A coin never returned to earth so slowly. Over and over it flipped, catching snatches of golden torchlight with every revolution. Until at last it landed, and they all three crowded in to learn their fate.
Shining up at them was the worn image of a ship.
Lord Branwell, and therefore Sir Abstrupus, had won the toss.
Artemis squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. Why, oh why, had she accepted the invitation to this midnight supper? She’d known Sir Abstrupus was up to something.
Why?
She knewwhy.
The man beside her waswhy.
She opened her eyes to find her host beaming with unconcealed satisfaction. The approaching sunrise would have nothing on him for luminosity. Lord Branwell, however, looked less than delighted by his victory.
In fact, his scowl had further deepened.
The last ten years had certainly taught the man to scowl to great effect.
“Now,” said Sir Abstrupus. “As all combatants should do once the long, dark night of battle has concluded and the dawn begins to break across the horizon, you shall now shake hands.”
Sir Abstrupus was correct on one count—the sun was indeed beginning to brighten the sky in the east—but Artemis had her doubts about the second.
Before she could voice her reservations, Lord Branwell said—growled, “I’ve fought my fair share of battles, and never once have I shaken hands with the enemy after.”
Enemy.
He was referring toher.
“Humor an old man,” said Sir Abstrupus. “I’ve not many years left above ground.”
An awkward few seconds ticked past wherein Artemis and Lord Branwell remained rooted in place. “Oh, bother,” she said, and closed the distance between them in three quick strides. Her gaze lifted and found his inscrutable eyes upon her, wariness in those golden depths.
I’ve fought my fair share of battles.
What an incredible amount of life this man had lived these last ten years.
Battles fought and won.
Battles fought and lost.
He extended his hand. For all her bluster and hurry, Artemis seemed to have forgotten her purpose, which was to shake this man’s hand. Her gaze fell, and memory flooded through her. That hand—calloused, capable, masculine—had once known the secrets of her body. Did it still?
A slight tremble through to her fingertips, she slipped her hand into his. Utter shock traced through her—of skin against skin.Hisskin against her skin. Its warmth. Its vibrancy. This hand that held hers …
It yet knew her secrets.
Her gaze startled up and met his, her hand clasped in his, and still it remained—the wariness.
She snatched her hand back and the contact was gone—but not the effect of it.
She swallowed back sensation and memory and turned to Sir Abstrupus. “I’ll meet your trainer at the Grange’s practice track at noon.”
An awkward silence expanded through the air. She just caught the exchange of alookbetween Sir Abstrupus and Lord Branwell. A knot formed in her stomach. “What is it that I don’t know?”
And didn’t Sir Abstrupus have the look of a man who would delight in telling her as he addressed Lord Branwell. “Did you hear that?”
“What does Lord Branwell have to do with it?”
