Miss Spencer Rides Astride (Heroines on Horseback) by Sydney Alexander

hill-top meadow that stretched above them. It was a lonely pasture on the far side of the forest from the path she had entered, and she would have a long circuitous route back to the yard, but she thought there would be little chance of stumbling upon her watchdog there. 
    They were nearly out, Grainne pushing away the reaching fingers of the autumnal trees, Gretna ducking her head and snatching at dying leaves as she went, and Grainne was allowing herself a little triumphant smile, when Gretna spooked horribly, nearly losing her footing on the rocky little path. 
    “Whoa girl, whoa whoa whoa!” Grainne burst out automatically, shortening her reins to help keep the mare upright. Gretna’s hind legs scrabbled in the slick mud and gravel before she regained enough purchase to go bounding up the last few yards of the path and burst into the meadow.
    The gleaming golden autumn meadow, where Bald Nick was waiting. The stallion whinnied companionably. Grainne groaned, and her disappointment was such that it took her another half a moment to realize there was no rider on his back. Then she thought her heart had leapt into her throat. “Not again ,” she muttered. “He can't have been thrown from Nick .”
    “ You have,” uttered a wry voice from somewhere below her. She turned, steadying her startled mare, and saw Mr. Archer crouched on the brown grass at the very edge of the wood, looking up at her with a twisted smile on his bronze face.
    “What on earth are you doing down there? Are you hurt?” Fear and worry, most insensible emotions, pushed out the resentment she should have felt at the slur on her riding. “Have you been here long?”
    “I didn't fall.” His voice softened at her worried tone. “I came across this unfortunate little chap, and I could not leave him. But the unraveling has not been easy.” He shifted his body, and Grainne could see the shining, fire-kissed coat of a fox. 
    “What on earth?” She dismounted from Gretna and crept closer, leaving the mare to drop her head and crop the grass. “Poor chap! What has happened to him?”
    ”Caught in some sort of wire. Might have been a trap once, or a fence or a coop. Whatever it was, he floundered about a good deal and got himself hopelessly tangled.” He pushed back a clump of grass and she saw the wild, desperate eyes and the little pointed muzzle, neatly tied shut with Mr. Archer’s linen handkerchief.
    The fox was young and gaunt; he was either not a terribly good hunter or he had been trapped in the wire for some time. His thin ribs pressed through tight flesh as his panicked breaths rose and fell. “I hope he does not die of fear,” she said gently. “Poor little laddie.”
    William looked at her approvingly. “Another, more callous woman might have suggested I wring its neck and be done with it.”
    “That would hardly be sporting. When we hunt the fox has a chance to outwit our hounds, and how frequently he does so! To kill an animal in a trap is a cruelty I could not countenance.” She met Mr. Archer’s blue eyes with a passionate gaze borne of her extreme feeling on the subject. She had seen too many men kill for pleasure. “It is to your credit that you feel the same, Mr. Archer. I could not respect you if you had acted any other way.”  
    “You are a passionate woman, Miss Spencer,” Mr. Archer murmured, his eyes capturing hers. “Such a depth of feeling for the innocents in your care.”
    “I cannot help but care for animals; they are utterly at our mercy. And I have known many a fox to wait for the hunt, he loves the chase so. They are splendid animals, as splendid as horses and hounds.” She felt the blood in her cheeks rising as she spoke. Mr. Archer’s eyes were so arresting; she felt she could not look away.
    She felt she did not want to.
    She gazed down at him and he back at her, and she quite forgot about the fox.  
    “Call me William, Miss Spencer,” he murmured, his eyes somehow darkening. 
    Her breath