no excuse. This corner of the world might not be as crime-ridden as London, but smuggling and thievery were still rife this near the coast.

  Gryff let out an irritated sigh. She probably didn’t have any idea of how to defend herself if accosted.

  “The woman can’t even control her own hat,” he growled.

  Witness how easily he’d stolen a kiss. A less gentlemanly assailant could have stolen far more. A shudder passed down his spine as he remembered with vivid clarity the horrors that could befall an unprotected woman. He’d seen more than enough in Spain, the results of the withdrawing French army’s rape and pillage after Vitoria.

  Miss Montgomery might be his family’s sworn enemy, but he should at least make sure she got home safely. She couldn’t very well go on annoying him if she was dead.

  With a sigh, he turned Paladin and set off in her wake.

  Chapter 4

  Maddie was in no mood to go home. Instead, she turned Gal-ahad off the path and guided him through the trees to one of her favorite spots: a secluded valley, home to one of the many ancient holy wells that littered the countryside.

  The Welsh called it Ffynnon Pen Rhys—Pen Rhys’s well. The English, naturally, had their own name for it: the Virtuous Well, presumably for some chaste saint or virginal martyr. Maddie hadn’t
been here since before her accident, when she’d sneaked over the boundary in search of adventure, intrigued by local tales of mystery and magic.

  A tangle of ancient trees ringed the clearing, dulling the sound and giving the place a tranquil, spiritual feel, like a natural cathedral. Scraps of ribbon and colored fabric had been tied to the lower branches of several of the trees, evidence of previous visitors’ offerings to whatever spirits dwelled in this mystical place. Bleached by wind and rain, the bright reds and rich blues had faded to pale rose and periwinkle.

  She dismounted and picked her way across the mossy clearing toward the curved stone wall that protected the well. On the surface it was scarcely knee-high, but a set of shallow steps descended about six feet down into the earth and opened into a tiny stone-flagged courtyard, open to the sky. Once she was inside, the walls rose higher than her head.

  The well itself was housed in a small, arched enclave, surrounded by a lip of flat stones. After heavy rain it often overflowed, filling the courtyard with several inches of water, but today the stones were dry beneath her boots.

  Local tradition had it that a coin or metal offering tossed into the waters would make any wish come true. If the resulting bubbles that formed on the object rose quickly, the wish would be granted with equal speed. If slow to rise, the wish would take longer to come true. If no bubbles came at all, the wish would not be granted.

  Maddie was naturally skeptical of such an inexact system. The last time she’d been here, years ago, she’d wished for Gryff Davies to either die an excruciating death or fall madly in love with her—either of which gruesome fates would serve him right. Clearly, the bubbles rising off her sixpence that time had been in error.

  But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She fished around in the pocket of her riding habit for a coin, found nothing, and almost laughed in self-derision. The Montgomerys scarcely had two pennies to rub together, if Father was to be believed.

  The only metal thing she could find was her folding knife, but it had once belonged to her mother, and she was loath to part with it.