Page 14 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER EIGHT

TWO WEEKS LATER

F lat on his back, with the sky for a ceiling as it shifted from crisp indigo night to hazy silver-blue with impending dawn, Bran gave his muscles leave to relax as salt water held him aloft, weightless.

This was his favorite moment of the day—many days, the moment he lived for.

The first touch of toe to water was the hardest. The stark cold of the North Sea was unrelenting enough to chill a man to the cockles of his heart, even in summer.

But it was only the first thirty seconds that tempted one to return to shore.

Then the body performed a neat little wondrous trick—it went numb.

The sort of numbness that slid through skin and muscle down to bone, and deeper still, to the marrow …

the cells … the mind … allowing him the blessed relief of blankness … of freedom.

In the water, floating on his back, his body was as free as anyone else’s.

The only time he felt like himself was this part of the day—in the water.

The only time of day he felt anything worth feeling.

Yet was that still entirely true?

Or had it become habit to think thusly?

For in the last few weeks, hadn’t there been other moments when he’d felt a connection to a part of himself—a part of himself yet tethered to the man he’d been before ?

To the east, shimmering gold broke across the watery horizon in a gradient of yellow, orange, and red. Dawn. His signal to begin the laborious process of making his way back to the Roost.

He touched feet to the ocean floor, coarse sand digging between his toes, the push and pull of waves crashing about him, gravity laying a heavier hand across his shoulders with each step. This was his least favorite part of the day—the return to the reality of this body he inhabited.

On the beach studded with driftwood, kelp, and scurrying spiny spider crabs, he reached for his trousers, stepping his good leg inside first, then negotiating them up his bad leg.

It was a slow process—the wet didn’t help—but one that had become familiar.

The pain had diminished considerably over the last year, but much of the stiffness remained.

Movement, he’d discovered, helped. So that was what he did for much of the day—he moved and kept moving.

Today, however, he didn’t immediately don shirt and boots.

Instead, he grabbed them and made for the nearest sand dune, where he spread the shirt flat, then lay atop to watch the sunrise.

He didn’t do this every day, as he usually preferred to make his way back to the Roost before the estate found its momentum for the day.

But as he’d already stayed overlong this morning, he might as well reap the benefit.

The arrangement of the clouds in the sky promised a beauty.

As the numbing sensation of the water faded from his body, a light breeze skated across damp skin, filtering through the fuzz of dark hair on his chest. A less dramatic sensation than frigid water soaking into bone, but a sensation altogether pleasant .

This was new.

Nay, not new.

He’d experienced mere pleasantness in his life.

But how long had it been since he’d enjoyed it?

Perhaps he was savoring the feeling because it would be his last dawn swim for some weeks, as they were starting the walk with Radish to Doncaster today.

Then, if the colt won the St. Leger, they would begin the process of transporting him south to Epsom Downs for the Race of the Century the very next day.

Or perhaps that wasn’t it, at all.

Perhaps it was two years on from his injury and some parts of him were ready to feel again.

He couldn’t help noticing it coincided with him leaving the family pile in Cambridgeshire and coming to the Roost and working with Radish.

But if he were to suppose all those elements combined to produce this glimmer of feeling, then he might have to allow for an additional ingredient.

Artemis.

Every day, without fail, rain or shine, she was at the practice track to observe Radish’s training. But unlike that first day, she kept her distance. Fifty yards was as close as she came— blessedly .

And the effect she produced within him—even after ten years … even at a distance of fifty yards—was feeling .

And it wasn’t mere pleasantness.

Rather, a riot of it.

A chaos of it.

As ever.

But not the same riot or chaos of feeling from ten years ago—he was clear on that point. Then, it had been all infatuation and lust and love. All too fast. All too much.

Now, the feeling was muddled with some anger and a dose of bitterness, and a rather substantial amount of bemusement. Further punctuating it all was a large question mark— why?

Why was she in his life again?

Down the shoreline, movement caught his eye. He turned his head and watched a horse and rider draw closer. The rider was a woman, the light sea breeze billowing her skirts to either side of her mount, dark hair, loose and flowing.

Recognition quickened the blood in his veins.

Artemis.

Once, for a short period, she’d been everything he wanted.

Years, it had been, since he’d allowed himself that memory.

Then she’d revealed herself to have been an altogether different sort of person from who he’d thought she was.

But she had been young … he had been young … and there had been all that confusion of feeling to contend with.

He realized that past betrayal no longer sat right inside him—as it had done for ten certain years.

Now, it was off .

It’s always about the money with you, no?

Even weeks later, the wrongness of those words—the accusation within—filled him with a sort of umbrage.

Simply, it wasn’t true.

Yet a belief she held— firmly —about him.

He could ask her, he supposed. But that would mean engaging with her—entangling himself further and bringing the past into the present, instead of letting it lie.

Better to keep himself well wide of those brambles.

Closer she and her horse ventured, so he could now make out the details of her face as she spoke into her mount’s ear.

There was her smile.

There was her joy.

He’d never thought to see it again.

Once, she’d bandied it about so freely that anyone within range couldn’t help but be infected by it.

With a subtle shift and tug of the reins, she guided her horse into the water. Water up to its knees, the animal took to it, her laughter rising above the waves.

Bran found a smile perched upon his mouth, even as a sharp blade of envy cut through him. To ride, with such joy and utter abandon was forever lost to him.

It was true.

He no longer rode.

But not for the reason he gave Artemis.

The reason was one he couldn’t pin down or express aloud, but it existed solid and heavy inside him. A reason that felt shameful— unmanly . And every time he thought about the feeling, or worse, allowed it to assail him, he felt unmanned anew.

He’d been a soldier.

He’d been in actual harm’s way more times than he could count, yet this feeling had the power to fell him with swifter accuracy than any sword or cannon he’d ever encountered.

Better to avoid what brought on the feeling.

Horses.

Specifically, the riding of them.

Every time he considered it, clammy sweat beaded across his skin.

Once, he’d pushed through the feeling far enough to place his foot into a stirrup.

The next instant, it had felt as if a vise were squeezing his lungs, refusing to let him draw breath, and his heart pounded in his chest and his head went light.

So, he didn’t ride.

But now, watching Artemis, he felt the enormity of the loss.

How small that feeling—and the avoidance of it—had made his life.

After a few minutes, Artemis guided her horse out of the water and continued along the shoreline—not away , but toward him.

Bran pushed to a seat, the muscles of his stomach contracting with the effort, and reached for his shirt. As he shook off the sand and slipped the garment over his head, he felt her gaze raking over him. Ignoring the feeling of exposure, he grabbed a boot and began yanking it on.

Once she’d come within twenty yards, she slid off her mount—she’d been riding astride—and began readjusting the blanket across the horse’s back. It was obvious. She and Bran were about to have a conversation.

Bran only just didn’t growl. His left boot was easy to manage, but the right one was an altogether different proposition. It took time and patience—and he had neither as she closed the distance. The sweat of hasty exertion coupled with annoyance pinpricked his skin.

Blessedly, just as she called out, “Fancy seeing you here,” the boot gave way and slipped into place on his heel.

Those words— Fancy meeting you here —rang false. “You knew I would be here.”

A smile, sheepish and self-conscious, pulled at her mouth. “Yeah, I did.”

A laugh startled out of him.

Had he wanted her to deny it?

Or confess to a pursuit of him—if her presence here could be characterized as such?

“You’re leaving for Doncaster with Radish today?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“He’s ready.”

Bran grunted, but remained otherwise silent.

The thing was he wasn’t ready to agree with this woman about anything.

He shifted to the side and began the process of getting to his feet—planting a hand into sand, rolling his weight onto his side, and getting his good leg beneath him to bear the brunt when he shoved at a diagonal angle with enough will and momentum to get himself upright.

An outstretched hand appeared at the edge of his vision. She’d closed the remaining few yards between them, and there she stood—offering her help.

Bitterness struck through him so violently he tasted it on his tongue, and he had to grind his teeth together to hold in the howl of frustration that wanted airing.

He ignored the hand—and continued the process.

If it made her uncomfortable, she could look the other way.

Or better yet, leave.

She did neither.

She remained where she was—within reaching distance—and watched in her unflinching way.

“Have you business with me?” he asked at last, when he stood as upright as his body allowed.

But the urgency faded from the question once he noticed the proximity of their bodies. Under oath, he would swear he could feel the heat of her. It came off her in radiant waves. He remembered that about her. She’d been his sun.

Nay, not his , it turned out.

His earlier thought returned to him. She had been young. And though he’d been a few years older, he’d been young, too. Perhaps he should forgive her for having been young—and himself, as well.

Her head canted to the side, as if she were assessing him. “You were able to come to your feet on your own steam.”

He wasn’t sure if he should feel offended or merely annoyed.

He couldn’t help feeling both.

It was one thing, however, that prevented him from becoming too much of either—the look in her eyes.

Artemis was only being herself—the lady who voiced what was on her mind.

Before she asked her next question, he knew what it would be. “Why don’t you ride?”

“As I told you,” he said, his chest gone subtly tight, even at the suggestion, “I no longer ride. Isn’t the reason obvious?”

He knew what he was doing with that last bit. Most people would rather poke an eye out than directly address the reality of his injuries.

Artemis shook her head. She wasn’t one of those people. “It’s not obvious.”

How quickly she was reminding him of who she was.

Leave it , he wanted to shout. Instead, his voice gone cold to mask rising heat, he said, “I nearly lost my leg.”

She blinked, as if her nerve might be failing her. “I’m aware.”

“Isn’t that answer enough?”

“It’s not.” She spoke the words almost apologetically. “If you can walk, and if you can swim, you can ride.”

In fact, Bran realized, he numbered amongst those who would rather poke an eye out than directly address the reality of his injuries.

A change of subject was in order.

Now that the past had surfaced—and kept resurfacing—he needed to pursue something. Something that had been niggling in a far corner of his mind. “My brother,” he began before he talked himself out of it.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your brother?” Her brow furrowed. “As in Stoke ?”

“You didn’t marry him.”

Even as he spoke the words, a sudden wave of fury washed through him.

He might be able to forgive himself and this woman for their long-past youth—and the folly that followed.

But for this , he found he hadn’t.

And possibly never would.

For it hadn’t been the mere loss of her.

It had been the loss of a dream—the loss of them .