And, as if Bran’s will possessed powers beyond those of the natural world, that was exactly what Radish began to do. His grit and determination andwillimplacable, he set to work.
By the third turn, Radish had caught up to the pack, then by the next straight, he was ready to make his move. Lafferty didn’t repeat his earlier mistake, but instead directed Radish to the outside. A risky move, but necessary. If the race was to swing in Radish’s favor, this was the crucial moment. The blink of an eye later, Radish was neck and neck with the race’s leaders on the final furlong.
Impelled by forces beyond his control, Bran pushed away from his solitary shadow of wall and stepped to the railing as Radish stretched at precisely the right moment and took the St. Leger Stakes in a win for the ages.
Even as Bran saw the proof of victory with his own eyes, belief refused to take hold. It wasn’t until the stable lads and grooms rushed toward him in a raucous swarm and hoisted him onto their shoulders in jubilation that belief sank in.
Radish had won the St. Leger.
That £3,521 purse washis.
This was the first time anything had gone right for him in two years.
This was awin.
Triumph, pure and gold as guineas, took wing inside him as the lads carried him through the frenzied crowd toward the finish line. He found he hadn’t lost the taste for victory with all its sweetness and buoyancy. Time became blurred in the jubilant aftermath as, still hoisted on the lad’s shoulders, he was carried onto the track, congratulations pouring in from every angle. Then it was on to the presentation of the winner’s plate and—most importantly—the winner’s purse.
£3,521.
How heavy and how sweet.
Gwyneth could have her season in grand style, and even with a small dowry.
Further, Radish was now qualified for the Race of the Century—and the possibility of its £10,000 purse, which was a respectable dowry by any standard.
And with today’s victory, there was one thing more—he didn’t have to immediately return to his shambles of a life. A stay of sentence might be all it was, but he found he was willing to accept it. Who knew what more this one win might yield, for winning held a secret that few understood—it carried a momentum of its own.
Winning begot winning.
No.
He wouldn’t get ahead of himself.
Today, he would take the win—and leave every other consideration for tomorrow.
A sudden taut feeling slid across his skin—as if he were being watched. Of course, he was being watched—by several thousand merrymakers, in fact. However, it wasn’t thousands of pairs of eyes that he felt—but one.
Hers.
Unerringly, his gaze shifted and locked with Artemis’s.
Instinctively, he took a step forward, then, reflexively, froze, resisting the urge that had felt only natural an instant ago. To close the distance between them and take her in his arms and whirl her around and around until her skirts flew in the air and they were dizzy with laughter and light and wonder at this improbable victory.
In that instant, there had been no one he’d rather share this feeling with.
Magnets.
How quickly it became a world of two.
The thought should have produced a surge of anger. But this time, it didn’t. The truth was he was tired of that pattern of thinking.
Some new part of him suggested Artemis might not deserve it. The events that had been so set in stone these last ten years felt as if they now rested on shifting sands.
Lies.
As she continued moving forward, toward him, and he remained rooted in place—no whirling embraces for them—his eye caught upon the two figures accompanying her. The tall, dark-haired man beside her, handsome and confidently imposing in the manner of a lord supremely assured of his place in the world, was her brother, Rakesley, whom he’d met years ago. The woman at his side, auburn-haired and lanky, whose pregnancy was just showing, would be Rakesley’s wife, his scandalous duchess who had once been his jockey. In truth, she didn’t have the air of a walking scandal. Rather, her hazel eyes held kindness and warmth as she smiled her congratulations at him.
Where Artemis hesitated, Rakesley rushed forward and reached for Bran’s hand to shake. “Well done, old chap.”
