Page 22 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE ROSE & CROWN, LATER

A rtemis adjusted her bottom on the hard oak flat of the straight-backed chair and attempted not to attune her ear to the stirrings coming through the wall on the other side of the desk.

A futile endeavor.

Bran was on the other side of that wall.

She should pay closer attention to the task at hand—her correspondence. She’d promised Mrs. Hopper a letter every day.

“I need to know you’re safe, pet,” the cook had said, as stern as Artemis had ever seen her. “A line or two will suffice.”

As Artemis dared not ignore a directive from Mrs. Hopper—neither would she cause her undue worry—she’d set pen to paper to dash off a note.

Except the swift few lines quickly turned into an uninspired slog.

Every rustle of movement on the other side of the wall caught her ear, and her hand stopped writing.

What was he doing?

Each time, she chastised herself. What could he be doing?

It was all probably terribly mundane and trifling and the same as what she was doing—washing up after a long day, and correspondence. That sort of thing.

Except she’d never felt like anything related to Bran was mundane or trifling.

She’d been so silly then.

And the possibility existed she was just as silly now.

She concluded the letter to Mrs. Hopper and reached for another sheet of paper.

Her next letter was for Mother.

She began with the usual greetings and questions about her health. That was as far as her pen seemed able to proceed. She needed to ask Mother a question—about the past.

Specifically, her past with Bran.

But this question couldn’t be asked by letter, that was what her still pen was telling her.

It must be asked in person.

She exhaled a gust of frustration.

Mother was presently in Paris for her autumn wardrobe fitting. The modistes were already preparing their most privileged clients for next spring’s styles. As a duchess who was very aware of her position in the public eye, Mother was always dressed in the first stare of fashion.

The question would have to wait until Mother’s return in a fortnight.

In a now-familiar pattern, her mind cast back over the day and its revelations and the near miracle that had occurred. Today, she’d been able to move past seeing Bran as a shadow of her past to the flesh-and-blood man he was now—a man damaged by life, in both body and mind.

He no longer rode.

It wasn’t that simple.

He no longer could ride.

It was none of her concern, but he’d shared this deeply shameful part of himself with her, and she couldn’t leave it be.

Though she should.

She understood that.

But he was in pain of both body and mind, and that wasn’t something she could simply ignore.

Yet that wasn’t all that had been revealed today.

There was also the matter she must discuss with Mother.

But first, she sensed she must discuss it further with Bran.

There had been revelations today, yes, but they hadn’t been made in their entirety.

And she couldn’t rest until they’d exchanged a full and open accounting of what transpired ten years ago.

Too much yet remained unaccounted for—and that could no longer stand.

Her stomach gave a great rumble for its evening meal. In the split of the second it took to lay her pen down, a question occurred her. Had Bran eaten tonight?

Likely not.

He didn’t seem especially inclined to take care of himself.

The idea that immediately followed had her shooting to her feet. Downstairs, she would buy Mr. Scunt his evening meal and his round of ale. Then she would request her meal, too. But she wouldn’t be taking it in the barroom or in her room.

Forty-five minutes later, her hand was beating out three solid raps on Bran’s door.

At first, she detected no movement on the other side, and she thought she would have to knock again.

Then she heard it—the thud of two feet landing on bare wood floorboards, followed by the sound of rustling.

If she wasn’t mistaken, he was getting out of bed and likely pulling a shirt over his head to make himself presentable.

After a long thirty or so seconds, the door opened only wide enough for his face to appear. His brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, without a care for formalities or even manners.

Far from being offended, Artemis considered it progress. “I am here—” She planted a firm palm in the center of the door and began pushing. “Bearing your evening meal.”

“What in the blazes?—”

He found no opportunity to finish his protest as she continued pushing until the door parted wide enough to admit both her and the serving girl carrying the food she and Bran were to partake of together.

Determinedly—and steadfastly ignoring his silent glower—she set about moving the small table and two chairs to the center of the room.

While the serving girl set the table, Artemis also ignored the bed, with its rumpled coverlet, which was likely still warm from the heat of Bran’s body.

No, she wouldn’t think about body-hot beds in relation to Bran.

From beneath lowered eyelashes, she observed him in quick snatches.

How attractive he was in the candlelight with his tousled brown hair.

He hadn’t been expecting company and therefore wasn’t prepared for it, so she was able to get a look at the muscled breadth of his shoulders, of dark hair peeking through the V of his white linen shirt.

Her fingers buzzed with the sense memory of that soft fuzz brushing across her skin.

But, oh, how handsome he was, too. The scar on his right cheek … She hardly noticed it anymore. How quickly it had become part of the landscape of him. No scars could detract from his male beauty. It was only more complex now—more interesting.

“If that will be all, milady,” said the serving girl, her gaze cast shyly to her feet.

“Yes, that will be all,” said Artemis. “Thank you.”

The girl bobbed a quick curtsy and was gone before one second could tick into the next.

Bran made no move to close the distance between himself and the impromptu dining table. “Yes, Artemis,” he said, “that will be all.”

Her brightest smile pulled across her face. “I couldn’t bear the idea of you dining all alone.” She lowered into a hard wooden chair at the table and dramatically flapped open a napkin. As she waited for him to join her, she took a sip of bitter ale.

At last, he heaved a resigned sigh and took the seat opposite her.

She and Bran would dine together this evening—whether he liked it or not. Not , most definitely, from the trenches dug into his forehead.

A measure of her confidence faltered.

Hadn’t they taken steps forward toward something resembling friendliness today?

Yet his reaction to her now felt like a step backward.

“I thought,” she began, “we could continue our conversation, but if you don’t want me here …” She could leave, she didn’t need to say.

His gaze lifted, and what she met in his eyes arrested the breath in her lungs—a burning, a rawness. “Artemis,” he said, “you and I have only ever been alone in a room with a bed in it for one reason.”

Oh.

She swallowed against a suddenly parched throat.

She reached again for her ale and drank, deeply.

She’d come here to speak of the past, hadn’t she?

Except, not that past.

“Bran,” she began on a croak. The ale wasn’t helping.

He tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the thick mutton stew. “Yes?”

He didn’t appear half as bothered as she.

But then, he’d turned the conversational momentum around on her with that bed observation, hadn’t he?

“I think it’s necessary that we continue our conversation from earlier.”

“ Necessary? ” He cocked his head. “Necessary for whom?”

“Necessary for us.”

“There is no?—”

“Do not say there is no us,” she cut in with more heat than she’d expected. “There was an us .” She let that settle into the air and bring the conversation back to the track she wanted. “There are yet threads that need to be resolved.”

His golden eyes shimmered with skepticism. “Artemis, we can leave the past where it is, and we can go our separate ways and never see each other again. Nothing defined or meaningful binds us.”

Nothing defined or meaningful binds us.

The words felt like lead shot to her gut.

And yet, the feelings she was experiencing felt meaningful and needed definition.

She must pursue this path.

“But what came of the twenty thousand pounds?” she asked.

The warm gold of his irises turned to flat granite. “What of it?”

“You agreed to train Radish because you need money for your sister.”

“Aye.”

“Do you have a problem with gambling?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Do you have a very expensive snuff box collection?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how could the twenty thousand pounds possibly all be gone?”

He gave an indifferent shrug. “I assume it isn’t all gone.”

Artemis felt her brow crinkle. Here was a point where definition was decidedly lacking. “I don’t understand.”

Bran leaned back in his chair and stared at her, his head cocked and his arms crossed over his chest. He looked … perplexed. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe I took the twenty thousand pounds from your mother?”

Twenty thousand pounds .

A sum of money hefty enough to shock a room into silence.

“You think I took the money,” he said.

Yes.

Her tongue, however, tangled on itself and refused to speak the word.

“You’ve thought it these last ten years.”

“Well, didn’t you?” Even as she asked, she understood the question was aired out of reflex rather than conviction.

“No.”

The breath caught in her lungs.

She believed him.

That was the thing.

Which meant all these years she’d believed an untruth.

She couldn’t fathom that it had been an outright lie. Mother wouldn’t go that far. Yet, even as she wanted to turn away from the very possibility, she sought definition on another point. “What gave you the idea that I would have married Stoke or any man for his title?”

She found herself clutching her fork very tightly.