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Rake Most Likely to Thrill
by Bronwyn Scott
Chapter One
The Antwerp Hotel, Dover—March 1835
There was going to be blood. It had become a forgone conclusion the moment the teamster brought the whip down across the hindquarters of the Cleveland Bay straining in the traces of the overloaded dray. How much blood, and whose, remained to be seen.
Archer Crawford had not stepped outside in the predawn darkness looking for trouble. Indeed, he’d been trying to avoid it. Inside, his travelling companion and long-time friend Nolan Gray’s card game was starting to take a turn for the worse. But it seemed trouble had found him anyway. He could not stand idly by and watch any horse abused. From the looks of this horse’s ragged coat, this wasn’t the first time. But it might be the last if Archer didn’t intervene. The teamster’s whip fell again, the beefy driver determined the horse pull the load or die trying. The latter was highly likely and the horse knew it. The Cleveland Bay showed no fear. He merely stood with resignation. Waiting. Knowing. Deciding: death now, or death pulling a weight more appropriate for two.
The whip rose a third time, and Archer stepped out from the hotel’s overhang. In a lightning move, Archer’s gloved hand intercepted the thong of the whip and he wrapped it about his wrist, reeling in the teamster on his high seat like fish from the river. ‘Perhaps you might try a sting or two of this lash yourself before delivering it to your animal.’ Archer gave the whip a strong tug. Each pull threatened to unseat the teamster. The man leaned back in his seat, trying for leverage.
‘Let go of the whip or come off the seat!’ Archer commanded sternly, his eyes locking with the other man’s as he gave another compelling tug.
‘This is none of your business,’ the teamster growled. ‘That horse has to earn his keep and I do too.’ But he released his end of the whip—forcefully, of course, probably with the hopes the force of his release would send Archer sprawling in the mud. But Archer was braced. The abrupt release did nothing more than seal his opinion of the man: bully, brute.
Archer wound the whip into a coil around his arm. ‘Not with loads that are best drawn by a team of horses.’ Archer jerked his head towards the horse. ‘That horse won’t finish the day, then where will you be?’
The man seemed to recognise the logic but his mouth pursed into a grim line. ‘There’s nothin’ to be done about it, if you’ll be givin’ me my whip back, guv’nor, I’ll be on my way.’ The hint of a threat glimmered in the man’s eye and he began to make his way down off the seat. That was the last thing Archer wanted.
He had a boat to catch within the hour. There was no time for fisticuffs. Archer was fast and light on his feet, thanks to hours of practice at Jackson’s salon, but that didn’t change the fact that the teamster outweighed him by two stone. Leaving on his Grand Tour sporting a split lip and black eye didn’t exactly appeal.
The horse whinnied and stamped in the traces, his head rolling towards Archer as if in warning. The big man stopped a few feet from Archer and held out his hand. ‘The whip.’
Archer grinned. ‘I’ll trade you for it. Give me t
he horse.’
The man spat on the ground. ‘A whip for a horse?’ His tone was derisive. ‘That seems a bit unequal to me.’
‘And for whatever is in my pocket.’ Archer patted the pocket of his great coat.
‘Maybe your pocket is empty.’ The teamster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Show me.’
Archer nodded, careful to keep his body between the teamster and the horse. He could feel the horse’s nose nudging his shoulder blade, perhaps in encouragement. Archer held up a gold money clip to the street lamp, letting it catch the light. He turned it, showing off the collection of pound notes folded together. ‘It’s fair. You can buy two horses for what’s in this clip.’ He was not going to doom another horse to the same fate simply by freeing this one.
Archer tried to assess the man’s reaction. Money was usually the fastest way to settle a dispute, even if it wasn’t the most moral. He waved the clip again in the beam of light. Behind him, he could hear the clatter of an oncoming coach, probably the one that was to take him and Nolan to the docks. He was running out of the time. ‘The whip and the clip for the horse,’ Archer pressed. What was there to think over? The man was letting pride get in his way.
‘All right,’ the man said gruffly, taking the money clip out of Archer’s hand in a rough swipe. He jerked his head towards the horse. ‘He’s yours now, you unharness him.’