Page 150 of The Lord Meets His Lady

“A moment, Atal.”

“Yes, yes.” He sighed impatiently, his lace cuffs fluttering in the breeze.

Genevieve scurried to Khan’s side. Breathing hard from her spring, she set a hand on his leg. Herr Wolf scowled by the trees, but there was nothing the brute could do. In the battle for Genevieve’s affections, the fair damsel had made clear who’d won her affections.

“Milord.” Her big brown eyes pleaded with Marcus, but no words came.

Did she wish he wouldn’t race? Too late for that.

She touched a kiss to her fingers and raised her hand to his. He bent over in the saddle and caught her proffered hand, kissing her fingertips.

“No matter what happens, stay by Samuel,” he said and let go. His blood thrummed with fear, excitement…the thrill of what was ahead.

“It’s time, gentlemen,” Atal announced.

Samuel guided Genevieve a safe distance from the starting line. She kept looking over her shoulder, her red hood falling back and gold hair flying free, but the race was upon him. The black danced sideways, bumping the skittish brown.

Atal raised a flintlock high, and Marcus crouched over Khan’s withers, squinting ahead.

A shot cracked, and the world blurred.

Khan lunged forward. Atal’s black took the lead. Hooves pummeled the grass like cannons in battle. Hot sweat born of desperation jabbed Marcus’s skin. This was no thrill race. The horses, Khan, and Samuel needed victory. But most of all, Genevieve.

All the pieces were in play.

His grip on the reins hovered over the pommel. Wind stole his hat. Sunlight blinded him.

Three horses jostled for position. Atal’s black charged ahead, Khan at her heels.

Faster!

His heart banged as if he were running the race. The nervous brown bay bumped his leg. Khan gained ground. The gray’s nose pumped in time with his hooves, but the lanky stableboy rode the black as if born to her.

“Go!” Marcus bellowed.

The pennant billowed ahead.

Wind battered his face. Eyes watering, he squinted. The ground sped past. They inched closer, Khan’s head along the black’s ribs. Atal’s brown strained on the other side of Marcus, the whites of her eyes showing. The older rider bobbled the reins. He tried to get a grip and keep her steady.

The rock. The footman holding the pennant high. The servant hunched.

Khan kept up with the black, his nose equal to the filly’s shoulder. The lad was good, bending low over her neck. His eyes stayed the course. His mouth moved, speaking words only he and the filly knew.

A glossy sheen covered Khan’s withers. Marcus panted, his lungs fair to bursting. Grass clods flew from soft, wet ground. Khan slipped, banging the black. The lad hugged lowered. They rounded the heavy stone, Khan and the black nudging again.

Wind whipped Marcus, slapping his face and stinging his eyes. Knees bent, heels digging down, he tensed as if by will he could force the win. His heart drubbed. Sunlight shined on the twin posts. He strove with Khan to reach them. The noise of hammering hooves eased. The skittish brown bay must’ve dropped back. He couldn’t afford to check.

The posts were ahead.

Cursing, he urged Khan forward. The gray’s nose bobbed alongside the black’s neck. Closer. Closer. Khan’s nose inched up. The two were nearly neck and neck. Acrid tastes coated Marcus’s mouth…salt…copper. He gulped air. The posts… They were several horse lengths ahead. He let go of the reins and grabbed Khan’s mane and let him have his head.

Khan surged ahead by a nose.

The finish line. They raced for it, both horses lunging, legs stretching. The ground sped underneath. Marcus’s heart burst from the pounding. Khan fought, tendons straining as though the horse knew. So much at stake. The horses. The partnership. Genevieve.

Sweat lathered on the black’s neck beside him. Khan’s Godolphin legs flew off the ground. The gray shot past the posts and won by a head. The proud steed arced in a wide circle before slowing to a gentle gallop. Panting as hard as his horse, Marcus stared wide-eyed ahead, seeing nothing.

They had won.