Page 92 of A Torn Allegiance
“I as well.” Marc’s lips were pressed together.
They raced toward Duncan, who led the group, with Lamoreaux still at their side.
The location where they would circle the tree and return for the final stretch approached swiftly. “Hyah!” Hayes urged his horses faster.
They were excellent, borrowed from Duncan, of course. Hayes would have to thank him for giving him the best possible chance to win. Good man, Duncan.
They pulled up directly behind Duncan, cutting off Lamoreaux as they circled the tree, hugging the inside circle. Lamoreaux shouted curses behind them.
“We’ve upset the Frenchman!” Marc laughed to the air.
“Come on, come on!” Kristoff leaned forward, both hands on the front of their phaeton.
They circled the tree without dumping over, though two wheels left the ground. Now the only thing between them and a win was Duncan. They raced closer and began to make headway until they were almost at Duncan’s side.
They had lost track of Lamoreaux for a moment, and when they saw him on the other side of Duncan, pulling toward the front, a surge of alarm raced through Hayes.
“He must not win!” Marc leaned forward.
They motioned to Duncan, and he urged his horses, but they did not increase in speed.
“We can take this, Brother.” Marc’s eyes bored into the side of his head.
Did it really matter who won this race?
He thought about the followers of Lamoreaux and how Napoleon tried always to prove his superiority. He thought of all the moments he wished to ban the dictator to his own island, never to leave. And he knew that yes, it mattered to beat the French. In his own country. In Scotland. In Europe. Napoleon must be stopped, and even if limiting Lamoreaux’s influence meant winning a simple phaeton race, Hayes would defeat him. He lifted his reins and urged his horses forward.
They responded as though they’d been waiting for this very moment and leapt out, gaining ground. The finish was in sight.
Lamoreaux pushed forward until Hayes and the Frenchman were head-to-head. Duncan was falling farther behind, but he was not completely out of the race yet.
Then something happened with one of the horses pulling the Wilhelm brothers, and the beast stumbled briefly. Lamoreaux’s carriage moved closer to Hayes’s, cutting off Duncan. Something seemed to be upsetting the horses. Hayes raced forward. “Go, go, go!” They pushed forward, once again drawing up to Lamoreaux’s side. Would it be enough?
Both phaetons crossed the line, and Hayes still wasn’t certain who had won. He pulled back on the horses gradually. Then his carriage hit a dip, tipping the whole of it up into the air. The brothers gripped the front until it landed again on its four wheels, but the French flag flew up into the air and billowed out behind them.
Hayes twisted to see if he could turn the phaeton yet and return to the crowd, but Lamoreaux had caught his flag and now held it up, shaking it in the air. Duncan had stopped, and the frown on his face told Hayes everything he needed to know about Duncan’s thoughts on the race.
Hayes at last slowed his horses to a stop. Lamoreaux continued onward. Hayes didn’t know if the man would stop or not, but he felt sick to see the French flag flying again. He and his brothers ought to have thrown it to the ground earlier.
He turned the horses about, and they made their way back to the crowd, which was cheering wildly. “Did we win?”
“Yes, we did, Brother. We beat Lamoreaux, but I’m afraid you did not make any friends with your future family.” Marc sighed. “But what more could we do? Someone had to beat that man.”
“I suppose.” Hayes waved to the crowd as he and his brothers arrived again at the starting line.
“What were you playing at? Flying French colors now?” Duncan shouted as soon as they were at his side. His anger seemed loud and irrational to Hayes, but perhaps from his perspective, things had looked differently from the reality.
“Our phaeton almost tipped over. The flag rose in the wind.” He tried to catch Duncan’s eye, to reason with the man, but he wasn’t looking at Hayes. “Someone had to beat that weasel.” Hayes bowed to him and then held out his hand across the space between their carriages.
“Don’t shake that hand.” The Duke of Shelby stomped toward them, his face red, his stance stiff as he marched closer. “Don’t go any closer to the French-loving traitor.”
“Father.” Duncan’s anger seemed less volatile than his father’s, at least.
“Your Grace.” Hayes spoke in what he hoped would be a placating tone.
Marc and Kristoff had both risen to their full heights, and he knew they were feeling the same indignation he felt at being accused in such an insulting manner. If Hayes did nothing to diffuse the situation, they might have a need for pistols, and he had no desire to participate in such a barbaric method to determine men’s honor.
“Don’t even think you can fool me any longer. We have been on to you from the beginning.” The Duke of Shelby pointed a finger as he moved over to Duncan’s equipage, staring up into his son’s face. “What happened?”
