Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] by His Captive Lady

strained and the curricle pulled forward, grazing the wheels of its rival. The light, high-sprung vehicle bounced and swayed perilously. The driver laughed and urged his team faster. “He’s mad.”
    “It’s Luke,” Harry said. “You know he doesn’t care if he lives or dies. And Rafe knows all his tricks. They’ve been racing each other for years.”
    Rafe Ramsey and Luke Ripton were his two closest friends after his brother, Gabe. They’d all gone to school together, they’d joined the army together, and together, somehow, they’d survived eight years at war.
    “They’re both mad,” Ethan declared.
    “Magnificent, just magnificent,” Jackson murmured in a reverential tone. “Such beautiful movers. I ain’t seen such high-blooded lovelies bowling up the drive of Firmin Court since Miss Nell’s mam were alive. It does my old heart good to see them, it does.”
    “Those bays are particularly fine, aren’t they?” Harry agreed. “Though I think the blacks might have the edge in stamina.”
    “Aye, very powerful shoulders,” Jackson agreed.
    “They’re still stark, starin’ mad,” Ethan repeated. “They’ll break both their fool necks.”
    Harry squinted. “Is that a new curricle Rafe’s driving, Ethan? Very nice, don’t you think?”
    Ethan glanced at him. “You’re still mad, as well.”
    Harry grinned. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called mad; they all had. He, Gabe, Luke, Rafe, and their friend Michael had been called the Duke’s Angels, for their names and because they rode dispatches for Wellington.
    After Michael’s death, their nickname had changed to the Devil Riders, possibly because of Wellington’s habit of exhorting them to “ride like the devil” or because after they’d lost Michael there was a new edge to their willingness to take risks. At that time none of them particularly cared whether they lived or died.
    The two curricles sped along, neck and neck, heading toward the front of the house.
    “Holy Mother of God, that lunatic’s going to put them up the front steps,” Ethan gasped and leapt to the side. Jackson muttered an oath and hurried after him. Harry folded his arms and waited. He’d seen this particular maneuver of Luke’s before.
    As expected, at the very last moment, Luke hauled his horses back and they snorted and plunged to a stop, steam coming from them in clouds, a bare six inches from the steps. The second curricle pulled up beside it three seconds later.
    There was a sudden silence, broken only by the horses stamping and blowing for air. Several grooms who’d come to watch the race hurried forward to take the reins. The two drivers, both in elegantly cut, many-caped driving coats and high, curly-brimmed beavers descended their vehicles in a leisurely fashion.
    Luke affected a start when he saw the second. “Rafe, my dear boy—you’ve arrived, at last!” He yawned. “I thought you’d never get here.”
    Rafe, six foot tall, whipcord lean and elegant to the fingertips, pulled off his driving gloves and unknotted his white silk scarf with leisurely movements. “Dreary timing, I know. I was held up on the road by a most tedious fellow in a black and yellow curricle, a positive slug—as slow as a wet week he was, I promise you.” He pulled out a quizzing glass and leveled it in ostentatious surprise at Luke’s black and yellow curricle. “By Jove, I do believe the slug was you, Luke. What sort of cattle are you driving these days?”
    Chuckling, Harry went to greet them. Ethan, too, came forward with a wide grin, saying, “As hey-go-mad as ever, I see. Peacetime life too tame for you, then?”
    Rafe Ramsey raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Hey-go-mad? I? You are mistaken, my dear Ethan. It is my friend who is mad; I merely indulge him. My only problem is that I’m near faint with thirst.” He gave Harry a meaning look.
    “Oh indeed,” Harry chuckled. “You poor feeble creature, come inside and I’ll pour you a reviving