Bran only just didn’t growl. His left boot was easy to manage, but the right one was an altogether different proposition. It took time and patience—and he had neither as she closed the distance. The sweat of hasty exertion coupled with annoyance pinpricked his skin.
Blessedly, just as she called out, “Fancy seeing you here,” the boot gave way and slipped into place on his heel.
Those words—Fancy meeting you here—rang false. “You knew I would be here.”
A smile, sheepish and self-conscious, pulled at her mouth. “Yeah, I did.”
A laugh startled out of him.
Had he wanted her to deny it?
Or confess to a pursuit of him—if her presence here could be characterized as such?
“You’re leaving for Doncaster with Radish today?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“He’s ready.”
Bran grunted, but remained otherwise silent.
The thing washewasn’t ready to agree with this woman about anything.
He shifted to the side and began the process of getting to his feet—planting a hand into sand, rolling his weight onto his side, and getting his good leg beneath him to bear the brunt when he shoved at a diagonal angle with enough will and momentum to get himself upright.
An outstretched hand appeared at the edge of his vision. She’d closed the remaining few yards between them, and there she stood—offering her help.
Bitterness struck through him so violently he tasted it on his tongue, and he had to grind his teeth together to hold in the howl of frustration that wanted airing.
He ignored the hand—and continued the process.
If it made her uncomfortable, she could look the other way.
Or better yet, leave.
She did neither.
She remained where she was—within reaching distance—and watched in her unflinching way.
“Have you business with me?” he asked at last, when he stood as upright as his body allowed.
But the urgency faded from the question once he noticed the proximity of their bodies. Under oath, he would swear he could feel the heat of her. It came off her in radiant waves. He remembered that about her. She’d been his sun.
Nay, nothis, it turned out.
His earlier thought returned to him. She had been young. And though he’d been a few years older, he’d been young, too. Perhaps he should forgive her for having been young—and himself, as well.
Her head canted to the side, as if she were assessing him. “You were able to come to your feet on your own steam.”
He wasn’t sure if he should feel offended or merely annoyed.
He couldn’t help feeling both.
It was one thing, however, that prevented him from becoming too much of either—the look in her eyes.
Artemis was only being herself—the lady who voiced what was on her mind.
Before she asked her next question, he knew what it would be. “Why don’t you ride?”
