Page 35 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

Bran gave an indifferent shrug, designed to needle beneath her skin. “Pure animal magnetism.”

She shook her head. “Wiles.”

Only a couple of feet separating them, Bran said, “Here we are, walking down yet another road.”

“It appears to be our fate.”

Fate.

The word seemed to apply to them regarding roads of both the physical and metaphorical varieties.

Hadn’t all their roads, indeed, led them back to one another?

Best not to voice that question now.

Perhaps a time existed in the future—perhaps in the near future—that he could.

“Your sister.” By bringing up Gwyneth, it seemed Artemis wasn’t quite ready to broach the subject of fated roads, either. “She is absolutely lovely.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “she is.”

“She will cause a sensation when she comes out in the spring.”

Bran groaned. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to that aspect of her debut.”

A laugh breezed from Artemis. “She appears to be a young lady of good sense. She will have a wonderful time.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Another laugh from Artemis.

This felt good, the two of them having a laugh together.

In fact, it was better than good.

It was right.

“Oh,” she said of a sudden. “Here’s where we turn for the shortcut through the woods.”

She stepped off the lane and onto a path that only one who knew it would be able to discern.

He exchanged a quick glance with Little Lady.

Thankfully, she looked inclined to follow him anywhere.

“Good girl,” he said, then followed Artemis down the trail, the canopy of trees closing in on them overhead and providing pleasant shade.

Though he had to be careful of his step, the path was worn and even.

Above, the breeze soughed through the trees and very little birdsong met his ears.

The birds must have settled in for an afternoon nap.

With Little Lady docile at his back, and Artemis in silent step at his side, it was restful, this walk.

He wasn’t out to prove something to himself or anyone else, neither was he running from emotions of anger or shame.

He was simply able to experience this pleasant thing—a walk.

He felt Artemis’s gaze on the side of his face and turned. Uncertainty shone in her eyes. She had something to say. “What is it?” he asked. He wanted her to speak everything that was on her mind.

“What do you think of Rake’s offer?”

Ah … “It’s generous,” he said, slowly, guarded.

Artemis negated his answer with a firm shake of her head. “Rake doesn’t make generous offers, not when it comes to his racing stable.”

Bran should have known better than to respond with a platitude.

The truth was Rakesley had offered a career path that Bran had already begun to see as viable.

The truth was he felt inclined to accept the offer.

But he needed to consider it from every angle.

Artemis was one of those angles.

She had yet more to say on the subject. “Rake offered because he thinks you’re the best trainer in England.” They took a few more steps. “And I agree with him.”

It had never been Bran’s way to give much credence to praise. But praise from Artemis …

That was different.

It meant something.

It meant too much.

In fact, it meant so much that he needed to change the subject. “How was London?”

Her eyebrows creased together. “London is still very much London.”

He nodded and didn’t point out that she’d said little and what she had said was a load of nothing. It was the shift in her mood that had him holding his tongue and waiting for her to continue.

“I saw my mother,” she said, at last.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck through Bran, jittering his veins, parching his mouth. Somehow, he managed, “I hope you found her well.”

Though they were the expected words, it took everything inside him to speak them.

“Oh, yes,” said Artemis, “Mother is always well.”

Bran felt his brow gather. An edge of acid ran alongside those lightly spoken words.

A hesitation, then she continued. “I spoke to her.”

Ah.

“She confessed all.”

“Did she now?”

Somehow, he doubted it.

The duchess held to a set of values very much of her own making.

Artemis inhaled deeply, as if she were squaring up to what must be said. “She admitted to offering you the twenty thousand pounds.”

“And that I refused it?”

That was important.

Artemis glanced away and nodded, her inner turmoil apparent. As someone who thought the best of both complete strangers and the people she loved, this lie would be difficult for her to reconcile.

Yet he sensed something more—something left unspoken.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and stopped suddenly in her tracks. “I seem to have become stuck.”

It was only then that Bran noticed they’d reached a narrowing of the trail from opposing overgrown hawthorn shrubs. Artemis tried angling around to find the offending branch, but to no avail.

“Here,” said Bran, dropping Little Lady’s lead and stepping around Artemis. “Allow me.”

In a matter of seconds, he’d picked the muslin of her dress free from the offending thorn.

She began to move away and immediately stopped. “There seems to be one more.” She attempted to look over her shoulder. “It’s just out of reach …”

“Don’t move, or you’ll ruin the cloth,” he said.

It was nothing to pull the thorn free from her purple wool spencer.

Yet, though she was free, he found that his hand couldn’t quite take its leave of her.

Light fingertips brushed down the back of her arm, slowly , and she went still in the specific way of someone whose breath had caught in their lungs.

From her profile, he saw her eyes had closed, as if her entire being were concentrated upon where his hand touched her through layers of fabric.

His gaze lowered to the patch of skin between the collar of her spencer and the exposed nape of her neck.

Without thought, he shifted forward and pressed his mouth to that sweet, delicate skin.

Beneath his lips, her pulse beat out a hard throb, and she angled her head to grant him further exploratory access.

The press of his mouth formed an intention as his hands slid down to her waist and firmed, impelling her body to turn.

Then she was gathered in his arms, her arms in turn twined around his neck.

Her dark eyes, bright with longing and desire, met his in the uncertain instant before she lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to his, and Bran was completely pulled under, intoxicated—by her scent …

her feel … the very fact of her—and he understood something of vital importance.

This kiss wasn’t a remnant of the past.

It stood on its own two feet, this kiss.

It was about the here and now.

As if a corner had been turned, and they stood at the beginning of something new and uncharted.

A sudden, forceful bark erupted from Bathsheba.

Bran knew that bark.

Someone was approaching.

Startled brown eyes met his in the split of a second before she jumped back, her hand reaching up to tuck an errant tendril behind her ear. “Artemis,” he began, as another, “Artemis!” sliced through the air from the not-too-far distance.

She swiveled around in time to greet her bosom friend, Lady Beatrix. “Beatrix,” she said, still breathless from their kiss.

“Lady Beatrix,” said Bran, measured.

The lady’s gaze bounced between him and Artemis, knowledge shining in her eyes. The woman was married to a man the ton knew as Lord Devil. She would apprehend and not be shocked by what he and Artemis had clearly been getting up to.

To Artemis, she said, “I thought you could use an extra hand with the donkey.” Her gaze flicked toward Bran. “But it seems you found one.”

“Oh,” said Artemis, falsely bright, “how very thoughtful of you.”

Several beats of silence, awkward and implacable, loped past.

Bran cleared his throat. “It’s very well that you happened along, Lady Beatrix.”

Her eyebrows lifted to skeptical heights. “Oh?”

Artemis’s brow gathered.

“I must see how my sister is faring.” He angled forward in a shallow bow. “Lady Beatrix.” He shifted and bowed again. “Lady Artemis.”

Their gazes locked, and though it was for less time than a second hand could tick from one to the next, he read thorough bewilderment in those dark brown depths, and something else, too—gathering resolve.

Before she could open her mouth to protest his departure, he pivoted on his heel, gave Little Lady a stroke of the mane, and began retracing his steps down the path, knowing full well he was going the wrong way—his sister was at Somerton—and also knowing full well Artemis and Lady Beatrix knew it, too.

But he figured if he kept walking, slowly, he would eventually happen upon a cold pond to jump into.