Pems shoved past and, at Rafe’s kick, leaped down into the shallow water. He tried to turn back. Rafe urged him on, water splashing up from the churning hooves, dampening his boots and trousers.
Rafe heard a splash behind him as the boy sent his bay into the water.
Pems was starting to panic. Reaching down, Rafe gripped the crest of his neck, squeezing hard to remind him to drop his head and think.
The stallion struggled on.
Then the bottom dropped from beneath his hooves.
Rafe leaned forward, letting his body float partially out of the saddle, one hand clutching the loop Thomas had braided into the stallion’s mane, the other gripping the horse’s neck. He spoke into the animal’s ear, keeping his voice calm, his tone relaxed. “You can do this, boy. Just a few more feet. I’m here with you. You’re almost there.”
Downstream, the gold rider’s sorrel struggled out of the river and up the muddy bank. Soon he was racing after the gray into the trees.
The stallion’s breathing was a hoarse rasp. The muscles in his shoulders pumped too fast, fueled by fear.
Rafe kept talking, trying to reach through the panic, then felt a jarring bump when the stallion’s front hoofs hit bottom again. Sinking back into the saddle, he let go of the loop and gathered the reins.
Pems lurched forward, hind legs digging for purchase, front legs slipping on the muddy bank. With a final lunge, he scrambled onto solid ground, then stood shaking, his sides heaving.
The bay clambered up the bank behind them, so winded his head hung and every breath sounded like a raspy cough.
No sign of the boy.
Hell.
Rafe looked back and saw him bobbing in the current, arms beating the water. With a curse, he rode downstream, tracking the young rider.
The boy grabbed frantically at a passing shrub, but the current pulled him back into the deeper channel. Rafe jumped off Pems, looped his reins over a downed log, and leaped, boots first, into the water.
When he reached the deep channel, the boy sank, rose coughing, then sank again. Reaching down into the murky water, Rafe grabbed a handful of hair and yanked him back to the surface.
“Don’t fight me,” he shouted, batting away the flailing arms.
After what seemed an endless struggle against the current, he felt firm ground beneath his boots. He dragged the boy up onto the bank and dropped to his knees beside him, his lungs on fire as he gasped for air.
After a moment, the boy stopped coughing and sat up.
Rafe struggled to his feet and staggered over to where he’d left Pems. “If I find your horse,” he called back, “I’ll tie him by the trail.”
He was relieved to see the stallion had relaxed enough to eat snatches of grass poking up around the log where he was tied. The bay stood nearby, still trembling and breathing hard. Rafe quickly tied him.
After making sure the stallion’s girth was secure and tight, he vaulted into the saddle and raced down the trail marked with yellow flags.
Precious time had been lost. But the field was down to three horses now and only two jumps left before the long final sprint. If they could make up half the distance they had lost by the time they reached the straight run, Pems might still have a chance.
The first jump posed no problem. Pems was calming down again, his stride losing the jerkiness of panic and settling into a smooth, fluid rhythm. The last obstacle was trickier because of its height, but at Rafe’s signal, the stallion collected, then lifted off, clearing it without difficulty. A bit of a hard landing, but he never broke stride.
Ahead was the home stretch. It was now or never.
Bending his knees so he could slip his boots into the higher straps Thomas had made, Rafe crouched above the saddle, shifting his weight off the stallion’s back and distributing it evenly along his sides. In addition to anchoring Rafe more solidly to the horse, the straps also allowed him to bend low over the horse’s neck, creating less of a wind barrier for the animal to overcome. A modified race rider’s saddle. But since a hunt course was rougher terrain than a flat course, balance was more precarious, so Rafe held the reins in one hand, and slipped his other through the braided loop. Now safely anchored by the straps and the loop, he leaned over the stallion’s neck and urged him to a faster pace.
The blow came out of nowhere, almost knocking him from the saddle. Before he could recover, another blow hit him across the shoulders. He looked to the right to see the gold rider sliding a long, thin blade from his cane. His arm swung back. But instead of coming at Rafe, the blade swooped low, toward Pems.
Rafe struggled to turn the galloping stallion.
The tip of the blade caught the stallion’s chest. Another swing narrowly missed the horse’s face, but sliced into his neck.
Reaching down, Rafe frantically dug for the leather bat that Ash had slipped beneath the skirt. Yanking it free, he raised it just in time to deflect another swipe of the blade.
“You bastard! What are you doing?”
The sorrel veered in, close enough for Rafe to see the vicious grin on the rider’s face as he drew his arm back again.
His boots still anchored in the straps, and holding on to the loop with his left hand, Rafe leaned as far toward the other horse as he could. With all his strength, he whipped the flat side of the leather bat across the gold rider’s face.
With a cry, the man tipped to the side, barely hanging on as the sorrel bolted through the brush.
Pems ran on.
Rafe righted himself and looked back, but saw neither the sorrel nor his rider. But he didn’t slow, knowing they were still out there somewhere.
He couldn’t tell how badly Pembroke was hurt. Blood covered his neck, splattered Rafe’s trousers and jacket. He couldn’t see the cut on his chest, but the stallion wasn’t limping. The gash in his neck was bleeding badly, but not spurting as it would have if an artery had been cut. Rather than pulling Pems in and giving the gold rider another try at him, Rafe let him run.
The gray was closer now, clearly visible through the trees.
They still had a chance.
Sound dimmed. Vision narrowed to the light at the end of the trees where pennants atop the tents fluttered in the morning sun. They inched nearer to Brantley’s horse. Dirt kicked up by the gray’s hooves pelted Rafe’s face.
Pems stretched out, his muscles bunching and reaching in long, churning strides. Wind whipped through Rafe’s sweat-and-blood-dampened hair. He could almost reach out and touch the gray’s haunches. Then his rider. With every stride, the gap narrowed. He could hear the gray’s breathing, the shouts of his rider urging him on. Flecks of foamy sweat flew back into Rafe’s face.
Above the pounding hooves, he heard the shouting of the crowd grow louder. They were almost there. Nearly blinded by the sudden glare of bright sunlight, they burst out of the trees.
Nose to nose now. Necks straining. Ahead, the ribbon stretched above the grass like a flat yellow snake.
“Go!” Rafe shouted over the screams of the crowd.
Pems dug in and, a second later, bounded past the watchers.
It was over. Done. The sudden release of tension was so great Rafe’s arms shook as he gradually pulled Pems back to a lope, then a trot, and finally to a walk. The shouts of the crowd grew dim. Movement slowed. Panting, he sagged in the saddle, his body shaking.
“You did it, boy,” he murmured to the spent horse. “Everything I asked.”
Dimly, he heard the hoofbeats of an approaching horse. Whirling, he saw Brantley’s rider coming toward him.
“Excellent run,” the man said, stopping the winded gray a few feet away. “Outstanding horse.” His affable expression changed to horror when he saw the blood. “Good God, man! What happened?”
Fury made Rafe’s voice shake. “The gold rider had a blade in his whip.”
“A
blade? He cut your horse?”
Rafe nodded, too enraged to speak. His body trembling again but for a different reason, he turned Pems back toward the tents. He would kill the bastard. Break his neck. Snap his bones with his bare hands.
Thomas met him before he reached the crowd, Ash close on his heels, Gordon limping behind. Rafe slid down. “Take Pems to his stall,” he told Thomas. “And Josie, too.” He didn’t want her to see what he was about to do. “Gordon, see if Brantley has a horse doctor. If so, send him to the stable as soon as you can.”
“What the bluidy hell happened?” Ash demanded.
“The bastard cut him.” Rafe shoved past the Scotsman and charged toward the sorrel just crossing the ribbon. Without a word, he yanked the rider from the saddle and slammed his fist into his face. A crunch as teeth broke. “You son of a bitch!” Another swing, another crunch as the nose flattened beneath Rafe’s knuckles. Before he could swing again, Ash and several other men pulled him back from the man bleeding on the ground.
Voices rose around him, but Rafe was still too furious to hear their words.
“I say! What’s going on here?” Brantley shoved through the men gathered around Rafe and the gold rider.
“He has a blade in his whip,” Rafe accused. “He cut my horse.”
With the help of his employer, the gold rider struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Both eyes were almost swollen shut.
“What whip?” the horse’s owner demanded. He pointed at Rafe. “He’s the one who injured my man here. He hit him in the face with his bat, the bloody bounder!”
“Did your rider have a whip, Haverton?” Brantley demanded of the owner.
“Do you see one?” Haverton shot back.
Brantley directed two men to check the sorrel’s saddle.
As Rafe had expected, they found nothing. “He probably threw it into the brush.” Pulling his arms free of the restraining hands, he turned to Ash. “You saw it. Tell them.”
“Did you see a blade, Lord Kirkwell?” Brantley asked.
“I saw a cane that probably held a blade.”
“That’s absurd,” Haverton argued.
Brantley waved him to silence. “But did you actually see the blade, Lord Kirkwell?”
“I dinna need to. I ken it was there.”
Haverton pointed an accusing finger at Rafe. “That man shouldn’t have even been allowed to race. He’s an accused criminal awaiting deportation and should be disqualified. He attacked my rider.”
“That’s a lie!”
All turned as the boy in green trotted his spent bay across the ribbon on the ground. “It were just the opposite.” Reining in, he scowled at Haverton’s rider. “I saw ’im do it, just a’fore he tossed this into the brush.” Reaching under his saddle skirt, he pulled out the gold rider’s cane and showed the blade hidden inside. “’E’s the attacker. The man on the stallion saved me life, so ’e did.”
And as quickly as it had turned against him, the mood of the crowd swung back in Rafe’s favor.
He didn’t care. Now that the fury had bled away, he just wanted to check on Pems. Without a word, he turned and strode stiffly toward the stable.
Ash fell in beside him. “Brantley sent down his horse doctor.”
Rafe walked on, trying to ignore the muscles cramping in his back.
“The cuts dinna look that deep.”
He hoped not. To have Pems needlessly hurt again just to amuse his owner sickened Rafe. It sickened him even more that, this time, he had had a part in it.
“By the way,” Ash said as they entered the stable and hurried toward the small group of people gathered outside Pembroke’s stall. “Congratulations.”
Rafe looked at him.
“You won the race.”
• • •
An hour later, feeling drained and shaken, Rafe led the bandaged stallion from his stall. The injuries weren’t as bad as he had feared, and he knew horses could tolerate a lot of pain, but watching the animal suffer through the doctor’s ministrations had been difficult to bear.
The cut on his neck wasn’t dangerously deep but did require ten stitches. The one on his chest took three. Because the blade had been clean, and the wounds had bled freely, there was only a small chance of infection. Still, to be safe, Rafe intended to carefully follow the horse doctor’s instructions: a flush with a mild saline solution, a topical salve, and a new bandage every day. When the wound healed, Rafe could cut out the stitches—maybe in a week or ten days.
Pems would be fine. But that didn’t lessen Rafe’s guilt that he had exposed the valiant, trusting horse to more injury. He could hardly look at Josie when he stepped into the aisle, aware of how miserably he had failed to protect her beloved horse. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything, but stepped forward and slipped her hand in his. That simple show of understanding was a balm to his aching heart.
“Can we leave now?” she asked.
He nodded, as eager to be on their way as she seemed to be. “Get Jamie and meet me at the Kirkwell carriage.”
She gave his hand a squeeze, then hurried from the stable.
Lord Brantley, who had been talking to Ash and Thomas, turned to Rafe with a look of concern. “How is he?”
“He’ll make it. Thank you for sending your doctor so quickly.”
“A hellish thing. Puts a blight on the entire sport. Be assured Haverton will be blacklisted from ever racing again.” Brantley sighed and shook his head. “Apparently the man bet heavily on his horse to take second, but you stood in the way. I would have brought his rider up on charges, but he’s long gone.” He held out a hand. “You have my apologies, Mr. Jessup. And my deepest regrets.”
Rafe accepted the handshake and the apology. “I appreciate that.” He didn’t want to appear brusque, but he was anxious to get moving. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I’d best hurry if we’re to sail today.”
“Of course, of course.” Brantley stepped back. “Safe travels, Mr. Jessup. On your way, then.”
“On your way where?” Cathcart asked, walking toward them. “And where do you think you’re going with my horse?”
Rafe frowned. Josephine’s father showed none of the remorse or concern over Pembroke’s injury that Brantley had exhibited—in fact, there was a glint of malice in his dark eyes. “What are you talking about, Cathcart?”
“I’m asking you what you’re doing with my horse.”
“He’s not your horse.”
“No?” With a look of innocent confusion, the older man pulled a fat leather pouch from his pocket. “Then why did Lord Brantley present me with these winnings as the horse’s owner?”
“Because that was our arrangement.”
“Arrangement?” Brantley stepped forward. “Is there an issue here? The horse doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Cathcart?”
“Not since noon today,” Rafe snapped, never taking his eyes from Josie’s father. “And I have the Bill of Sale to prove it.”
“Excellent.” Spreading his hands in invitation, Cathcart looked innocently at the other men watching the exchange. “Then by all means, produce it.”
Twenty-eight
Rafe felt a chill in his gut.
Had Cathcart stolen the Bill of Sale? Was he the one who had gone through his trunk earlier that morning? Was that why he looked so pleased with himself?
A bitter taste rose on his tongue. “It was witnessed by Hammersmith, your own head groom. And Gordon Stevens, as well. Even if the bill is lost—or stolen,” he added, glaring menacingly at Cathcart, “they can vouch for it.”
“This is most confusing.” Brantley frowned from Rafe to Cathcart. “I’m afraid, Mr. Cathcart, that until this matter is resolved, I’ll have to rescind my offer on the stallion.”
Rafe swung toward him. “He tried to sell you
the horse? But Pembroke isn’t his!” Whipping back to Josie’s father, he tried to keep the panic from his voice. “You signed the Bill of Sale over a month ago!”
“Prove it.”
Rafe started toward him.
Ash’s hand fell on his arm, his green eyes carrying a silent warning. “Here comes Stevens. Let him verify that he witnessed the sale.”
Seeing the smug smile on Cathcart’s face, Rafe knew the worst had happened. The Bill was gone. He stood shaking, his mind churning with fury.
“Stevens,” Ash said as Gordon limped up. “Did you witness a document drawn up between Mr. Cathcart and Mr. Jessup, concerning ownership of Pembroke’s Pride?”
Gordon shifted his weight off his bad leg. “I think so, milord.”
“You think?” Cathcart laughed, playing to the onlookers.
Brantley ignored him. “Did you, or did you not, witness the signing of the document?”
“I had just broken my leg, sir. I was taking laudanum. Things were a bit muddled at the time.” The beleaguered groom shot Rafe an apologetic look. “I’m fairly sure I did.”
Cathcart sneered. “Fairly certain is not the same as absolutely certain.”
“What about the other witness?” Brantley asked. “Hammersmith, I believe you called him.”
“He’s at the docks,” Ash said, “loading my horses for transport.” He turned back to Gordon. “Where is Jessup’s trunk? Perhaps the document is in there.”
“On the cart. But . . .” Another worried look at Rafe. “This morning before the race, it seems someone went through Mr. Jessup’s things. That’s why I’m late. I was checking with Lord Kirkwell’s grooms to see if they had seen anyone loitering about during the race.”
“And had they?” Brantley pressed.
“No, milord.”
Cathcart grinned nastily. “There you have it then. No Bill of Sale. No reliable witnesses. Just the word of a felon against an upstanding English businessman.”
Rafe glowered at him. Maybe they had missed it. Maybe they didn’t know he’d slipped it in the back of the tablet. He asked Gordon if he’d seen a tablet when he’d packed his belongings. “It would have been on the bookshelf by my cot. ‘Thomas’s Story’ was written on the front page.”
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