A Reckless Match Read online

  She held herself as stiff as a ramrod, gripping the horse’s mane with both hands, as he reached around her waist and readjusted the reins, enclosing her slim body within the circle of his arms. He deliberately tightened his grip and pulled her back against his chest.

  She gave a breathy little gasp.

  He kicked his heels and they set off down the track, but after a quarter mile he turned the horse north and set off across the fields, in the direction of the wishing well.

  “Shouldn’t take too long to get back to our horses,” he said, mainly to distract himself from the womanly curves playing havoc with his pulse. A few wisps of her hair had escaped her bun; they blew across his cheek and he caught a whiff of warm skin and that faintly floral scent that tightened his gut and sent blood rushing to his groin. He adjusted his position in the saddle. “Did you say your horse was called Galahad?”

  “Yes, after one of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table.”

  “Mine’s Paladin—named for one of the twelve knights of Charlemagne.”

  “English and French,” she said, laughter in her tone. “I’d expect nothing less. It stands to reason that we’d choose mounts from opposing courts, even fictional ones.”

  Gryff could only murmur an agreement. It had always been like this between them: strange coincidences that formed an odd, inexplicable bond. For enemies, they seemed to have a frightening amount in common.

  He glanced at the sky, trying to gauge the time. He’d left his pocket watch at home, but he guessed it was around four o’clock.

  “So what’s the plan for this evening?” she asked. “We’ll have to hide before it gets completely dark.”

  “Stick to the woods and fields. Leave Galahad out of sight in that ruined place we passed, and wear dark clothing, nothing pale or white. Come prepared for a long, cold, boring night.”

  He felt her little snort of amusement and cocked his head. “What’s so funny?”

  “I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said that to a woman,” she murmured. “‘Come prepared for a long, cold, boring night.’”

  She stiffened in his arms, as if she’d shocked herself with the outrageous comment, and he bit back a delighted laugh.

  Naughty girl.

  “Miss Montgomery, you shock me. It seems you’ve been paying far too much attention to the gossip pages. But in this case, you’re correct. As far as I know, a night with me has never been described as either cold or boring. Although the word long has been mentioned on several occasions.”

  There, let the little minx contemplate that.

  Unfortunately, several stirring images flooded his brain too. Of her, naked, spread out on his sheets, all that glorious hair spilling over her body. Of him, kissing his way down her—

  Gryff ground his teeth. Never going to happen.

  Letting her come tonight was a huge mistake. Spending time with her was the mental equivalent of beating himself over the head with a shovel. And yet he craved her company.

  It was stupid and inexplicable. He must be a glutton for punishment.

  Chapter 12

  They parted ways at the wishing well, and Gryff returned to Trellech Court alone.

  Having fended for himself in the army it was strange to have a small battalion of servants to assist him again, but the staff who’d served his father for as long as he could remember had been so delighted to have one of the family back in residence that he hadn’t had the heart to refuse them.

  They were all desperate for him to abandon his bachelor ways, marry, and produce the requisite “heir and a spare” for the sake of the earldom, but he wasn’t quite ready for that yet. He was perfectly aware of the responsibilities that accompanied the title—and fully appreciative of his privileged position—but he couldn’t deny a certain amount of guilt and resentment toward it too.

  Guilt, because as an earl it would be frowned on if he rejoined his regiment as he so longed to do; his friends would have to face Napoleon’s hordes without him. And resentment, because the responsibilities of his title were considerable, and he’d rather enjoyed the position of carefree heir while his father was still alive.

  Gryff shook his head at his own foolishness. He truly had nothing to complain about. And besides, while Trellech might not have the range of sophisticated pleasures that London offered, it did have one far more attractive prospect—the chance of another thorny encounter with his nemesis. Their prickly interactions were the highlight of his days.

  Cheered by this thought, he bathed, shaved, and ate a hearty meal, then strode to the stables with a spring in his step.

  When he reached Mathern Palace he left Paladin in one of the ramshackle outbuildings and tramped down the hill toward the coast. He found a convenient hollow, a natural indentation beneath a rocky overhang that would keep him dry if it rained and provided a good view of the path and the entrance to the cave.

  The place was surrounded by a thick layer of waist-high ferns to further aid concealment. He propped his old army pack into a crevice between the stones and flattened a small semicircle of ferns on which to sit. And then he waited for the termagant to arrive.

  He heard her coming from at least a hundred yards away; the swish of her skirts, a muttered, unladylike curse that made his lips curl up in amusement as she obviously stumbled over a tree root or a stone.

  Was she even attempting to stay quiet? She’d have been shot a dozen times by now, if they’d been at war.

  Admittedly his ears, in fact, all of his senses, were particularly attuned to her. He seemed to experience more of everything when she was around. Colors seemed brighter, his vision more acute. He noticed the smallest, most insignificant of details, like the sinful length of her eyelashes, the way her top lip dipped invitingly in the center, the precise number of freckles on her nose.

  He’d been in a haze since he’d returned from the Continent. His days had been filled with activity, but he’d scarcely felt anything. He hadn’t cared whether he’d won or lost at the card tables, or whether he fell out of bed at noon. He’d had a few brief liaisons, but while he’d been present in a physical sense, he’d also felt oddly detached. Physical satisfaction had left him feeling empty.

  Madeline Montgomery filled him. Not necessarily with pleasant sensations, true, but she filled him, nonetheless. With frustration and hunger, with lust and resentment. He wanted to strangle her and kiss her witless at the same time.

  A perverse part of him wanted her to feel those heightened emotions too. It was only fair. Her pulse should increase whenever he annoyed her. Her brain should turn to mush and her body to flame when he kissed her. Love and hate just were two sides of a very thin coin, after all. Combining them might prove truly spectacular—

  No. Nobody was combining anything.

  Tonight’s mission had a clear objective: to spy on the smugglers without getting caught. He would treat Maddie as he would any member of his own regiment. As a colleague, nothing more.

  She appeared on his left, walking easily down the slope, a dark silhouette in the fading light. Her trim figure was clad in a forest-green wool riding habit; an excellent choice, he had to admit, for the cooler evening ahead. The matching hat, however—an undersized version of a gentleman’s top hat, embellished with a scrap of netting and a jaunty ostrich feather plume—was utterly ridiculous.

  Bloody woman. She was probably making a point about his earlier jab about never wearing a bonnet.

  He waved to get her attention, and she sent him a smile that made his pulse beat just a little faster. Annoyed with himself, he took it out on her.

  “Was that your best attempt at keeping quiet? A French cavalry charge makes less noise.”

  “Good evening to you too,” she said primly.

  “In case you didn’t know, millinery is not required on a surveillance mission.”

  She pushed her way through the ferns. “I didn’t want to get freckles.”

  “It’ll be dark in ten minutes,” he growled.

&nb
sp; “Well, yes, I suppose I’m safe enough now.”

  She reached up and removed the ridiculous thing, revealing a mass of hair once again twisted into submission. The rays of the setting sun picked out the copper highlights, turning them to a fiery rose-gold, and Gryff clenched his fingers against the desire to release it from its confinement.

  He folded himself back into the shadow of the overhanging rock and she sank gracefully beside him in an elegant billow of skirts. The accompanying drift of floral perfume that reached him as she arranged the train of her riding habit over her legs tightened his stomach.

  She patted the leather satchel she’d brought with her. “I brought a blanket, in case it gets chilly.”

  He nodded wordlessly.

  “And I’m wearing riding breeches under my skirts. For extra warmth.”

  God give him strength.

  “Where, exactly, did you get a pair of breeches made up around here?” It was an effort to keep his tone mild. Which tailor had taken her inside leg measurement? The lucky bastard better have kept it professional.

  He imagined his own hands flattening a tape measure over her, from stockinged instep to knee, from knee to garter to creamy thigh. It made him a little light-headed.

  “Oh, they’re an old pair of Tristan’s,” she said, blithely unaware of his turmoil. “From when he was younger. I’d never fit any of his clothes now.”

  Gryff dragged his thoughts from the gutter. She was still producing things from that infernal satchel.

  “Tea, in a flask. And some peppermints.”

  “God, woman. This isn’t a picnic!”

  She sent him a reprimanding look. “No mints for you. Didn’t you bring anything?”

  He patted his coat pocket. “A hip flask of brandy. Which will do a much better job of keeping us warm than your tea.”

  She huffed and treated him to her delightful profile.

  “You’re going to be cold and bored in less than an hour, you know,” he predicted.

  “I will not. I’m exceedingly patient. I’ve spent hours and hours outside on archaeological digs, in all kinds of weather. You’ll see.”

  She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and stared out over the sea. The sun finally slipped below the horizon, drowned in the purple waves, and they lapsed into a silence that was almost companionable.

  Gryff began counting backward from three hundred. Maddie Montgomery might think she could keep quiet, but he gave it less than three minutes before the urge to talk became too much.

  “Did you bring a weapon?” she whispered.

  One hundred and twenty-two. He smiled at her delightful predictability.

  “Yes.” He’d brought both his regimental sword and a loaded pair of pistols.

  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide. “I thought you said we were just going to observe.”

  “Only an idiot would come unprepared. Best to expect the worst.”

  Chapter 13

  Maddie turned her gaze back to the sea.

  Looking at Gryff this close—their shoulders were almost touching—made her feel even more jittery about the evening. The fading light threw intriguing shadows beneath the sharp angles of his cheekbones and highlighted the sensual curve of his lips.

  Why couldn’t he be pallid and sickly, with bad skin and greasy hair? All this rugged attractiveness was very irritating.

  She could hardly believe she’d come to meet him. Who was this reckless, daring woman she’d become? For the past three years she’d been perfectly content to live a quiet, scholarly existence. But less than twenty-four hours in his company, and all her old restlessness and thirst for excitement had come rushing back.

  She shook her head. She’d been so immersed in her own problems that she hadn’t paid any attention to what was happening right under her nose. Who would have imagined all this illegal activity, less than ten miles from her own house?

  She sincerely hoped she didn’t know any of the people involved. Smuggling was a serious crime, with harsh penalties for the perpetrators. Were those in the surrounding villages aware of what was happening? Did they turn a blind eye and leave their stables unlatched, so the smugglers could borrow their horses in exchange for a parcel of tea or a barrel of brandy left in thanks?

  Until six months ago she’d never imagined what life would be like without money, but her own impending bankruptcy was making her consider actions almost as desperate as those of the smugglers. Wasn’t marrying someone just for money—whether it was Sir Mostyn or some other wealthy suitor—almost as dishonest as stealing?

  Gryff’s derisive words from earlier had hit home with the force of a well-aimed arrow. How could she swear to love, honor, and obey someone when she had absolutely no intention of doing any of those things? How could she marry a man who wouldn’t care two pins for her opinions or her desires? Who could, legally, force her to do his bidding, however much she disagreed?

  Maddie suppressed a shudder that had nothing to do with the cool breeze coming in off the sea. Without love, without complete trust in the other person’s integrity, marriage would be a disaster.

  Which was precisely why she was here: to investigate all other means of salvation.

  “Do you think there’ll be a reward for catching the smugglers?”

  “I don’t know.” Gryff kept his voice low to match hers. The gravelly growl made her toes curl inside her boots. He sounded like one of the leopards at the Royal Exchange. “The Crown sells any contraband that’s seized. We might be given a small percentage of the proceeds. But why do you care? You’re a Montgomery, remember? Born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

  “Archaeological digs can get very expensive,” she said lightly. “I need a new trowel.”

  “Most women want a new ball dress, or a pair of earrings. Only you would dream of a new trowel. You’re a strange woman, Madeline Montgomery.”

  Her heart sank. Was that how he thought of her? As an unfeminine freak? She quashed the hurt his comment caused. Better that he think of her as an eccentric spendthrift than reveal the truth.

  “Well,” she said. “I wouldn’t say no to a new ball gown either. So if there is a reward, we should split the money equally. Agreed?”

  He let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he couldn’t understand why they were even having this conversation. “Fine. Agreed.”

  They managed another few moments of silence, but Maddie was supremely conscious of his presence. He hadn’t looked away from her, and she was hotly aware of his gaze on the side of her face.

  “We should have come up with some clever plan to outwit the smugglers,” she said breathlessly. “Did you ever hear of the Ghostly Drummer of Herstmonceux Castle?”

  “No.”

  She lowered her voice to a dramatic murmur, as she often did when she and Harriet shared ghostly tales by candlelight. “Legend says he was nine feet tall, a glowing specter who haunted the battlements, the restless spirit of some poor soul killed at Agincourt.”

  He snorted at her theatrics. “I take it there’s a more prosaic explanation?”

  “There is. This spirit only made his dramatic appearances whenever the other kind of spirits were involved—before a shipment of brandy arrived in one of the nearby coves. He disappeared when the liquor had been moved. He was really one of the smugglers.”

  “Why did he glow?”

  “They rubbed his clothing in phosphorus. It gives off a greenish light in the dark.”

  “Interesting. But I fail to see how this information is relevant.”

  “We could have used the same trick. People around here are very superstitious. I could have dressed up as some ghostly lady, wailing for her lover lost at sea, and scared the smugglers away.”

  His brows drew together in a forbidding line. “These are hard, cynical men. They’re not going to be fooled by some chit in a nightgown, tearing her hair and glowing like a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Another
few minutes of silence went by. “I suppose this is just like being in the army. Did you have to keep watch very often?”

  He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Yes. And one of the most important rules of sentry duty was no chattering.”

  Maddie bit her lip to stop a smile and dutifully looked back out toward the horizon.

  Tristan was out there, somewhere, in either Austria or France. She prayed he’d steer clear of Napoleon’s rampaging army. An Englishman would hardly be looked on with affection if he was discovered.

  Gryff’s brother Morgan was somewhere across the waves too. Was he worried about him? She’d always been quite envious of the Davies siblings’ tight bond. Tristan had often been busy, or away at school, and Harriet had only been around in the summer months. She’d have loved an extra brother or sister.

  A movement caught her attention as Gryff reached into his jacket and withdrew a silver hip flask. He unscrewed the top.

  “A toast, to a momentous occasion.”

  She raised her brows in silent question.

  “To the first time in five hundred years that a Montgomery and a Davies have worked together in harmony.” He took a healthy swig.

  Maddie tried to ignore the strong line of his throat, and the fascinating way his Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed. She had the sudden urge to put her mouth against his skin. She cleared her throat.

  “Do you know why our families have always hated each other? I heard it started with a pig.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody goes to war over a pig.” He held the flask out toward her, and she hesitated. Drinking spirits was a bad idea. Drinking spirits in the company of a Davies was a very bad idea.

  His expression turned faintly sardonic, as if he guessed her indecision. Go on, he seemed to be saying. I dare you.

  She’d never been able to refuse that look. She took the flask, made a point of wiping the neck clean, and placed it to her lips. His eyes followed the movement, and she took a defiant swallow.

  Sweet Lord above! The brandy burned down her throat like molten ore. Her eyes started to water and she pressed her fingers to her lips as it settled in a warm glow in her stomach.