Trickery? He frowned. Eva couldn’t have been more sincere.
“Hear, hear!” he shouted, clapping his hands so hard his palms stung. “Cheers for a humble answer!”
“It were humble, weren’t it?” the big man next to him mumbled, then slapped his meaty hands together in a clap that made Bram flinch. It did the trick, though. Applause broke out from the whole crowd. Instead of taking a victory lap, Eva gave a little dip to her head and retreated back to the line of women.
The announcer huddled with two other men. Judges, apparently. Eventually they signaled for Miss Channing to join them.
The crowd still murmured about Eva’s unconventional answer, yet now the comments were favorable—save for one that traveled on a husky tone.
“Wonder if Eva Inman is as humble in the hayloft.”
Another man joined in with the scoundrel’s rude jesting.
Once again Bram craned his neck, this time spying two men with their heads bent together. Why, he ought to—
“It is with great pleasure, ladies and gents, that I announce this year’s queen. Miss Channing, will you please place the crown on the lucky lady who will attend the king as he shoots a flaming arrow from the hot air balloon? And that lady is...” He paused for dramatic effect. “Miss Eva Inman!”
Bram whooped—then immediately clamped his mouth shut. As glad as he was that she’d won, she would hate going up in that balloon.
“Pardon me.” He pushed his way through the throng, headed for the back stairs, when that same man’s voice chuckled lewdly.
“Well, well. Inman Manor surely has its secrets. I bet that girl’s got a hidden talent or two up those grand staircases.”
That did it.
Bram wheeled about, rising to the balls of his feet and spying for those two men in the dark caps who’d had their heads together earlier. His gaze locked onto the shorter of the two.
He was a severe-looking gent with a bushel of wavy hair flowing from beneath his derby. His eyes were dark. His brows even darker, and so thick, they almost met in the middle. There was a cruel line to his jaw, with a patch of beard below his lip and on his chin. Beneath that finely sewn coat, muscles fought their way against the fabric. This man was the sort one didn’t go against willfully unless broken teeth and pain were high on the priority list. Unbidden, Bram’s tongue ran over the jagged molar at the back of his mouth, what was left of it anyway from a fistfight long ago.
Richard Trestwell.
He should have known.
Sucking in air, he shouldered through the dispersing crowd, closing in on Trestwell and his friend just as they turned their backs. “Hold it right there, Trestwell. I will thank you to voice no more randy comments pertaining to Miss Inman.”
Slowly the man turned, his eyes narrowing. When recognition finally took root, his nostrils flared. “I was told you were in town.”
“Who is it, Boss?” The younger fellow next to him looked from Bram to Trestwell.
“An old acquaintance. And you’re just in time, Webb.” A slow smile stretched his mouth. “Fitting that you should be here to watch me fly off with your pretty little pet.”
“Over my dead body.” The words barely made it past his clenched jaw.
“If you like.” Trestwell shrugged.
“So we are to pick up where we left off, is that it? You haven’t changed a bit, you boastful braggart.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re looking at the town’s championship archer.” He poked a finger into Bram’s shoulder.
“Congratulations.” He batted away Trestwell’s touch. “But your reign ends now.”
Without another word, Bram forged his way to the backstage stairs just as Eva and Miss Channing were descending. A glittery tiara sparkled brightly against Eva’s hair, her flower and bonnet clutched in her fingers at her side, her face still a shade paler than normal.
“Well done, Eva. If you will pardon us, Miss Channing.” He pulled Eva away from her friend.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Miss Channing called after them.
“Yes”—Eva peered up at him—“where are we going? Home, I hope. I cannot go up in a balloon!”
