The Bride Price by Anne Mallory Page B

on them faster every time. She tried switching her eyes away from him, but couldn’t.
    He smoothly bent down and plucked another ring, shooting one of the other contestants a smirk as he cut in front, leaving the man swearing in his kicked dirt. He charged toward the next flag. Every line of his body at Roseford had shoutedthat he was a predator. Every press of his body to hers had proclaimed him a rogue. Every movement now confirmed both.
    He leaned out from his horse, one long arm thrust out, and gripped another ring. His head flipped up as he regained his seat, long strands of hair arcing and settling messily across his face. Something hot and wild raced down her spine. He leaned against his horse’s neck, man and horse racing as one. A shake of his head in the wind whipped the strands back into place as he shot toward the finish.
    He was the breed of man to which she was most susceptible. She swallowed heavily. That much was obvious.
    Arrogant, dark, and dangerous. She needed to remove him from the competition and her life as quickly as possible.
     
    Sebastien rounded the last corner.
    Herakles’s hooves beat at the dirt, spraying it to the sides. He leaned right and snatched the last ring from the branches. He’d missed one when Bateman had shoved him for the third time. Bateman would pay for those tactics later. Sebastien heard Sloane’s mount at his side, but he didn’t spare a glance as they raced to the finish line. Everly shot in from the right and Bateman cut across.
    Bateman was too far outside to give chase. He’d be third at best, if Timtree hadn’t beaten them all, clever bastard. And Benedict had taken obvious advantage of the strategy, knowing he wasn’t the best rider. If Benedict beat him in the first game…
    Sloane and he were neck and neck for the finish. A fine piece of horseflesh there.
    They crossed.
    Cheers went up through the crowd.
    Sebastien let Herakles slow and pulled around in an arc. He tossed the rings on the ground—seven. And saw Sloane do the same. Seven. Sloane gave him a grin, which he couldn’t stop himself from returning, fire still running through his veins. Riding was one of the few things that reminded him that he was alive.
    The older men all huddled together, fishwives clacking over their daily profits. Tallying times, rings, and scores. Sebastien patted Herakles and dismounted, allowing one of the grooms to take the animal for a cooldown.
    The Tipping Seven seemed to arrive at a decision, as Cheevers turned to the waiting crowd.
    “The first game, and why not end in a tie,” Cheevers shouted. “Split the first and second place prize money and points. Well done, lads.”
    He shook Sloane’s hand. First place, even shared, was perfectly fine. He’d overtake Sloane on some of the later games, of that he had no doubt.
    Timtree and the closest finisher behind him, Benedict, took third and fourth. The top three finishers were all bastards—making the unofficial tally heavy to one side. He exchanged smirks with Timtree.
    Timtree had almost beaten them all with his strategy. If Sebastien hadn’t discerned the pattern in the way the rings had been placed—the most inaccessible locations that could be had—Timtreewould have won. He knew Sloane had figured out the arrangement too. The others hadn’t been as lucky, it seemed, merely following behind, hoping to catch one.
    Everly and Bateman had each collected two rings—moving ahead of them about halfway through the course, before being overtaken again during a further search. They placed fifth and sixth.
    “The prankster responsible for the blankets, saddles, and the rings…yes, good show, good show, but I will remind everyone that tampering with the games is an offense punishable by expulsion.” There was a bite of steel beneath the earl’s words. “The same goes for the unfortunate events this morning.”
    Harriet Noke’s hand wound around Sebastien’s shoulder and down his arm. “Congratulations.”
    “Not