“Does that mean Sir Winford hasn’t offered for you?”
That stung. Meg squared her shoulders. “Not yet,” she flung back at him. She raised her chin. Lucy would be proud, but Meg only felt sick.
“You gave your scarf to him, though?” Hart’s voice was tight. Why did he say it in a way that made her feel guilty?
Meg pushed her nose in the air. “You accepted Lady Eugenia’s scarf.”
“So I did.” Hart’s voice was curt and short. “May the best man win.”
“Indeed.”
Hart galloped off, leaving Meg thoroughly confused.Had they just had a jealous exchange? She stared at his retreating form, blinking and wondering what to make of it.
Lucy and Sarah joined her soon after and the three of them locked arms and watched as the riders met. The two men gave each other short nods and spoke briefly, no doubt wishing each other luck. Derek Hunt stood to their far right, a pistol in his hand, ready to fire a shot in the air to indicate the start of the race.
“Where are they riding to?” Meg asked, biting at her lip. Her belly was filled with butterflies.
“Across the field, down the valley, around the church, and back,” Lucy said.
Derek called to the riders to determine if they were ready. They both nodded. The duke raised the pistol aloft and fired. The riders’ heels dug into the horses’ sides and both animals took off at breakneck speed.
“Oh, I cannot watch.” Meg extracted her arms from her friends’ and lowered her head to stare at her slippers, which were partially hidden in the tall grass. The butterflies had not stopped their flight in her stomach. They made her queasy.
“I can’t, either,” Sarah said, her voice filled with worry. “At least I don’t want to.”
“Are you jesting? I’m going to watch the entire thing,” Lucy nearly shouted with glee.
The party turned to watch as the riders galloped across the wide expanse of the moor and down the hill.
“What’s happening?” Meg asked, still biting her lip and staring at the ground.
“Hart’s horse is in the lead by at least one length,” Lucy replied, clapping.
“I’d say two,” Sarah added in an obviously proud voice.
“Oh dear.” Meg wrung her hands. She dared a glance up. The riders had gone down the hill. She couldn’t see them. “He’s going to kill himself,” Meg breathed, wrapping her shaking arms around her middle.
“Who?” Lucy asked. “Hart or Winford?”
“Hart, of course,” Meg replied.
“Seems to me Lord Winford is the less skilled rider,” Lucy replied.
“Hart loves that horse,” Sarah added. “I just hope Goliath keeps him alive.”
Many minutes later, the thundering of hooves signaled the riders’ return. Meg dared another glance. The two men came over the hill toward the finish line. Hart was in the lead by at least three lengths. The horses’ hooves thundered across the moor, kicking up bits of grass and mud as they went. As they topped the hill, a shocked cry shot through the small crowd. Meg held her breath and watched as Hart came riding hell-for-leather toward the finish with Sir Winford’s riderless horse behind him. The knight had been thrown.
“Oh no!” Lucy exclaimed, her hand on her mouth.
Meg gasped. “Sir Winford!”
“Come with me,” Sarah ordered. She grabbed Meg’s hand and they rushed down the hill to find Sir Winford. Hart, who had looked back when he heard the crowd’s gasps, was already slowing his mount. He turned in a wide circle and galloped back toward the fallen man. He reached him before Sarah and Meg did. Hart dismounted quickly and ran over to where Sir Winford lay. Hart knelt next to the knight, clearly checking for a pulse in his neck.
“He’s alive,” Hart called to the crowd, wiping mud from Sir Winford’s face.
A relieved sigh murmured through the group. Winford’s horse had slowed and Derek Hunt rounded him up.
Sarah and Meg rushed to Hart and Sir Winford. Out of breath from her run across the moor, Meg dropped to her knees, hovering over the knight. The man’s leg was bent at an unnatural angle and he had a nasty bleeding bruise on the side of his forehead, but his eyes were open and he was blinking.
