A Reckless Match (Ruthless Rivals #1)
It started with a pig.
According to the Montgomerys, the pig was stolen. According to the Davies, it got lost.
Whether the pig was stolen, or simply wandered across the much-disputed boundary between the medieval Davies and Montgomery domains, very much depended which side of the feud you happened to be on.
The Montgomerys demanded it back. The Davies had already eaten it. The Montgomerys stole another pig in retaliation. Things escalated from there.
Some said it wasn’t a pig at all, but a woman—and that she’d run off quite willingly with her forbidden lover, but whatever the truth of the matter, centuries of bad blood ensued.
Scarcely ten miles separated the Davies’ monstrous Welsh castle from the Montgomery’s equally large English manor, but the lush fields and green valleys between the two estates became the most contentious border in Britain, and probably in Europe, too.
A decent-sized river provided a natural division, and since the bridge that spanned it was so narrow that only a single horse and cart could cross at a time, large-scale attacks from either side were impossible. Individual instances of murder and mayhem, however, were rife.
It was occasionally suggested that the two families should build a wall, like the Roman one Hadrian had constructed between England and Scotland, but both sides strenuously disagreed. A wall would spoil the fun.
Finally, King Henry the Seventh, tired of the bloodshed between two of his most powerful houses, and inspired by tales of similar warring factions—the Medici and the Borgia in Italy—devised a truly Machiavellian solution: a royal decree which bound both houses, on pain of death.
A strip of ‘no-man’s land’ was delineated between the two estates, belonging to both families, equally. Every year, on the day of the spring equinox, one representative from each family had to present themselves on the dividing bridge and shake hands in a gesture of goodwill. If either side failed to send a representative, ownership of the land would default to their bitter rivals.
The thought of losing to the opposition was a powerful motivation. What was death, compared to shameful defeat? Neither side ever missed a meeting—although most of the handshakes were accompanied by muttered threats of obscene violence.
With open warfare thus actively discouraged, the two families devised new and creative ways of boosting morale, since baiting each other was everyone’s favorite occupation. If the Montgomerys supported one particular faction, the Davies, naturally, supported the opposition, and the mutual animosity survived years of upheaval and strife. Catholics and Protestants. Tudors and Stuarts. Roundheads and Cavaliers. They became experts at political backstabbing, sneering across crowded meeting halls, and fleecing one other at dice and cards.
By the late seventeen-hundreds both sides considered themselves fairly civilized; now they traded sarcastic barbs in opulent ballrooms, stole each other’s wives and mistresses, and met in the occasional hushed-up duel.
Montgomery males went to Oxford. Davies men attended Cambridge. And while both sent sons to fight Napoleon, the Montgomerys chose the cavalry, while the Davies joined the fusiliers and the navy.
And still the spring equinox deadline endured. . .
CHAPTER 1.
The Spring Equinox. 21st March, 1815.
“Nobody’s coming.”
Madeline Montgomery squinted down the empty road as a thin bubble of hope—a foreign sensation of late—rose in her breast. She checked her silver pocket watch. She hadn’t mistaken the day. It was six minutes to noon on the spring equinox, and the road was deserted. There wasn’t a single, dastardly, devilish Davies in sight.
“Galahad!” she whispered incredulously. “Nobody’s coming!”
Her ancient gray mount twitched his ears, completely indifferent to the historic significance of the moment. Maddie sank onto the low stone parapet of the bridge. She hadn’t felt this optimistic for months, not since her father had made his shocking revelation about their ‘unfortunate financial situation.’
“It’s a miracle!”
Galahad began to crop the dandelions at his feet. Maddie lifted her face to the sun and pushed back the brim of her bonnet. She’d get even more freckles, but who cared? Experience had shown her how fragile life could be: she’d been struck by lightning out of a blue sky just like this. It had been a freak accident, a one-in-a-million chance, the doctors said. But now an even moreunlikely event was about to occur. Five hundred years of history was about to be swept aside. The proud and illustrious name of Montgomery—and, by extension, Maddie herself—was about to be saved!
By an unkept appointment.
Excitement tightened her chest. Sir Owain Davies, the old earl of Powys, would never have given her father the satisfaction of ceding the land. Baiting one another had been their main source of amusement for over fifty years.
But Sir Owain had died last summer, and the new earl, his eldest son and heir, Gryffud, hadn’t set foot in his ancestral home since he’d returned from fighting Napoleon six months ago. He’d stayed in London, busy—according to the scandal sheets—setting the ladies’ hearts aflutter and enjoying every possible pleasure offered by the metropolis.
Not that Maddie had been keeping track of his whereabouts, of course. Gryff Llewellyn Davies was her nemesis, and had been since they were children.
An echo of his wicked laughter trickled through her memory, and she fanned herself with her hand, then untied the ribbons of her bonnet and tugged it off, along with her gloves. Her hair, always too heavy for its pins, surrendered to gravity and fell in a messy cloud around her shoulders.
If the thinly-drawn references to Gryff’s exploits in the papers had caused an annoying, burning sensation in her chest, it was certainly not yearning, or jealousy, or anything else remotely emotional regarding the awful man. She didn’t give a fig what he did. Truly. He was an irresponsible rakehell who’d neglected his duties and the affairs of his estate for far too long. Indeed, his debauchery was about to work to her advantage. While he was enjoying himself in any number of disreputable ways, here she was, virtuously saving her family from ruin.
A small, anticipatory smile curved her lips. There was simply no way he’d remember to get back here in time to shake her hand. Hadn’t the Gazette reported his involvement in an illegal duel only last week? He’d probably been shot dead by some angry, cuckolded husband.
Maddie expelled her breath in a huff. No, she’d have heard if the wretch was dead. More likely, he was celebrating his undeserved victory with a glass of brandy and a thoroughly unsuitable companion.
She checked her watch again. “Three minutes to go.”
Galahad, intent on his dandelions, ignored her. She sent another glance up the deserted road, hardly daring to hope.
Neither of the other three Davies siblings could possibly be coming. Rhys and Carys were both with Gryff in London, and the youngest brother, Morgan, was away at sea.
As the blue steel hands of her pocket watch crept toward the number twelve, Maddie choked back a giddy feeling of euphoria. She glanced around at the peaceful green valley and repressed the urge to leap about and twirl like a madwoman. Neither Davies nor Montgomery had ever owned this piece of land outright, so its natural riches had remained untouched for centuries.
“There’s coal under here, Galahad. Maybe even gold! If we mine for it we’ll have money again and I won’t have to go anywhere near that awful Sir Mostyn—let alone marry the old letch!”
The horse wrinkled his whiskery nose and Maddie let out an incredulous laugh.
“And you know what’s even more amazing? I am finally going to get the upper hand over that insufferable Gryffud Davies!”
Galahad flattened his ears and bared his teeth, as he did every time her opponent’s name was mentioned. Maddie nodded approvingly.
“Do you think father will let me write and tell him he’s forfeited the land? Just imagine the look on his face!” She sighed in anticipated rapture.
The symbolism of having this meeting on the spring equinox was not lost on her. Equinoxes only happened twice a year, when the tilt of the earth’s axis was inclined neither away from, nor toward, the sun. It represented equality. Day and night; twelve hours of each. A reminder that the Davies and Montgomery clans shared this strip of land between them, equally.
Her stomach gave an excited flip. Not after today! Today was the start of a glorious new—
A gust of wind snatched her bonnet from the low wall of the bridge. She made a desperate dive for it, missed, and the hat went sailing down into the river below.
“Oh, blast!”
Galahad lifted his head and snickered. And then his ears swiveled toward the rise in the road and Maddie turned to see what had caught his attention. She listened, praying it was nothing, but then she heard it, too; the unmistakable drumbeat of approaching hooves, like distant thunder.
“No!” she groaned.
A lone horseman appeared on the crest of the hill, a plume of dust billowing in his wake. She shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted. Perhaps it was one of the village boys—?
But of course it wasn’t. That broad-shouldered silhouette was unmistakable. Horribly, infuriatingly familiar.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Galahad’s whinny sounded a lot like a laugh. Disloyal creature.
It had been almost four years since she’d set eyes on Gryffud Davies, but nobody else in three counties looked that good on a horse, as if they’d been born in the saddle. And who else exuded such arrogant, effortless grace?
Maddie’s pulse began to pound at the prospect of a confrontation. Perhaps, if she was lucky, he’d have lost that unholy appeal, that teasing glimmer in his eyes that suggested she was the butt of some private joke. Gryff Davies always looked as if he couldn’t choose between strangling her or ravishing her. She’d never quite decided which would be worse.
Her stomach swirled with excited dread, but she smoothed her suddenly-damp palms against her rumpled skirts and set her face into an expression of polite indifference.
He rode closer, and she catalogued the changes three years had wrought. It was worse than she’d feared; he was as sinfully good-looking as ever. Curling dark hair, straight nose, lips that always looked on the verge of curving up into a smile, but usually hovered in the region of a smirk whenever he was looking at her.
And those wicked, laughing green eyes, which never failed to turn her knees to water and her brain to mush. They still held that fatal combination of condescending amusement and smoldering intensity.
Maddie clenched her fists in her skirts and lifted her chin to a haughty angle, choosing to ignore the fact that her hair was doubtless a wind-blown mess, and that her hat was floating off downriver. She didn’t care what Gryffud Davies thought of her.
He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She hardly resembled the skinny, freckled eighteen-year-old she’d been when he’d left for war. Perhaps he’d mistake her for one of the village girls.
Please God.
He slowed his mount as he neared the bridge, his eyes raking her in a thorough, devastating inspection that dashed any hope of staying incognito. Maddie straightened her spine and glared at him.
Those lips of his widened in a smile of pure devilry. “Well, well. Maddie Montgomery. Did you miss me, cariad?”
Chapter 2.
Gryff gazed down at the gorgeous, angry woman on the bridge and felt his spirits soar. Madeline Montgomery, the infuriating, tart-mouthed thorn in his side, was glaring up at him with murder in her eyes. It was a marvelous sight.
Her delicate brows twitched in obvious displeasure. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Cariad?”
“No, Maddie.” Her tone was decidedly prim. “My name is Madeline. Or, better yet, Miss Montgomery.”
“‘Cariad’ it is, then.”
A muscle ticked in her jaw, and he just knew she was grinding her teeth.
“Not that, either. I’m not your darling.”
“Admit it. You missed me,” he teased. “You’ve been pining for a good fight ever since I left. Did none of the locals oblige you?”
Her bosom rose and fell in silent indignation and Gryff bit back a delighted chuckle. The world—so long off-kilter thanks to the madness of war—settled into place like a dislocated shoulder clicking back into its socket.
“Of course I didn’t miss you.”
She muttered several more things under her breath; he definitely caught the words ‘insufferable ass’ and ‘blockhead.’ He bit his lip and tried not to laugh as a fierce sweep of exhilaration burst in his chest. The world beyond these valleys might be unrecognizable, thanks to Bonaparte’s limitless ambition, but some things never changed. Miss Montgomery’s antipathy towards him was blissfully undimmed.
What had changed—in the most delightful way—was her appearance. Years of playing cards had granted him the ability to mask his expression, but it was still an effort to conceal his shock at the changes that had occurred in his absence.
Three years ago he’d been an arrogant twenty-three-year-old, desperate for glory and adventure. She’d been a skinny tomboy, with barely any feminine curves. That hadn’t stopped him from fancying her, of course. His youthful self had found her quick wit and unladylike temper utterly irresistible.
The fact that they were sworn enemies had only added to the charm; it was only natural that her flashing eyes and tempting lips should have been the stuff of his filthy, moon-drenched fantasies.
Despite what the gossip rags said, he wasn’t a rake, but he had ample experience of the female form. And while he’d spent countless hours wondering how she might have blossomed in his absence, the reality far outstripped his feverish imaginings. Maddie Montgomery was magnificent.
A pink blush stole across her cheeks as he inspected her, and he suppressed another chuckle.
Her face hadn’t changed much. The freckles that had peppered her nose and cheeks had faded, but he could still make out a few stubborn survivors. Not surprising, considering she still didn’t seem to be in the habit of wearing a hat. She’d scorned them at eighteen, too.
Her hair was the same wild mass; riotous waves, the color of newly-shelled horse chestnuts, shot through with a hint of rose-gold. Her lips were a luscious pink that made him think of the inside of seashells, and her eyes were that striking shade of not-quite-blue, not-quite-gray that pierced his soul.
But God help him, her body. She’d been a scrappy hoyden before, all elbows and knees. Now she was a goddess—albeit an enraged one. His fingers itched to trace the inward curve of her waist, the rounded perfection of her hips. It took everything he had not to vault from the saddle and touch her face to make sure that she was real. To seize her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless and panting and glad to be alive.
He shouldn’t be goading her, of course. It could only lead to trouble. But teasing her was a pleasure he’d missed out on for three long, miserable years. The memory of her face was something he’d fallen back on when times were particularly hard. Wounded, exhausted after battle, he’d often reminded himself to stay alive, if only to spite her. To tease her just one more time.
To do more than tease.
To taste.
No. Bad idea. The worst.
He took a calming breath and lifted his brows in a manner he knew would drive her to distraction.
“My goodness. Whatever happened to the filthy little hoyden I used to know? The last time I saw you, you were covered in mud from head to toe.”
“Because you and your dreadful brother had pushed me into the stream and—”
With a visible effort, she bit her lip and subdued her fury. The breath she took expanded her chest and made her breasts swell within her form-fitting riding habit in a way that Gryff approved of immensely.
“No,” she said, exhaling slowly. “We’re both adults now. We can be civil. I refuse to let you rile me.”
“But it was always such fun.”
Her stormy gaze met his. “Do you really want to know what happened to me?”
He nodded.
She crossed her arms over her delectable bosom. “Very well. I was struck by lightning.”
She hoped to shock him, of course, but he’d heard all about her accident as soon as he’d arrived back in London. The whole world knew a Davies would want news of a Montgomery misfortune, and the ton had gleefully provided him with the details.
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 to 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 half way 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.
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