Rake Most Likely to Thrill

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‘No!’ Giacomo cried in happy disbelief. ‘That’s incredible.’

Archer patted Amicus’s neck. ‘It is incredible. But he’s an incredible horse. He had two months to rest in Paris and I worked him with a fine group of riders while I was there. Paris has a surprisingly strong group of enthusiastic riders. I had not expected it. They were a pleasure to train with and I was able to give Amicus some more refined skills. He’ll make a good hunter.’ Although he intended to stay in Italy, Archer still wanted to make the trip north to the Spanish riding school in Vienna. It would be a treat to see Amicus join their training regimen and it would be a good opportunity to look for new horses. He shared as much with his uncle. ‘Perhaps next year’s Palio horse will be among them.’ He winked.

‘Could be. We haven’t had a horse from that far away for quite a while, but it wouldn’t be unheard of.’ Giacomo nodded, the idea becoming more interesting as he thought about it. That had to be a good sign, a sign that he could trust his nephew as an assessor of horses. One step closer. Archer had no intentions of taking no for an answer on the Palio. Just because his uncle thought he wasn’t going to ride in the race didn’t mean he was going to accept that decision any more than he was going to accept the mysterious Elisabeta simply disappearing into the night, lost to him.

He’d come too far to let these challenges get in his way. He was going to ride in the race. He was going to find Elisabeta because he wanted to, and Archer Crawford was a man used to getting what he wanted.

‘We’re nearly there. The farm is just over the hill.’ His uncle gestured ahead of them. ‘Let’s be clear on what we’re looking for today. This man is a horse breeder. He’s bred more winners of the Palio than anyone else currently living. I train them, of course, but they spend their early years with him. I’ve had two horses in his care since they were yearlings. They are four years old now. I want to see if they’re ready to be recommended for the race, but I also want to see which other horses might be brought in either by Torre or by the other contradas. We are not the only ones who use him.’ This was to be a test, then, of his skill, Archer thought. His uncle would listen to his opinions and decide if he knew his business. But the visit was more than a test for him. It was also a subterfuge.

Checking on the two horses was merely the surface of his uncle’s agenda. Archer saw that immediately. This was a reconnaissance mission. They were here to ascertain the level of competition. ‘I understand,’ Archer nodded. He was enjoying this easy camaraderie with his uncle, finding it a novel contrast to the terse, succinct conversations he had with his father. His father rarely asked for opinions. The man just gave them. But his uncle seemed to genuinely care what his opinion might be. ‘This is not all that different than wandering through the Newmarket stables during race week to see the other horses.’

Giacomo gave a friendly laugh. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mio nipote. At Newmarket, it is straightforward; a man races his own horse with his own rider. Anyone who wants to enter a horse can as long as they can pay the entry fee. Not so, here. We have to make it more dramatic. We can recommend horses for the Palio, but we do not control which horse we get. We do not enter a horse for Torre, our horse is drawn for us, assigned to us, out of the final pool of horses. All we can do is recommend the best horses possible for that pool.’

That was news to Archer. He was starting to see that his mother’s stories of the great race had left out certain details. It was easy enough to do. When one lived in a particular milieu, there were nuances that one took for granted and assumed everyone else did too. ‘I think I understand, but give me an example.’

Giacomo grinned and warmed to the subject. ‘Consider the horse that won the July Palio, Morello de Jacopi. He is owned by Lorenzo Jacopi, but the Pantera Contrada drew him for the race. It doesn’t matter what contrada Jacopi is aligned with, if any. For the race, the horse is Pantera’s. If the horse is selected again for the August Palio, another contrada might draw him.

‘Hopefully us.’ Giacomo leaned in although there was no one on the road to hear. ‘He’s the best-looking horse this year and I think we could put a better fantino on him than any of the other contradas.’

The remark wounded Archer although he knew it wasn’t his uncle’s intention. He could be that rider if his uncle would give him a chance. ‘If the horse has proven himself by winning, surely he’s an immediate choice for the August race,’ Archer put in.

‘You Englishmen are always so direct.’ Giacomo laughed. ‘You’re thinking just like your father, that speed matters. It does to some extent. But now, you must think like an Italian, like a Sienese. If we all know who the fastest horse is, the race is less exciting. Why race if the outcome is certain?’ He gave Archer a sharp look, daring him to debate the proposition.

For all that his mother had taught him about her city and her language, she’d not taught him that. Archer had no answer. ‘First you tell me a contrada doesn’t enter its own horse and now you tell me the race isn’t about speed? I’m afraid it all seems a bit counter-intuitive.’

‘It’s like this,’ his uncle explained, clearly revelling in the chance to delve into the intricacies of the great race. This Archer was prepared for. His mother had told him that for many in Siena, the mental exercise of the Palio was raced all year. ‘Every contrada should have an equal chance to win the Palio. To that end, the horses are selected to give everyone the best chance for an equal race. Obviously, horses who are hurt or not in good physical condition are not considered. They would obviously put the contrada who raced them at a disadvantage. But also, a horse who is too good might give a contrada who drew it an unfair advantage. When the capitani vote for the horses that should be in the drawing, we vote for the horses that will create the most equal race. The horses that are chosen for the honour are neither too fast or too slow, but just right. They fit well with each other.’

The fastest horse didn’t race? That sounded crazy to Archer but he did not dare to say it out loud. It would be imprudent to question a centuries-old tradition. Who was he to say it was wrong? It was merely different, vastly different than the straightforward tradition of speed he’d been raised to.

‘Of course, a good fantino isn’t going to let a horse go all out in the trials if he’s too fast,’ Giacomo put in cryptically. ‘There are ways to ensure your horse fits in.’ Good lord, Archer thought. This wasn’t a horse race, it was a chess game. Based on the statistics, Torre played the game well. His uncle’s contrada had won the Palio eleven per cent of the time over the past three hundred or so years. Many of the successes of the past twenty years had been his uncle’s doing as the contrada’s capitano.

The farm came into view, a lovely spread of flat green pasture fanning out before them with a brown-brick farmhouse rising in Tuscan style in the background. The age-old desire of man to claim land and to make it his own surged within Archer, so compelling was the scene spread before him. This was what he wanted—a home of his own where he was master, not of the land necessarily, that was rather egotistical, but master of himself and his destiny, where his children ran alongside the horses in the grass, where his sons and daughters would ride bareback through the fields, where he worked hard each day and retired each evening to a table full of fresh country food and a wife to warm his bed and his heart.

It was an entirely fanciful notion. He had some of that in Newmarket but there, he was always the earl’s second son and the stables had been part of the family long before he’d taken over. There was also the issue of wealth and social standing. There were appearances to keep up at Newmarket. He could not muck out the stalls or work too closely with the stable hands. He could hand out orders, design breeding programs and instruct the riders who exercised the Crawford string. But that was all. Heaven forbid his father heard his son had been out riding like a common jockey or cleaning stalls. And his father always heard. How many times had he been told by the earl that gentlemen rode to the hunt? That they bet on the races?

They swung off their horses as the man they’d come to meet strode out to greet them. Michele di Stefano was a man of middling stature and easy confidence, dressed in farm clothes. There was hand-shaking and cheek-kissing, something Archer didn’t think he’d ever get used to. He couldn’t imagine Haviland ever kissing his cheek, although he could very well imagine Nolan doing it just to goad him. Nolan would like Tuscany with all its touchy rituals. Nolan was a great believer in the idea that people were more inclined to trust you if you touched them.

They tromped out to the stables and the paddocks where his uncle’s two horses—both high-spirited chestnut beauties—were running the length of the fence. Giacomo and the man talked briefly before the man excused himself to see to other guests. For the first time, Archer noted how busy the stables were. They were not the only guests who’d come to see the horses. ‘I see you’re not the only one who thought to come out and view the horses,’ Archer said slyly.

Giacomo elbowed him teasingly. ‘Everyone is interested in making the race equal. There are three weeks until the horses are chosen. The capitani from the different contradas will spend the time travelling to the different stables looking for horses and fantini. Naturally, the capitani have been looking all year, but now that we’ve got one race behind us, we know what must be done for the next. We’re looking to fill in gaps.’ Giacomo lowered his voice. ‘What that really means is that we’re all looking for a horse to beat Jacopi’s Morello.’ This last was said with more seriousness than it had been on the road, a clear indicator that they were in earnest on this mission.

‘Tell me, mio nipote, what do you think of the horses?’ Here came the first test. Archer was ready.

‘I think they run quite nicely, but at a distance that is all I can tell. Let’s go in. I want to look at their legs.’ Archer was already heading into the paddock, slices of apple retrieved from a pocket and at the ready in his outstretched hand, his voice low and sure. It was an irresistible invitation. Both horses wasted no time making his acquaintance.

Archer stroked their manes and played a bit with them before beginning his examination. He checked teeth and ran his hands down their legs, finding the bones strong and the muscles cool. ‘They are in good shape. Now, how they’ll do with a rider remains to be seen.’ He brushed his hands on his riding breeches and stepped back.

‘We should take them to my farm, then, to join the others?’ his uncle asked. ‘I have riders there who will work with the horses we want to nominate.’

‘Yes, definitely take them,’ Archer said confidently, his blood starting to hum at the mention of a horse farm. He’d not realised his uncle had a place outside the one in town. ‘Perhaps I could deliver them for you if you’re busy?’ He was suddenly anxious to see this place.

His uncle smiled and Archer grinned, laughing at himself. He had taken his uncle’s bait quite easily. ‘You’re just like your father when it comes to horses, eager as a school boy.’ His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You may pick them up tomorrow and deliver them to our villa.’ There was something else in his uncle’s eyes too, something that said he had passed the first test.

‘Just like my father?’ Archer queried, not sure if he liked the sound of that. He’d spent most of his life trying to avoid such a comparison.

His uncle studied his face for a moment, his happy eyes sobering a little. ‘Like he used to be the summer I knew him. I don’t know the sort of man he became, but I know what he was like at your age.’

‘And what was that?’ Archer ventured, finding it odd and novel to think of his uncle knowing his father, knowing a man different than the one Archer knew.

A small smile returned to his uncle’s face. ‘A man who wasn’t afraid to live, to embrace life. A man like you, who wasn’t afraid to get his hands or boots dirty when it came to horses.’ Really? Archer didn’t know that man.

There was movement across the field, and Archer followed his uncle’s gaze as it flicked across the paddock to another holding pen farther out. ‘Pantera’s here. The capitano has sent his son and that niece of his to survey the competition. Rafaele di Bruno must be feeling the pressure now to win two. Wouldn’t that be a feather in Pantera’s cap to win both Palios in a single year? Of course, it won’t happen.’

Giacomo uttered something about the statistical possibility of that being unlikely, but Archer didn’t hear it. He was too focused on the woman across the field. He’d been ready to ride the breadth of Tuscany to find her and here she was. She could not have been delivered to him any more neatly.

‘His niece is a beauty,’ Giacomo put in idly. But Archer wasn’t fooled. He’d better tread carefully. His uncle’s next words confirmed it. ‘Perhaps you might spend some time with her this afternoon if you’re interested.’

Archer was interested, all right. She was perhaps even lovelier by daylight. Any worries he might have entertained that his perception of her beauty had been influenced by the night and the lighting were immediately banished. Her black hair was neatly coiffed beneath a straw hat that showed her profile to advantage; the curve of her jaw, the firm jut of her chin. She wore an exquisitely tailored riding habit done in blue. The white of her lacy jabot stood in striking contrast from the dark fabric, but even from here Archer could see that the jabot was loose, the neck of her blouse undone against the warmth of the day. She walked arm in arm with her cousin, stopping now and then to watch the horses and comment to their host. Archer imagined he could catch hints of her laughter. But thoughts of Elisabeta had to be set aside until later. There was work to do now. Pranza, or lunch, was to be served only after everyone had viewed the horses. There would be time to meet her then. He could possibly manoeuvre a place beside her at the table, perhaps a walk after the meal while his uncle conducted the rest of his business.

Archer’s blood began to hum with the knowledge of her presence and with plans. He let a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Today was shaping up quite nicely in terms of his goals. His uncle had been impressed with his story about Amicus and Elisabeta was here, standing a hundred yards away.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_aaa9a40c-c6e2-5c97-87a0-491d6f41301a)

He was here! Elisabeta felt his eyes on her before she dared look for him. She didn’t want to be disappointed. She didn’t want to look up and see that she was mistaken, that her fanciful imagination had simply made up a girlish whimsy. You couldn’t really feel someone looking at you and if you did it was unlikely to be the man of your dreams—for her literally the man of her dreams the last two nights. It was unlikely the man she’d been thinking of nonstop had suddenly materialised at a Tuscan horse farm. Her life didn’t work that way. She wasn’t that lucky. And yet, the illusion she was indeed that lucky was a pleasant one. She could maintain it if she didn’t look up. She shouldn’t look, she wouldn’t look. Looking would shatter it. She would not commit the Orphean crime of looking.

She looked.

He was watching her.

She blinked in the sun and then feared the image would disappear. Perhaps she’d only seen him because she’d wanted to see him standing there. No, that was him. It was definitely him. She’d recognise that nut-brown hair skimming his collar, the set of his jaw and that kissable mouth anywhere, even at a distance.

Their host had left them to see to other guests and she was aware of Giuliano watching her too. Elisabeta averted her gaze, careful to school her features. A suspicion took root. ‘Did you know he would be here?’ She thought of Giuliano’s request that she join him on this visit.

‘It was guesswork only,’ was all Giuliano would admit. ‘We should go in for pranza.’ He grinned and took her arm. ‘I’m hungry, how about you?’

She was undeniably hungry. She only hoped forbidden fruit was on the menu. If it was, would she eat of it? All her hypotheses were about to be tested. She had a chance to see him again. Would she pursue it? Why did it seem to matter so much?

The meal was laid out at a long table beneath the trees for shade. Michele di Stefano’s wife had outdone herself. There was a white cloth on the table, and an abundance of food; bowls of fresh pasta, trays of round mounds of mozzarella and sliced tomatoes, bowls of olives and loaves of bread to dip in the dishes of olive oil. And of course there was wine, the rich local red wine of the region.

Perhaps it was all in an effort to impress Pantera, Elisabeta thought. Pantera had won the Palio. It would be good to be in their favour. Or perhaps it was to impress the influential capitano of Torre and his nephew.

Elisabeta allowed her eyes to land on Archer as they took their seats. He had not been able to finagle the seat beside her. Giuliano had seen to it that it wasn’t possible. ‘It is better for your reputation,’ he murmured, but she could hear the laughter beneath his words. He understood the irony of having arranged this opportunity only to keep her from Archer at the meal. ‘Make him watch you, build his anticipation and wait for your moment,’ Giuliano coached quietly.

‘I can’t decide if I love you or hate you,’ Elisabeta said quietly, sliding into her seat at the benches lining the long the table.

Giuliano winked. ‘You love me, Cousin.’

Elisabeta lowered her voice. ‘I’ll let you know after lunch.’ She eyed Archer surreptitiously over the rim of her wine glass. Lunch was going to be...interesting.

* * *

‘Would you like to go for a ride?’ The question caught Elisabeta off guard, just when she’d thought she had successfully navigated lunch. She coughed and the wine she’d swallowed nearly made a reappearance in a most unladylike fashion.

‘On a horse?’ Her reply came out with a slight rasp as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. What was Archer thinking to make such a bold reference? Perhaps the real question was what was she thinking to infer the nuance was there to begin with? Lunch had been a polite, careful affair with conversation drifting between talk of horses and of goings-on in town. Both parties were careful not to give away too much while still appearing to be friendly.