Thirty-six

“Do you know what the face of a coward is?” Marcus asked, stroking Khan’s neck. “It’s his ass on the run…as yours will be soon.”

The Prussian stared intently at the meadow, hands clamped behind his back. “Idle boasts, Englisch.” His gaze raked Khan. “Despite your fine horse, you’ll not win.”

Goading the beast was foolish, like scratching an itch better left untouched. The man’s smugness stuck in Marcus’s craw. Herr Wolf needed a good tossing out. The Prussian stood ramrod straight as if he was prepared to inspect unworthy recruits. Sunlight glinted off his flat, round silver hatpin. Not a hair was out of place or a wrinkle on his clothes. A black ribbon wrapped the length of his queue, the favored style for men of action.

They stood in the open, away from the party gathered near a copse of trees. Footmen pounded wooden posts in the meadow. The finish line. Khan’s ears twitched. His nostrils flared. The gray knew something was afoot.

“You’re certain I’ll lose.”

“It is the way of men lacking discipline.” Herr Wolf stepped on a small chunk of wood, grinding it to pieces. “They fall in line, or they fall apart.”

Force or be forced: this was his creed. The oaf dismissed Marcus as a man of no substance. Until coming north, he would’ve agreed. Life here, the horses, and Genevieve changed him.

Marcus smiled thinly. “I take it you have a similar philosophy with women.”

“I treated Genevieve well. I saved her from squalor.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. We help others, but for someone’s life to truly change, they must save themselves. You didn’t save her; you stole her. In doing that, you took her right to make a choice for herself.”

Today, he would do everything in his power to give it back.

Light flickered in the beast’s pale eyes before he faced the road. “Lord Barnard explained the circumstances already. I leave England with Genevieve in tow.”

“In tow? Like baggage strapped to your carriage?” Marcus smirked. “Or will you tie her up and make her trot behind? Five, ten paces for good measure…just to keep her in line.”

Herr Wolf shook his head. “A man should know when he has lost.”

Dishes clinked, melding with genteel laughter. No one knew a woman’s life hung in the balance. Footmen set white-and-blue-painted Wedgwood on pure white tablecloths. The white hems snapped and fluttered around spindled table legs. To the baron’s guests, this was yet another entertainment…like so many Marcus had partaken of over the years.

Pounding hooves and rolling wheels sounded from the east. A carriage crested the road with baggage strapped to the top.

Marcus tightened his grip on the reins. “You’re right, of course. That night at cards, you exploited my weakness. I should admit you defeated me. Soundly, in fact.”

Black ravens landed in the trees above the gathering. Mrs. Grey laughed, the sound like tinkling crystal.

“Do not think to flatter me, Englisch. You’re finished.” The Prussian stretched one leg in front of the other, his boots crushing dormant grass.

He headed for the carriage where Lord Barnard’s conveyance waited on the knoll. Two large men dressed in livery idled by the carriage, their beefy arms straining their sleeves, but they wore no periwigs. They were the types found on docks…rufflers with hairy knuckles and brutish jowls, men hired for brutish business.

“How about one more wager? Something to put me in my place.”

“You’ve nothing I want.” The Wolf kept going.

“There is this,” Marcus shouted, digging a thrice-folded paper from his pocket.

Gossipy onlookers turned their way. Lord Stoneleigh whispered behind his hand to Halliburton. Mrs. Grey looked up from fussing with her silk panniers. Genevieve stood with her, one hand shading her eyes.

The Prussian’s retreat slowed, and if Marcus read him right, his head cocked a few degrees sideways. He swung around. “What is it?”

Marcus held up the paper. “Something to smooth your journey home.”

A lanky stableboy opened a gate and led Atal’s black horse into the meadow. Fine-tuned muscles rippled under the steed’s sleek coat. The guests applauded, erupting with chatter. Sweat pricked Marcus’s forehead. The baron’s bay danced skittishly through the gate behind the black filly, an older stable master holding her lead.

“This will hound you, but if you don’t want it…” Marcus stuffed the paper in his pocket.

A footman opened Barnard’s carriage door. Lord Barnard stepped gingerly onto the road, followed by a wiry man in a gray suit and black boots like Herr Wolf’s. Herr Avo Thade. Marcus eyed Samuel under the brim of his hat. His friend nodded grim-faced, patting the pistol tied to his thigh.

Ham-sized fists curled at Herr Wolf’s side. He marched back to Marcus. “If this is some kind of trick…”

“No trick. It’s my marriage license. As a gambling man, I’d say you have the indenture contract in your pocket.”

“I do.” A giant paw covered the Prussian’s heart. For all his cold control, the soldier had a tendre for Genevieve…at least his twisted version.

“Why not wager it?” Marcus asked quietly.

Herr Wolf stilled, and Marcus fanned the embers glowing in the beast’s eyes.

“You want to destroy what I have in my pocket, don’t you? You hate that she chose me over you.”

The Wolf’s nostrils flared.

“I’m not the strategist you are, but”—Marcus glanced at the waiting carriage—“could be you planned to kidnap Genevieve during the race. You’d have a hunt on your hands, a delay you don’t want.”

“What is your point, Englisch?”

“My point is she’s smart and she’s stubborn. Imagine the trouble ahead,” he argued. “Leaving for a covert mission with an Englishwoman making a ruckus, tossing around the Northampton name. Tsk, tsk. What would your Baron Bromberg have to say?”

Herr Wolf’s mouth pinched.

Marcus patted his chest where paper crinkled under his hand. “If you burn this, she’d have no legal argument, and we both know you want badly to destroy what I have.”

“I at least want to give her a better life. I did not think you so desperate as this.”

“For a chance to get back at you? Why not? You embarrassed me before my peers.”

“No, I mean to use her this badly.”

Marcus flinched. Couldn’t help it. The sordid transaction made him want to scrub his skin, but he carried on, playing the low card. For once, having a scoundrel’s reputation helped.

“Did you think I had feelings for the daughter of an actress? I crave excitement is all. These northern climes are cold and boring. It was fun for a time, but now I must do my duty to my family.”

At the starting post, the lad mounted the black. Lord Barnard stood at the edge of the gathering, Avo Thade shadowing him. Thade planted both hands on his hips, spreading his coat. Silver-trimmed flintlocks flanked his ribs. The Frisian’s black eyes zeroed in on Marcus—quiet, menacing, less docile than the day he drove a cart to Pallinsburn when the Wolf thought he’d collect his prize. He gave Marcus the barest nod before scanning the crowd. Brisk winds blew, but sweat trickled down Marcus’s temple. He swiped it with one finger.

“I would not tolerate you in my command,” Herr Wolf scoffed, pulling yellowing foolscap from his pocket. “The terms.”

The black pawed the ground. The stable master mounted the nervous bay filly, the horse’s eyes showing white. This had to be her first race.

A coppery taste coated Marcus’s mouth. “I win, the indenture is mine. I lose, I forfeit the marriage license.”

Baron Atal cupped his mouth. “Lord Bowles. Are you ready?”

He held up a hand. “A moment,” Marcus yelled and lowered his voice for the Prussian. “What say you?”

Wolf’s eyes flared wide. “You are more craven than I thought, using Genevieve like this.”

“Coming from a man who tricked her into servitude, I’ll take my chances on how you define what’s craven.” He fisted the reins. “Are you taking the wager or not?”

“With pleasure. Englisch.”

Baron Atal clapped his hands. “Gentlemen, the race is about to begin. Please conclude your wagers.”

Khan snorted, catching the excitement. Men buzzed around the footman keeping the book.

Marcus pulled a thrice-folded document from his pocket. “Do we agree that Mrs. Grey will hold the documents?”

He nodded. “She will do.”

The Prussian marched ahead, the indenture contract dangling in his grip. Marcus followed Herr Wolf, a careful eye on the indenture. Had he overplayed his hand? The giant had acquiesced too easily.

“Mrs. Grey, would you and the gentlemen here witness a wager between Herr Wolf and myself? I have a peculiar requirement.”

She smiled brightly as the breeze stirred an artful curl against her temple. “Of course, Bowles. Peculiar requirements add to the excitement.”

“Herr Wolf and I require two papers held by you. No one may read them. They’re of a confidential nature.”

The wind carried her soft, knowing exhale. Keen eyes widened a fraction on both men. “I’m honored to have your trust, gentlemen.”

Herr Wolf set the indenture in her silk-gloved hand, the foolscap folded from prying eyes. Pulse threading hard, Marcus gave over his thrice-folded paper.

She rolled them tightly together and tucked the roll in her cleavage, under Samuel’s thunderous glare. “I expect you want me to hand over both documents to the winner.”

“You are as lovely as you are astute,” Marcus said, touching his hat in deference. “Perfect for the task.”

“Mr. Beckworth’s disapproving glower suggests otherwise.”

Samuel hooked his thumb in his waistband and turned his glower to the starting line. “Your brother is a baron. I would hope you’d have some regard for decorum.”

“Now you’re concerned for my decorum? A moment ago you grumbled about the dangers of a woman around excitable horses.” Her fingers tickled Khan’s muzzle. “Lady Bowles seems to be handling herself well. I think I can too.”

“Lord Bowles, if you please,” Baron Atal called impatiently from the starting line.

“There’s one more wager,” she called back to her brother and laughed. “You men…always in a rush. Anticipation is half the fun.” Mrs. Grey snapped her fingers for the footman keeping the book. “Hanley, come record a wager so we can commence this rough outing of ours.”

Genevieve stood quietly next to Samuel, nibbling her bottom lip and checking the ruffians idling by Barnard’s carriage.

The footman trotted over. He listened, his lead stick scratching the page. “Very good, milord, Herr Wolf.”

“Repeat it,” Wolf ordered.

Shoulders back, young Hanley read the wager aloud. “If Lord Bowles wins the horse race, both documents held in trust with Mrs. Grey belong to Lord Bowles. If Lord Bowles comes in second or third place, said documents held by Mrs. Grey become the property of Herr Wolf.”

Wolf crossed his arms, a cold smile playing on his mouth. “This is acceptable.”

“I say, Bowles, quit dragging your feet.” Lord Halliburton plucked a macaroon from the table. “I’m here for a race, not conversation.” He shivered, his limp wrist batting the air. “All this nature is positively dreadful.”

Samuel gave Marcus a leg up. Blood pounded in Marcus’s ears. His throat dried, but not with the craving. It was fear. All the pieces had to fall in place. Samuel patted Khan, his close-lipped smile tense. Sweat sheened on Samuel’s forehead. The moment of truth had come.

Marcus leaned toward Samuel, speaking for his ears alone. “Did you give my note to Atal?”

“I did. Care to tell me its contents?”

“After the race.”

Marcus sat up, taking note of Herr Avo Thade with Barnard by the trees. He glanced at Barnard’s footmen by the road. One of the men was cleaning his nails with the tip of a nasty blade, not bothering with the farce of playing a footman.

Samuel followed his sight line. “Do you think they’ll try to snatch Genevieve here?”

“I don’t know. Watch over Genevieve,” Marcus cautioned. “Guard her with your life.”

“I will.”

“Lord Bowles.” Atal waved a flintlock, beckoning him to the starting line. “To your post, if you will. I’m about to announce the course.”

Marcus trotted the gray to the posts. Chill winds drowned Atal’s voice. Marcus already knew the way. Race west around a stone where a footman held the ancient Atal pennant, and race back for all he was worth. This meadow was the battlefield, the horse and riders the combatants.

“Milord!” Genevieve ran toward him, skirts clutched. “I want to wish you good luck.”

“A moment, Atal.”

“Yes, yes.” He sighed impatiently, his lace cuffs fluttering in the breeze.

Genevieve scurried to Khan’s side. Breathing hard from her spring, she set a hand on his leg. Herr Wolf scowled by the trees, but there was nothing the brute could do. In the battle for Genevieve’s affections, the fair damsel had made clear who’d won her affections.

“Milord.” Her big brown eyes pleaded with Marcus, but no words came.

Did she wish he wouldn’t race? Too late for that.

She touched a kiss to her fingers and raised her hand to his. He bent over in the saddle and caught her proffered hand, kissing her fingertips.

“No matter what happens, stay by Samuel,” he said and let go. His blood thrummed with fear, excitement…the thrill of what was ahead.

“It’s time, gentlemen,” Atal announced.

Samuel guided Genevieve a safe distance from the starting line. She kept looking over her shoulder, her red hood falling back and gold hair flying free, but the race was upon him. The black danced sideways, bumping the skittish brown.

Atal raised a flintlock high, and Marcus crouched over Khan’s withers, squinting ahead.

A shot cracked, and the world blurred.

Khan lunged forward. Atal’s black took the lead. Hooves pummeled the grass like cannons in battle. Hot sweat born of desperation jabbed Marcus’s skin. This was no thrill race. The horses, Khan, and Samuel needed victory. But most of all, Genevieve.

All the pieces were in play.

His grip on the reins hovered over the pommel. Wind stole his hat. Sunlight blinded him.

Three horses jostled for position. Atal’s black charged ahead, Khan at her heels.

Faster!

His heart banged as if he were running the race. The nervous brown bay bumped his leg. Khan gained ground. The gray’s nose pumped in time with his hooves, but the lanky stableboy rode the black as if born to her.

“Go!” Marcus bellowed.

The pennant billowed ahead.

Wind battered his face. Eyes watering, he squinted. The ground sped past. They inched closer, Khan’s head along the black’s ribs. Atal’s brown strained on the other side of Marcus, the whites of her eyes showing. The older rider bobbled the reins. He tried to get a grip and keep her steady.

The rock. The footman holding the pennant high. The servant hunched.

Khan kept up with the black, his nose equal to the filly’s shoulder. The lad was good, bending low over her neck. His eyes stayed the course. His mouth moved, speaking words only he and the filly knew.

A glossy sheen covered Khan’s withers. Marcus panted, his lungs fair to bursting. Grass clods flew from soft, wet ground. Khan slipped, banging the black. The lad hugged lowered. They rounded the heavy stone, Khan and the black nudging again.

Wind whipped Marcus, slapping his face and stinging his eyes. Knees bent, heels digging down, he tensed as if by will he could force the win. His heart drubbed. Sunlight shined on the twin posts. He strove with Khan to reach them. The noise of hammering hooves eased. The skittish brown bay must’ve dropped back. He couldn’t afford to check.

The posts were ahead.

Cursing, he urged Khan forward. The gray’s nose bobbed alongside the black’s neck. Closer. Closer. Khan’s nose inched up. The two were nearly neck and neck. Acrid tastes coated Marcus’s mouth…salt…copper. He gulped air. The posts… They were several horse lengths ahead. He let go of the reins and grabbed Khan’s mane and let him have his head.

Khan surged ahead by a nose.

The finish line. They raced for it, both horses lunging, legs stretching. The ground sped underneath. Marcus’s heart burst from the pounding. Khan fought, tendons straining as though the horse knew. So much at stake. The horses. The partnership. Genevieve.

Sweat lathered on the black’s neck beside him. Khan’s Godolphin legs flew off the ground. The gray shot past the posts and won by a head. The proud steed arced in a wide circle before slowing to a gentle gallop. Panting as hard as his horse, Marcus stared wide-eyed ahead, seeing nothing.

They had won.

Bits and pieces of the world came together.

The sun glared. The wind blew. A cheering crowd circled. Men slapped each other’s back with whoops and hollers like excited boys. Mrs. Grey was among the clutch of men, the papers peeking from her bodice. The lad on the black touched his forelock to Marcus. The stable master’s chest billowed, but he touched his forelock to Marcus too and dismounted from the lathered bay. He walked the high-strung bay afield to get her away from the crowd.

Marcus slid off Khan, salt stinging his eyes. His boots hit the ground, and he braced both hands on his knees. He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, but the sting burned deep. He’d witnessed Khan’s birth. His horse of almost five years, a creature of intelligence he trained, weaning the foal from his mother, his friend…was lost.

“Sorry, old friend,” he said, his breath billowing painfully.

Nostrils flared, Khan snorted. His head tipped with pride at winning the race, the gleam of victory in his eyes. A knot formed behind Marcus’s breastbone. Stroking Khan’s muzzle, he had to let go. Genevieve ran to his side and smothered his face with kisses.

“You won!” she cried and squeezed his shoulders.

Samuel slapped his back. “Well done, Marcus. Well done. Khan will get extra oats and a fine rubdown tonight.”

“He’ll have the finest care.” Marcus gathered Khan’s reins and stood upright.

Atal approached in high spirits. “Good show, Bowles. Finest race I’ve seen in a long time.” He smiled at Samuel and Genevieve, his pomade curls defying the wind. “I can’t complain about the outcome.”

“Both your horses did well, Baron,” Genevieve said.

“Both? All three of the horses are mine.” He smiled and snapped his fingers for a footman. “Didn’t your husband tell you? He sold Khan to me.”

“What?” Genevieve and Samuel cried out in unison.

Marcus hissed through clenched teeth. Sweat trickled down his face. “A moment, if you please.”

Samuel grabbed Marcus’s arm, his astonishment morphing to brilliant respect. “A defining moment, Marcus. You are a man of honor.”

“You sold Khan?” Both hands covered Genevieve’s cheeks, but her eyes glossed with pain.

Her mouth an O, her face crumpled as the footman led Khan away to his new life in a plush stall in Baron Atal’s barn. Head high, the gray’s tail arced with pride. At the road, Khan’s neck arched for one look back. Big brown eyes, knowing eyes, took in the cluster of Samuel, Marcus, and Genevieve. The gray snorted, cresting the knoll to the castle. Khan knew what was afoot. The last snort was his approval at being sacrificed for love and friendship.

“I did,” Marcus said wistfully, taking in Samuel and Genevieve. “For us.”

The Prussian’s boots slammed the earth on his march from the trees. He squabbled with Barnard and Thade, the hulking footmen trailing by three paces. Barnard grabbed Herr Wolf’s arm and jabbed a finger at his waiting carriage.

“Nein!” the soldier bellowed, shaking Barnard off.

The baron glared at the disturbance. “What in the devil is going on?”

The Prussian charged the finish line, reaching behind his back and pulling a pistol from his breeches’ waistband. Thade and the two rufflers followed suit.

“Samuel, get Genevieve and Mrs. Grey out of here.” Marcus reached inside his boot for his pocket pistol, but Herr Wolf cocked his pistol, aiming at Marcus.

“Hands up, Englisch.”

Marcus stilled and slowly began to raise both hands. Cries rose from the revelers. Stoneleigh and the others scattered up the knoll. Halliburton showed some mettle and pulled a pocket pistol from inside his coat.

“Herr Wolf,” Atal blustered. “You are a guest in my home. I demand—”

“Shut up.”

Atal faltered. Ravens cawed, and Avo advanced on Wolf, holding his pistol by the barrel.

Sunlight gleamed sharp off the Prussian’s pistol. Marcus winced and raised his hands higher. The next few seconds flew past, yet each motion, each word was a picture frame in time, dragging in a blur.

Wolf barked “The papers!” at Mrs. Grey as feral-eyed Avo Thade slammed his pistol butt on the Prussian’s skull.

The giant fell forward as onlookers yelled from the knoll. Mrs. Grey screamed. Thunder sounded, but no storms brewed.

“Marcus!” Genevieve yelled.

The rufflers advanced, their faces grim. The thunder grew. People yelled. Fingers pointed frantically behind Marcus. He glimpsed the skittish brown charging him. Clods of dirt flew. Teeth bared, the brown kicked up her heels. Marcus dove to avoid her but too late.

She slammed him. He flew through the air and landed hard, his head hitting the grassy ground. The world became hazy. Gray light stole around him, shrinking the world. The rufflers dragged an unconscious Wolf to the carriage, his boot toes plowing grass. Thade tucked his pistol away and gave Marcus a slight nod. Their plan had worked.

Not only had Barnard tipped the Wolf’s hand by revealing when he’d leave; Barnard had also revealed a possible ally in Avo Thade.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

His head throbbed with the ancient proverb. Gray light spread across his vision. A crowd shadowed him, their shoes black leather in the grass. Genevieve knelt beside him, her red cloak the last thing he saw before the world went black.