This horror had befallen her seven years ago, a horse galloping along one moment, and in the next instant, heading for a disaster that could be fatal to horse and rider both.
As William pitched forward and fought for balance, instinct screamed at Eve to yank up on the reins, to try to haul the horse to his feet on main strength, to defy gravity itself.
She defied instinct; she defied every primitive imperative of self-preservation and relied instead on hard-won wisdom and experience. As William thrashed to keep his feet under him, Eve’s arms shot forward, giving the colt as much slack in the reins as she could without actually dropping the leather from her grip.
He used the leeway she created to throw the great weight of his head and neck up, and in one tremendous surge, got himself organized and moving forward again. The magnitude of his effort was so great, Eve was nearly unseated as leap followed bound followed leap, until stride by stride, they reunited their efforts and took off after the gray, who’d already opened up a gap of several yards.
“Bloody game pair you’ve got there,” Dolan muttered. “Begging the lady’s pardon for my language.”
Deene said nothing. How Eve had managed to avoid disaster eluded him. Sheer grit, luck, skill… or her husband’s unceasing prayers. One more fence, and it would come down to a grueling test of stamina—a test where Dolan’s more experienced jockey and bigger horse might hold all the advantages.
“You can do this,” Eve whispered. “We can do this. Catch him, William. Catch him and show him who owns the bloody course.”
She didn’t need to shout. William’s ears swiveled, proof he was listening for her voice. In Eve’s mind, she heard her father’s voice, though, imparting a piece of advice she’d never understood until that moment.
“In any fair contest, the horse with a sense of rhythm will beat the larger, stronger mount who lacks rhythm. Rhythm is what makes the beast efficient, so he’s not working against himself, his rider, or his job. Let your horse develop his own rhythm, and then time the aids to his cadence. It’s like dancing, my girl. Just like dancing.”
They cleared the second-to-last fence flawlessly, William’s strides to the fence perfect, his move off a graceful bound.
“Well done, Your Highness. One more, and we’ll be bound for home.”
They were closing the distance to Dolan’s stallion too, stride by stride. Eve resisted the urge to check William’s increasing speed. The colt had yet to mistime a fence, yet to misjudge a single distance. She crouched lower over his neck and gave the reins forward a hair.
“Go, William. Get us home.”
He tackled the last fence from an impossibly long distance, his leap flat and efficient enough to gain half a stride and bring him up to Goblin’s quarters. The gray was breathing in great, heaving bellows as the jockeys turned their horses into the straightaway toward the finish.
William galloped on, his stride, if anything, lengthening, while beside them, Goblin threw up his head. His jockey cursed over the thundering of the hooves and screaming of the crowd, and Eve knew a moment’s sympathy.
Had Deene not insisted she show William that final stretch, the waving flags, the shifting crowd, that might be William registering a protest at having to gallop on into what could appear to a horse to be absolute mayhem.
But it wasn’t William. Deene had recalled this detail, and so Eve gave the reins forward another hair.
“It’s your race, William. God bless you, it’s your race.”
“Deene, congratulations are in order.” Dolan stuck out a hand, which Deene merely glared at.
“The stewards have yet to render a decision.” Deene nudged Beast forward, intent only on getting to Evie and William, on holding his wife in his arms and taking her somewhere safe and private where he’d never, ever let her go, nor even sit on a horse again.
“Deene.” Kesmore trotted his black up along beside Beast. “Greymoor will stay with her, you needn’t hurry.”
“Shut up, Joseph. When Greymoor finds out my jockey is a woman, there will be hell and a half to pay, and I don’t want Evie dealing with that alone.”
The stewards would keep any horse crossing the finish line in sight at all times until they’d confirmed the horse was the same one that began the race, and this would very likely result in Eve’s gender becoming common knowledge. Greymoor was a gentleman, but he’d resent like hell that his race had been tainted by a breach of the rules.
Kesmore kept pace even when Deene moved up to the canter. “Given what Dolan attempted, I’m not sure you need worry so very much for your jockey.”
“Two scandals for the price of one. I’m counting on it.”
“You’re counting on both horses being disqualified?”
“Aelfreth will swear he was drugged—the man’s still barely able to stand, and you saw the condition Beast was in this morning.”
Eve was up in her irons, hand-galloping William in a great sweeping arc while Greymoor on his black paced her a few lengths back. As she brought William down to the canter, then the trot, Greymoor closed the distance, reaching William only a moment before Deene did.
“Well ridden,” Greymoor pronounced. “Deene, it appears congratulations are in order, though my official decision will wait until I’ve conferred with my subordinates.” They trotted on another moment, until Goblin’s owner joined them on his golden horse. “Dolan, good morning.”
“Greymoor.”
Bannister came bustling up, tossing a cooler over William’s sweaty quarters while another groom put a hand on the reins.
“Off you go, lad. Well done.” Bannister peered up meaningfully at Eve, who had made no move to take off her cap or goggles, thank God.
“Right. Off I go.”
Beneath the mud and grime flecking her cheeks, she was pale as a ghost. Deene felt his heart turn over in his chest as Eve swayed a bit on William’s back. William, still bristling with energy from his victory, began to dance, and Eve almost toppled from the saddle.
Deene was off his horse and dragging Eve against his chest just as Greymoor reached for her as well.
“Husband.” Eve’s voice was distant, a fading whisper that had Greymoor’s dark eyebrows pitching upward and Kesmore swearing under his breath. Greymoor reached over and gently removed Eve’s goggles.
“Lord Deene,” Greymoor said quietly. “A word with you and Mr. Dolan.”
“You may have your word,” Deene said, “in a moment. Kesmore, where is your lady?”
“I’m here,” Louisa said as her husband assisted her to dismount.
Eve’s eyes fluttered open. “Lucas, did we win?”
Such hope shone from her eyes, such trust. “You won, Eve.” Never had Deene been more grateful for his command of English. “You crossed the finish line first, you put in the best race, you rode like hell, and you won.”
She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. “We won.”
“Deene.” Louisa was glaring at him, Greymoor’s expression wasn’t exactly friendly, and Dolan was looking amused.
“Off with you now,” Deene said, passing Eve into Kesmore’s arms. “I could not be more proud of you, Wife, or more impressed. Well done.”
Greymoor at least waited until Kesmore had moved out of earshot. “Well done, but you must know any horse and rider combination where the jockey is not of the male gender…”
Dolan spoke up, his brogue thicker than Deene had ever heard it.