He shot off down the lane leading to the archery field. “We are going to settle an old score.”
12
Bram’s pen hovered over the archery roster. Should he really be doing this? The absurdity of engaging in a childhood rivalry gnawed at him. Ought he, a grown man, allow himself to be drawn into a contest fueled by petty animosities?
He rolled the pen between his fingers, debating. Even if he won—no,whenhe won—Trestwell would persist in his irreverent remarks about Eva and other women. Would a victory in this competition truly serve as a defense of female virtue?
And yet he’d be hanged if he’d watch Trestwell fly off with Eva in that balloon in the dark of night, especially knowing her great fear of heights. Now that she’d been named queen, she had no choice but to take that short ride or face the social stigma of refusing such an honor. Either way, he would make sure she felt safe.
He signed his name with a flourish and slammed down the pen.
“Here ye be, then”—the registrar squinted at his writing as he held out a bow, three arrows, and a number tag to pin to his coat—“Mr. Webb, is it?”
Bram collected the items. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. You’re in the third heat. Best of luck.”
He dipped his head at the man, then strode over to where Eva stood by a wooden railing marking the archery field from the main thoroughfare. She held her tiara, bonnet, and flower bunched in one hand. The other she held to her mouth, busily nibbling at the nail on her index finger. Perhaps they ought not have come to Bonfire Night at all.
But it was too late now.
“I am proud of you, you know.” Gently, he pulled her finger from her mouth, then reset the tiara on her head. “I did not think I would be escorting a queen tonight.”
“We both know I am no queen.” Her lips twisted ruefully as her gaze drifted to the hot air balloon. “And I do not wish to go up in that awful balloon.”
Footsteps approached, and a moment later Trestwell pulled alongside Eva. “What’s this?” With a crook of his finger, he tipped her face up to his. “There’s nothing awful about a balloon ride, for you shall have nothing to fear with me at your side, Miss Inman. It will be glorious indeed.”
Eva pulled away from his touch.
Bram gritted his teeth. “That sure of your aim, are you?”
“I have won the last three years in a row, so yes.” He eyed Bram with a malignant stare. “I am very sure.”
Bram clicked his tongue. “I hope you won’t weep overmuch when I take that title from you.”
Eva stamped her foot. “It does not matter which of you wins. I cannot go up in that balloon.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid I must insist.” Trestwell’s head swiveled back to her. “I look forward to collecting my kiss when I am proclaimed king of the bonfire yet again. Until then, Miss Inman.”
He strolled off with a jaunty swagger.
Scoundrel! Bram stepped after him.
Eva tugged on his arm. “Let him go. You should know by now there is no sense arguing with that man.”
“I was not planning on exchanging words.” He flexed his free hand into a fist.
Eva huffed. “Neither of you have changed.”
He white-knuckled the bow and arrows, her words hitting as kindly as a brick to the head. What was it about coming back to the place he grew up that made him revert to his old foolish ways?
“You are right.” He breathed. “I suppose I am being childish. Would you rather I withdraw from the competition? We can go get a sausage roll instead.”
“That will not divest me of this.” She tapped at the tiara, her brow pinching. “Do you think you can best him? I cannot bear the thought of being a queen to Richard Trestwell’s king.”
“Remember when you asked me about this?” He ran his fingertip over the scar on his cheek.
“Yes. You said you got it from a student, from some sport you coach.”
