But when Bran had left her standing in the middle of the Doncaster racecourse with Rake and Gemma, a sudden screaming panic had raced through her. Without the bargain, nothing bound her and Bran. Sure, she would see him at the Race of the Century, then possibly at Rake’s house party at Somerton.
But nothing of substance tethered them together.
And she hadn’t been ready for that outcome.
She wasn’t sure what they needed to talk about, butsomethingneeded to be spoken between them.
So she would keep hanging around him until they happened upon the conversation they needed to have.
She would know it when they were having it.
She was certain.
Not that he’d given her the opportunity, as they hadn’t exchanged ten words these last three days. The blasted man had been stone silent, sitting on the driver’s bench beside Mr. Scunt, keeping his own counsel, his gaze fixed ahead when riding or intent on tending to Radish’s needs when stopped for breaks.
No time for her, his focus and silence proclaimed loudly.
So, she’d struck up a friendship with Mr. Scunt as she rode alongside the wagon on her favorite hunter, Pixie. Mr. Scunt knew everything there was to know about every inch of moor and dale they rode across. Not only the geology of it, but the people, too, from the farmers who worked the land to the lords and ladies who owned it to the innkeepers and tradesmen whoprofited from it. He seemed to accept it as his solemn duty to be a one-man conduit of gossip up and down the Great North Road. When he’d learned Artemis’s name—with theLadyattached—he’d nodded slowly in the manner of one storing up a great juicy morsel of tattle.
However, Mr. Scunt wasn’t the only bit of company. There were the farmers herding their sheep from one side of the road to the other; the stagecoach drivers with weather and road condition reports; and all sorts of folk in between, making their way from one point to another, all happy to stop and exchange a few pleasantries.
To pass the time, Artemis had begun counting the sheep. Before long, Mr. Scunt had turned it into a game. Each of them would scan the fields for flocks of sheep, which wasn’t all that difficult, as the sheep outnumbered the humans a good hundred to one. Then they started counting. Whoever had the quickest count with the closest-to-correct number when they called it won that round and added the number to their tally. At the end of the day’s ride, whoever had the highest number was the overall winner, and the loser had to buy the winner his supper that night.
Artemis had lost two days running, and was determined that today would be her day.
“Fifty-three,” came Mr. Scunt’s gravelly voice.
“What?” Artemis began frantically scanning the horizon until her gaze landed on a flock beneath a distant outcropping of rock. She tried to count, but the sheep looked like one amorphous mass of wool. “Mr. Scunt, your eyesight is keener than a raven’s,” she said, with no small amount of awe.
“Well,” he said, “ravens and me always did have an affinity.”
A snort sounded from the other side of the bench.
Artemis had about had it with Bran and his snorts.
She slowed Pixie’s trot to a walk so as to fall back a few yards and draw abreast with the caravan transporting Radish. It was a truly ingenious invention, as the Thoroughbred appeared comfortable and content. In the mornings and evenings, Bran saw Radish exercised to relieve the horse of his excess of energy before and after the twenty-five miles of enclosed travel.
She had to give Sir Abstrupus credit where it was due. He was ornery and obstructive and every bit her nemesis, but he was able to see the world in a way that had less to do with present circumstances than with future possibility.
“Did you feel that?” Bran asked of a sudden, his voice sharp and alert.
Artemis perked to as she glanced around, eyes and ears on high alert.
Mr. Scunt, however, didn’t appear too concerned. Utterlyunconcerned, more like. “A mere wee bump in the road, milord.”
Bran neither agreed nor disagreed, but held his counsel. He was waiting for something.
Artemis found herself waiting, too.
“There,” said Bran, assuredness in his tone. “That.”
Mr. Scunt shook his head with a smile that held no small amount of condescension. “Ah, no need to worry your lordly?—”
Of a sudden, a loud squealing sound rent the air, and the caravan began wobbling side to side. As Mr. Scunt pulled the reins to slow the team of horses, a suddencracksounded, then athud. As if events were transpiring at half the speed of usual time, Artemis watched as the team of four became entirely unhitched from the wagon, the drawbar slamming to the ground in that exact moment with a final and earth-shaking crash. Now that the team of four was unyoked from the caravan, Mr. Scunt began shouting commands and scrambling off the driver’s bench to bring the horses under control.
The instant they came to a stop, Bran jumped to the ground on a pained grunt. There would have been no way to cushion his bad leg against the impact. But he didn’t hesitate. Rather, he made straight for the back of the caravan to check on Radish.
From her mounted position, Artemis was able to peer inside. “He’s all right,” she called out. “Shaken, but all right.”
