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

draught.”
    “In that case, I feel a faint coming on, too,” Ethan declared.
    “And me, for I won,” Luke reminded them.
    “I know, I just won twenty-five pounds on you,” Harry told him.
    Luke’s jaw dropped. “A pony ? You only bet a pony on me?” He gave a disgusted snort. “At least Rafe wagered a monkey.”
    “Ethan, you’re a man of fine judgment.” Rafe stared down his long nose at Harry. “And you bet against me, Harry, my old friend? I’m wounded, deeply wounded.”
    Harry grinned, unaffected by his friend’s nonsense. “As soon as I saw you had a new curricle, I knew it would take the edge off. You might risk your fool neck but a new curricle? Not likely!” Chuckling, the friends entered the house while Jackson supervised the grooms ushering the magnificent beasts into his tender care.
    They were just inside when Rafe turned to Luke. “Did you forget the basket from Mrs. Barrow?”
    Luke cursed and ran lightly back down the steps to fetch a large wicker basket from the curricle.
    “From Mrs. Barrow?” Harry asked, puzzled. “My Mrs. Barrow?”
    “Yes, that good lady has sent you an enormous basket of foodstuffs. Apparently you’re living in the direst conditions in some foreign county and like to fade away to a shadow.”
    Harry grinned. That was Mrs. Barrow, all right. “But how—where did you see her?”
    “At the Grange, of course, where else?” Luke said, dumping the basket on a nearby table.
    “What were you doing there?”
    Rafe rolled his eyes. “I know your penmanship is atrocious, dear boy, but if you’d written to inform us you’d moved, it would have saved us the trip.”
    “Not that we minded,” Luke interjected. “She cooks like a dream—none of this French nonsense everyone’s so mad about, but real food for real men. Frankly, Harry, I was all for staying on there. I’ll wager you won’t feed us nearly as well.”
    “I won’t,” Harry confirmed as he poured the drinks. “And I’ll make you work.”
    “Work? Heavens, quel horreur ,” declared Rafe. “I remember work. I don’t like it. It makes you dirty.” He flicked at his immaculate buckskins with fastidious fingers and tried to keep the twinkle out of his eye.
    “Doing it too brown, Rafe,” Harry said with a grin. “There’s not one of us who’ve forgotten the way you jumped into the rubble of that bombed Spanish church. You dug for twelve hours straight and were yellow mud from head to toe.”
    Rafe shrugged. “That was different—there were children trapped there. And I never did get the wretched mud out of my clothes. Ethan, you’re a man of fashion, you’ll appreciate my position.”
    Ethan nodded earnestly. “Oh I do, sir, I do. In fact I well remember a time when there weren’t any children trapped in the ruins of a certain monastery, nor any monks neither but—” He frowned thoughtfully. “That wasn’t you, was it, sir, heavin’ a pick with the best of them under the hot Spanish sun?” He winked.
    Rafe grinned. “Ah, but I’m sure I knew we were going to find that wine.” He sighed. “Superb stuff it was, too, remember? Wish we had some now. I’m going to need it if you’re going to turn me into a slave—oh!” He felt in his pocket and drew out two letters. “I almost forgot. Mrs. Barrow gave me these to give to you.” He passed them to Harry.
    Harry broke the seal and read the first one. “It’s from my brother, Gabe,” he told them. “He’s coming to England next month. Apparently Callie insists on it—I can’t imagine why.”
    “Wives do that,” Rafe said gloomily. “Insist.” He shuddered and drank deeply.
    Harry poured his friend another glass of wine. Rafe’s older brother, Lord Axebridge, was hounding him to make a marriage with an heiress. Rafe’s brother was happily married, but his wife had been unable to bear children, so it was Rafe’s duty, as his brother’s heir, to provide the heirs of the next generation. And replenish the family