Page 39 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MORNING

B ran stepped out of Somerton’s grand cathedral that called itself a Thoroughbred stable, and onto the freshly washed cobbles of the stable yard.

He’d come at dawn to get a feel for Rakesley’s operation without the duke around.

It was precisely as Bran thought—Rakesley ran a tight ship.

Beneath the watchful eye of the head groom, Wilson, the stable lads and grooms set to their duties, whether that was brushing a horse, mucking out a stall, washing the cobbles, leading a horse out for a ride, changing day-old water for fresh …

Everyone knew their duties and set to them.

A groom that Bran had noticed bouncing from one duty to the next crossed his path. “Do you know where a donkey would have spent the night?”

The groom cocked his head. “Did ye say donkey ?”

“The one Lady Artemis brought in yesterday.”

The groom’s eyes brightened. “Ah, yeah, Little Lady.” He pointed in the direction of the opposite stable. “She’s got her own stall in the wing with the hunters and hacks.”

Bran nodded his thanks, tightened his grip around the tree branch that was serving as a walking staff, and began making his way. Behind him, he heard, “Milord?”

He turned to find the groom watching him. “Ye got a limp.”

“Yeah,” said Bran, taking no offense. “I’d rather noticed.”

An impish grin flashed across the groom’s face. “Me pa does a bit of whittling. He could have ye a right nice cane in no time.” His grin widened. “Or a staff, if yer the wizardy sort.”

Bran snorted. The groom had pluck. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Cal.”

“I’ll give it some thought, Cal, and let you know.”

The lad gave a parting nod and sprang off to his duties.

Bran began walking with considerably less bounce.

He was familiar with lads like Cal from his years in the cavalry.

Possessed of a lightness of attitude and mind, they helped create an atmosphere of energy and vibrancy.

From what Rakesley had outlined over supper last night, Bran wouldn’t only be Somerton’s trainer, but its stable manager, too.

Unlike Sir Abstrupus’s stables where he’d trained a single horse, at Somerton, Bran would take on myriad duties.

There would be the training of the Thoroughbreds from foal to retirement, but also the management of the hunters, hacks, and carriage horses, an undertaking Bran was uniquely qualified for from his years in the cavalry.

He knew horses and what it took to manage them.

What Rakesley had proposed was the beginning of a career.

Further, during cigars and brandies, the duke had gone into the specifics of pay.

Bran would have a yearly salary, but also a cut of the winnings to the tune of twenty-five percent.

Another twenty-five percent would go to the jockey, with the remaining fifty percent to Rakesley.

When one considered the number of Thoroughbreds in Somerton’s stables and the scope of the racing season, it wasn’t difficult to see that he would have attained a substantial amount of wealth within the first five years.

How easily he could envision a career—a future —unfolding before him.

Yet there was a problem.

Artemis.

She hadn’t joined the evening meal last night, and Bran wasn’t sure where he stood with her. Further, it was obvious Rakesley knew nothing of Bran’s past with his sister. If he had, his offer of a job—and a future—likely wouldn’t be on the table.

And while Bran was on the subject of problems, there was yet another one.

The duchess .

The duchess, in fact, did know about the events of a decade ago.

She’d orchestrated them.

A rusted blade of bitterness cut through him. He hadn’t been prepared for the sight of that woman. Though he should have been. After all, he was a guest beneath her son’s roof. But really, nothing could have prepared him.

One instant he’d been thinking how lovely Artemis looked beside the large bow window, illuminated by soft afternoon light, and the next, his gaze was staggering to a stop.

He’d blinked, but it was no use. The Dowager Duchess of Rakesley was taking tea with Artemis and Gwyneth and looking so cool and collected and perfect and arrogant.

The blinding fury that had streaked through him had been immediate.

He entered the wing where Little Lady was housed and saw a trio of figures at the end of the aisle—a three-legged dog, a chestnut bay, and a lady dressed in a voluminous royal blue riding habit, a jaunty pheasant feather in her cap.

Artemis.

It took Bran the split of a second to realize she was here to see about Little Lady. Of course. But what took him by surprise was the timing. She was here at dawn.

Little Lady’s head extended over the gate, and Artemis ran her kidskin-gloved hand across the velvety muzzle.

The donkey’s eyes drifted half-closed with bliss.

Bathsheba noticed Bran and let out a bark of greeting.

Artemis’s gaze cut over to meet his. Not a hint of surprise registered in those warm brown depths as her mouth twitched into a smile.

Bran felt his mouth curving in response.

Perhaps she wasn’t only here to check on Little Lady.

Perhaps she was here for him .

“She’s doing well,” said Artemis. “Maybe she can be let loose in a field this afternoon.”

How in her element Artemis looked, and the sunshine she exuded … One couldn’t help but want to bask in it.

He managed to spare a glance for the donkey. “She’s looking content.”

“Oh, you’re going to have a wonderfully happy life here,” said Artemis. “Aren’t you, Little Lady?”

The donkey answered with a waggle of tall, tufted ears.

“Milady?” came a male voice behind them. They turned to find a lad holding a bucket and a sheepish look. “I’m here to muck out Little Lady’s stall.”

Artemis smiled at the lad, then said to Bran, “That’s us turfed out, isn’t it?” She gave Little Lady a parting stroke of the muzzle. “There’s a place I want to show you.”

Bran felt his eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“On the estate.” She hesitated, uncertainty hanging about her. “It’s a bit of a ramble. Will you ride?”

Instant panic flared through him, and “No,” was issuing from his mouth before he could consider the proposition.

But even as his heart lurched into a gallop, a part of him wanted to say yes .

Because it was Artemis who asked.

A vertical line between her eyebrows, she nodded. “We can walk.” A click of her tongue signaled to both Bathsheba and her hunter that they were setting out. “In fact, it’ll be a lovely walk.”

As they passed through the paddock and into the open fields of Somerton, the topmost golden arc of the sun just broke across the horizon and the truth of her words bore out as the dusting of morning mist began to dissipate and give way to daylight.

“England at its best,” said Bran.

In the wide sprawling expanse of sky, the sun had reached that exquisite point in its rise when it turned lonely scrags of clouds into pink gems for a breathtaking minute.

“Doesn’t it make you feel like one of God’s chosen creatures?”

“Aye,” he said. “Every sky has its own character, but dawn always feels like this.”

He felt Artemis’s curious gaze on the side of his face. “Isn’t it all one sky?”

“In theory, yes,” he said. “But I’ve found the skies have differences from place to place.”

“How so?”

“The sky of England contrasts greatly from that of Africa, for example,” he said. “England’s sky likes its clouds and can be stingy with its warmth.”

A light laugh escaped Artemis. “You make it sound like a person.”

“I suppose I came to see it that way. That a sky could reflect the character of the people beneath.”

“And the African sky?” she asked. “How does it reflect its people?”

Bran supposed he should have seen the question coming. “The sky of Africa is open and warm, its blue pure and untouched.”

“Like its people?” Artemis’s voice had gone soft with sensitivity.

He nodded. “Aye, like its people. Though …” It was with great difficulty that he continued.

“That is changing. It isn’t only their lands the Xhosa are losing, but their openness.

” From a chasm that yet yawned deep and black inside him, he said.

“Their magic, too. How I wish our bullets had turned to water that day.”

On they walked.

Within her silence at his side, he sensed understanding.

“I would like to see some of the skies and people you’ve seen. To test your theory, of course.” She turned a smile on him, her sunshine ever illuminating his darkness. “Have you been to Cornwall by chance?”

“I have.”

“What is the Cornish sky like?” she asked. “What makes it unique to any other sky?”

They’d entered a copse of woods that grew to either side of a lively, bubbling stream. Without missing a step, Artemis turned so they walked alongside it against the current.

Though Bran could answer the question in some detail, he sensed something beneath her words and he asked, “What is your interest in Cornwall? Is there a litter of kittens in need of rescue?”

Her mouth twitched with humor. “I have family there. I’d like to visit, if they’ll have me.”

His head cocked. “Why wouldn’t they have you, Artemis?”

“They might think I’m like—” She shook her head, as if to clear it of whatever the next word had been. “The thing is they’re my mother’s family, and they don’t know me.”

The right words assembled within Bran—words he couldn’t not speak. “They will love you, Artemis.”

Who wouldn’t , he didn’t say.

All around them was the rustling of autumn leaves, almost ready for their earthward descent in the coming weeks … birdsong in the trees … Bathsheba running free and chasing squirrels … the muted clip-clop of the hunter … But between them, silence.

The words he’d spoken veered close to a confession of love—but not quite.

He couldn’t speak those words yet.

Artemis was holding something back.

He could sense it.

And until she revealed it, no matter how he felt, he must wait.

Of a sudden, she lifted her arm and pointed. “ There .”