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B ASH STRODE OUT ONTO M R . Waterbury’s field, already brimming with contestants, with Evie on his arm and Grandmother safely seated under the white tents, surrounded by her friends and her maid to see to any needs that she might have.

After hearing of Sir Josiah’s visit while he was preoccupied in the kennel training Cerberus, Bash had struggled with his desire to challenge his wife’s former fiancé to a duel.

However, it would not be a good reflection on the Crown.

But he agreed with the ladies. Using his skill to humiliate the pompous man by besting him at the tournament and securing the purse was an excellent display that the Prince Regent would approve of, as it spoke well of all yeomen.

In years past, Bash had been in service during the tournaments, but even when visiting home, he had refused to enter, as others needed the purse more than he.

Now that he had a wife to care for, the prize money would see to her while he was away.

“It looks like the targets grow more and more difficult toward the end of the fields.” Evie pointed in the direction of the first roped off area for the sharpshooters.

Lord Waterbury had a target set up that even the most excellent of shooters might find challenging to hit, along with a knife-throwing contest with stuffed targets, and a fencing contest with ten pistes marked and ready for the contestants.

Whoever bested all three matches was to be granted an absurd purse of one hundred pounds.

“Good. It will make it that much easier for me to win.”

“I know I haven’t told you much about Sir Josiah, but he was trained by the best masters in marksmanship and fencing … I know naught about his knife-throwing skills.”

“As was I.” He grinned. “And my knife skills are top-notch.”

“Honestly, Sebastian, don’t you think this has gone too far?” She rested her hand on his arm. “After all”—she lowered her voice—“he was right about us.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday.” While he enjoyed seeing the bloom of anger in her cheeks once more, he was furious with the cause.

It had secretly thrilled him to hear Grandmother’s account of Evie’s belief in his ability to best the man.

“But to admit it now, there would be severe consequences. I will not allow your reputation to be tarnished by the cad. Even if he was correct, it was highly offensive when he barged into our home to bully you when I was not there. I will not stand for you being affronted thus.”

“I am used to his ways.” She shook her head. “And I should not have allowed him to goad me. He will be severely offended when you best him publicly.”

“It is a friendly game.” Far better than the duel I was tempted to challenge him to.

“Not anymore. When we set Grandmother in the tent, Mrs. Zander caught my arm and said that Sir Josiah spread the rumor of our suspicious marriage circumstances at the party after we left.”

He grunted. Confound that vindictive woman. “And why would Mrs. Zander divulge this to you? I thought she was angry with you over the jewelry still.”

“She is. If it is the truth, she may wish to hurt me. If it is false, it has done its work in harming my peace.” She sighed, playing with the citrine ring on her finger and holding it up in the afternoon light. “However, I do not regret you purchasing the citrines.”

“I’d do it again.” He grasped her hand, his voice gruff with emotion. “I will protect your name and virtue, my lady.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition?

Surely she doesn’t know I’m Bash? He cleared his throat. “Now, I best win the match as you said I would.” He bowed over her hand and trod up to the first game—shooting.

He grasped the forestock of his flintlock rifle, nodding his thanks to Noah, who had eagerly agreed to be his assistant for the day.

Bash strode out onto the green, taking his place in line.

Ten men fired at a time at their targets.

Only the top three shooters would move on to the second round.

Bash was in the second group. His aim was true, and from his position he heard Evie cheering.

He lifted his rifle over his head, smiling as he caught sight of her waving her handkerchief in the air.

The third group strode forward and fired.

His aim was true throughout each round, and he and Sir Josiah were the last ones standing, along with a man from a neighboring village whom Bash did not know.

Bash positioned the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and planted his feet.

He drew in a deep breath, keeping his left eye trained on the target and, with his competitors, fired.

The crowd cheered as the judges strode to the targets, making note of each before whispering to the runner, who trotted to Mr. Waterbury.

Mr. Waterbury lifted his hands to silence the crowd. “For the first time,” he called out, “there is a tie. Sir Sebastian and Sir Josiah! Therefore, there is a change in the rules. The prize will be given to the winner of two out of three contests.”

Sir Josiah leaned on his muzzle and smirked before kicking the butt of the rifle and striding to the next roped off area.

As per tradition, the contestants were offered drinks as they strolled with the crowd to the next event, fencing.

While Bash was proficient with a rifle, the rapier was what he had trained with the most. He drank as the first round of contestants fenced on the row of pistes.

Many were not skilled, but what they lacked in finesse, they made up for in daring strikes, making for an entertaining match for the onlookers.

Bash was called to take his place against Sir Josiah, as they had tied in the rifle event.

The man stood, rapier in hand, a grin already overtaking his features as if he was confident in his ability to best Bash.

The man strode onto the piste, positioning his feet as he found Evie in the crowd and sent her a wink.

Anger flashed hot and bright in Bash’s chest. He no longer cared about this man’s ruffled feelings and barely veiled hatred.

He wished to best Sir Josiah and humiliate him into the ground in front of all for the unkind words he had spoken against the woman whom he had planned to marry—and whom he continued to mock.

Bash might not be able to duel, but he could fence with all his considerable skill.

He struck true again and again, his opponent seeming to awaken to Bash’s talent.

The man was quick and light on his feet, proving to be a master with the rapier.

A trickle of worry entered Bash’s heart.

Vivienne grasped the handle of her parasol, wishing she was allowed on the piste to face Sir Josiah to put him in his place, but even if she possessed the talent, she would have never been allowed to do so unless disguised as a man.

The men batted each other’s strike, and as the match progressed, Sir Josiah became more aggressive in his attacks, trying tactics unbefitting a gentleman. He whipped his rapier across Sebastian’s neck, drawing blood as Sebastian leaned back, barely preventing the blade from doing further damage.

The scorekeeper shouted his disapproval of Sir Josiah’s lack of sportsmanship, along with the crowd.

She sucked in a breath, leaning down to Grandmother’s chair to hiss, “How dare he? This is supposed to be a friendly match. Sir Josiah seems to be determined to win even if it means setting aside etiquette. Should we stop the match? I know the man to be ruthless.”

“My grandson did not become a Yeoman of the Guard by developing the trait of mercy. He will meet the man’s bluster and will never surrender.” Grandmother nodded beneath her parasol. “Wait and see. He will put the upstart in his place.”

She nodded. Sebastian had gained nobility by his courage and not by retrenching.

To surrender the match to Sir Josiah would cast dishonor as a yeoman.

The emotion she felt as Sebastian was sliced a second time, atop his hand, surprised her.

This man was kind and good and true. He did not deserve this.

“To the victory hasten, Sir Sebastian!” She cried out above the crowd, not caring at the stares she received for such a display of affection.

Sebastian sent her a grin and saluted her with his rapier, sending her heart to skipping.

Sir Josiah took the opportunity to send her a leer. She wondered why he wouldn’t simply let her go if he disrespected her so much. Why was he intent on destroying her reputation? Wouldn’t it be easier to believe that she had actually married a knight?

Sebastian seemed to rally at her encouragement, until the break was called and he sank on his stool, gulping his glass of water. She pushed through the crowd and hurried to his side. “Sebastian, there’s something that you must know about Sir Josiah.”

He shook his head, panting. “I will not step down.”

“I know. I thought you would like to know that he has a bad ankle from a fall off his horse last summer. Strike him there and he will crumple like ash.” She slapped her palms to emphasize her words.

He grinned at her, taking her hand in his. “While I do not condone cheating, I appreciate your concern and information.” He bowed over her hand. “I will guard myself better now that I know I am dealing with a cheat and not a gentleman.”

“Kiss her for luck, my boy!” Grandmother Larkby called across the row of pistes from her place in the tent.

Grandmother’s request was picked up by the crowd, and soon all were chanting for him to claim a kiss from the authoress. She felt her cheeks flame, and Sebastian quirked a brow. He rose, towering over her as he bent his head to her.

“I will not please the crowd. But should you feel inclined to bestow a token in the form of a kiss, I believe I shall find the strength I need to be the victor.”

Her gaze rested on his full lips. What is the harm of a single kiss?

Perhaps it will bring us to a place beyond friendship.

The chanting of the crowd grew, and seeing no other way than to comply lest she cause people to suspect their ruse, she gave him a short nod.

“To kiss a knight such as you and bestow a burst of strength would be my honor.”

With her parasol shielding them from view, his lips met hers, sweet and chaste. The fullness of his lips beckoned her to deepen the kiss when it sparked a buried memory within her heart. She gasped and wrenched back—seeing not her husband but the roguish grin of Bash the highwayman.