He mounted his own piebald and immediately felt the relief of being once more as mobile as anyone else. On horseback his limp was unnoticeable, and his riding skill was unaffected by his wounds. He joined the group now moving out across the drawbridge, drawing up alongside Ariel and Jack.
"That roan is very fresh, Ariel."
"I was about to say the same myself," Jack agreed. "You don't think she's a little too spirited for a lady?"
Ariel went into a peal of laughter, and the mare kicked her heels back as if sharing the hilarity. "Would you have women ride only round-bellied cobs of stolid disposition, Lord Chauncey?"
Jack looked a little discomfited. "Women are not as strong as men, ma'am. I would hesitate to give any of my female relatives the charge of such a mount as that roan."
"What think you, my lord?" Ariel glanced mischievously at her husband, her earlier annoyance forgotten. "Would you forbid your wife to ride such a mettlesome creature as my Diana?"
"I doubt it would do me much good if I did," Simon observed mildly. "But since you seem to have the beast well in hand, the issue is clearly moot."
Ariel was pleased with the answer. Chuckling, she nudged the mare's flanks, and Diana took off with a whinny, the hounds streaking ahead of her. Oliver Becket with an exultant shout put spur to his horse and galloped in hot pursuit. Ariel looked over her shoulder and encouraged the roan to lengthen her stride.
Simon, without knowing quite why, set the piebald in pursuit of Oliver Becket. It was a juvenile thing to do, to engage in such a race, and yet he couldn't help himself. It was almost as if he needed to compete with the younger man, to prove himself as strong and capable. Oliver's face was set, his lips gripped tight as he pushed his horse to draw ever closer to the roan.
Although Ariel didn't once look behind her, Simon knew she could hear the pounding hooves of her pursuer. He could sense the excitement of the racers, the tension between them. It was a tension that set his teeth on edge, reminding him of the scene he'd interrupted the previous evening. They were in competition again; the air between them seethed with sexual challenge. He didn't know whether Ariel wanted to be caught or not. But he knew that he could not endure Oliver Becket to reach her before he did.
He touched his spurs to the piebald's flanks, and the animal, unused to such an unkind prod, threw out his great chest and surged forward. He was neck and neck with Oliver now. The other man looked over at him. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, his eyes glittered. There was loathing and a blind determination on the set face.
The piebald nudged ahead. Oliver whipped at his horse's flanks but the animal was beginning to flag. Then Simon drew alongside the roan. Ariel shot him a startled look. She had expected to see Oliver. Simon smiled, unable to hide his own jubilation.
"Pull up now," he instructed. "The race is run and Becket's horse is winded."
Ariel glanced backward and saw that Oliver was still mercilessly flogging his exhausted horse. She drew rein immediately, her eyes filled with anger, her mouth taut. "For God's sake, Oliver, leave the poor beast alone! He can do no more."
"The damned animal is fit for nothing but the knacker's yard," Oliver declared furiously, hauling on the reins. The animal's neck was lathered with sweat, his eyes rolled frantically, foam flecked the cruel curb bit, and blood welled from whip and spur cuts on his flanks.
"You are a brute," Ariel declared with throbbing ferocity. "He's in a muck sweat."
"Well, it was your idea to race," Oliver said, sounding sulky as a schoolboy who knows he's in the wrong.
"I was not racing. I was merely letting Diana have her head. I was not issuing any invitations!"
"Since when did that stop?" Oliver demanded with a smirk. "You've always been very free with your invitations, bud." He glanced sideways at Simon, who sat his horse, unmoving beside them, then Oliver wrenched his horse's head around and rode back to the cavalcade still some distance behind them.
"Such an unpleasant, boorish individual," Simon remarked. "But perhaps there's another side to him?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Ariel felt herself blushing again. "I would count it a favor, my lord, if Oliver Becket were not mentioned between us again."
"That might be a little difficult, given our present situation," Simon said. "But perhaps if you held yourself aloof from him, then it might be easier to ignore him."
"Are you suggesting that I encourage him?" she demanded, sparks of flame like shooting stars bright against the gray of her almond-shaped eyes.
"I am saying that you should be careful not to put yourself into situations that could be misinterpreted," Simon explained. "Taking off as you just did could easily be assumed as an invitation to follow."
"One I see that you took up," she responded, her lips pressed tight. "If you disapproved of my gallop, sir, I wonder why you would have joined it."
"Better your husband should race with you, dear girl, than your would-be lover." He turned his horse back toward the approaching party. "Come. Let's join the others, and let's try to look as if we're in accord."
Ariel muttered something less than polite under her breath but set the roan to trot after him. It was true that for a moment she'd forgotten all but the excitement of the race. There had always been an edge to her dealings with Oliver- a competitive, challenging edge that had only made them more exciting. And when she'd heard him pounding the turf behind her, she'd felt the same pure thrill of exhilaration that she'd experienced when dancing with him the previous evening. But it was only a flash of pleasure, and it was now inevitably followed by a sour self-distaste. She was beginning to wonder now how she could ever have yielded to Oliver. And how much had that yielding been orchestrated by her brothers? She had been led by the nose, even while she had thought she was responding simply out of her own instinctive passion.
But her brothers wouldn't do it again. The promise lifted her spirits somewhat. She would not play the pander in their games with Lord Hawkesmoor. At least, she amended, not again. She'd allowed herself to be used because she'd been so wrapped up in her own concerns that she hadn't given the situation proper attention. From now on, nothing would slip past her, and she'd plan her own escape from the morass as soon as she could put the pieces together.
"That was a mad ride, sister. Just look at the condition of Oliver's horse," Ralph called to her as she rode up. His eyes, half shut against the feeble sunlight, squinted at her. He was very drunk already, unless he hadn't sobered up after the previous night, Ariel reflected acidly.
"The condition of Oliver's horse has nothing to do with me, Ralph. I wasn't riding him." She looked in disgust at Oliver, who was still flailing at his windblown nag. "I would never have been stupid enough to imagine any horse in Oliver's stable could beat Diana."
"Then it would be only neighborly to gift me with one of your precious beasts," Oliver snarled. "Don't you think, Ravenspeare?"
Ranulf smiled. "How about it, sister? Not quite the ride he's accustomed to, but a consolation prize, perhaps?"
There was a burst of knowing laughter from the group of Ravenspeare intimates at this coarse sally. Sly looks were cast in the direction of the earl of Hawkesmoor, but he appeared to be deep in conversation with Lord Stanton, oblivious of the talk around him.
He must have heard, though. Ariel said sweetly, "I trust my horses only to the most accomplished riders. I'm afraid that Oliver has never impressed me with his skill. He lacks a certain finesse, I find." She watched the effect of this measured insult with naked satisfaction. Oliver paled, a white shade around his mouth. Ranulf looked as if he would cheerfully murder his sister, but her remark had been greeted with snorts of appreciative laughter from the audience, and neither man could react with anger without looking even more foolish.