The Glory Game (23 page)

Play resumed on the field to complete the game's last chukkar. Trisha paused a minute to watch the action, but it didn't hold her interest despite her brother's participation on the leading side. Her glance strayed from the contestants as she started walking again. It passed over the two men dressed in riding breeches and boots lounging against the front fender of a car parked roughly ten yards ahead of her. Something familiar about one of them pulled her attention back to the pair.

A stunned second later, Trisha recognized Raul Buchanan. That strong, angular profile and smoothly cropped brown hair couldn't belong to anyone else. She didn't need a glimpse of those light blue eyes to confirm that it was Raul. Her downcast spirits soared, and her steps lifted as she approached him unobserved, his attention on the field of play.

“Did you see Sherbourne miss the ball again?” The remark was addressed to the man with him, the faint accent and resonant pitch of his voice so familiar to her again. “He is unable
to hit a backhand shot on the near side. If the back had followed him, he would have had an easy goal.”

“Should I warn Rob that you are scouting his team?” Trisha spoke and smiled in satisfaction when his glance settled on her with a flicker of recognition.

“I knew I had played against the rider in the Number One position before, but I failed to recognize him without the Kincaid string of ponies. Thank you for identifying Sherbourne's ringer.” He inclined his head slightly in her direction while his gaze stayed on her face. “Let me introduce my teammate, James Armstrong. James, this is Miss Trisha Thomas, granddaughter of Jake Kincaid.”

“This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Thomas.” The English rider formally shook hands with her. He was a slightly built man with a narrow face and high forehead, his hair bushing thickly from a thinning top. “Your grandfather was a superb competitor. I am glad to learn your brother is following in … his boots, shall we say.”

“Thank you. I believe Rob loves the game even more than Jake did,” Trisha said, then turned back to Raul, conscious that his gaze hadn't left her. “This time I don't think you'll be able to accuse him of saving his horses.”

“Not this time.” He remained attentive yet slightly aloof, with a hint of warmth that kept Trisha hoping.

A jetliner thundered overhead on its flight path from Heathrow Airport not many miles distant. It briefly disrupted the flow of conversation as they waited for its roar to abate.

“I take it you and your brother are visiting the Sherbournes at Seven Oak.” The comment came from James Armstrong.

“Yes. We arrived a little over two weeks ago.” She wondered how long Raul had been here.

“How are you finding England so far? You couldn't have chosen a better time of year—Ascot Week, Wimbledon.”

“It's been a never-ending round of activities,” Trisha admitted and belatedly wished she had spent more time with her brother on the polo fields. She might have learned earlier that Raul was in England. “I'm having a marvelous time. Although it is a treat to see a familiar face.”

“I presume you two met while Buchanan was playing in the States,” Armstrong guessed.

“We did,” Raul replied.

An impish light crept into her eyes. “Unfortunately, at the time, Raul thought I was too young for him.” She sensed a ripple of impatience as the furrow in Raul's brow deepened and his glance swung away from her.

“Is that right?” Armstrong feigned a cough to conceal a chortling laugh and clapped a hand on Raul's shoulder. “I'll leave you to settle this, old boy. Meet you later at the pub.” He moved away.

For long seconds there was only the background noise from the field—the gruntings of horses straining for speed and the thudding of hooves on the grassy sod. Trisha wandered over to lean against the car hood near Raul and feigned a brief interest in the action. Then she turned back to Raul. “Are you sorry he left?” she asked.

“No. His presence would not have prevented you from making some outrageous comment,” Raul said. “Sometimes I forget how aggressive American women can be.”

Trisha experienced a warm rush of satisfaction that he had finally called her a woman. “All women can be aggressive,” she declared. “I don't think it has anything to do with nationality.”

“Some are bolder than others, then.” The long grooves on either side of his mouth were deepened by a small smile.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “I told you we'd meet again.”

“Since your brother plays polo, it was likely our paths would cross.”

“But I didn't expect to see you here—in England.” She turned thoughtfully curious.

“Why not? Britain is practically the home of polo. The British are the ones who exported the game throughout the hemispheres.”

“But you are Argentine. There is that matter of the little fuss over the Falklands,” she reminded him.

“Polo has nothing to do with national politics. I am not here to play for the honor of Argentine, but for the victory of my team—which happens to be British.”

“Will you be playing against Rob's team?”

“It appears we may meet in the finals.” His attention again centered on the game in progress. It never strayed from it for long, Trisha had noticed. Those keen blue eyes always seemed
to be assessing the play of horse and rider, seeking out weaknesses and strengths.

“Then I'll have to cheer for both sides.”

“Your host will not be pleased by your decision. Sherbourne prefers undivided loyalties.”

“I would love to be accused of consorting with the enemy,” Trisha declared, deliberately being provocative, but the faint twitch of his lip didn't reveal whether he was amused by her or the idea. “You'll be coming to the party Saturday night, won't you?” All the participating teams had been invited, as well as a horde of other guests.

“Yes.”

“Will you be bringing someone?” She felt tense when he met her look.

“The final match is scheduled for the following day. I will have to leave the party early to be rested. It would not be fair to ask a lady to accompany me, then expect her to leave the festivities when I must.”

Trisha released a long breath of relief. “No, it wouldn't.”

“You are too transparent, Miss Thomas,” he said dryly.

Her head turned sharply toward him, his mocking criticism coming as a surprise. “Why?”

“When you show your feelings, people will invariably hurt them.” His level gaze contained a warning, but she was more intrigued by why he so consistently kept her at arm's length.

“Have you been hurt?” Trisha wondered.

“Not in the way you mean.” He'd been poor and hungry and ridiculed. Those were feelings completely outside her experience, feelings she could never understand. The struggle for survival rarely allowed time for sensitive emotions. The bell rang to end the game, and Raul straightened away from the car. “You will want to go congratulate your brother on his team's victory.”

Before he could take his leave, Trisha reached quickly for his hand. “Come with me. I want you to meet Rob.”

At the pressure of fingers, he glanced down at her soft hand, so golden pale against his darkly tanned skin. “Another time.” Briefly, he admired her persistence, but he knew that for all her pseudo-worldliness, she would still expect more from a relationship than he could—or would—give.

“Later at the pub then.” She observed the arch of his eyebrow.
“Sooner or later you're going to learn that a Kincaid doesn't take no for an answer.”

“I thought you once told me you were more Thomas than Kincaid.”

She was encouraged by his recall of a past statement. “I'm not sure what I am anymore.” Mostly because she didn't know what a Thomas stood for—certainly not constancy. Her father had changed too much from the man she'd thought he was. “I heard James Armstrong say he'd see you at the pub. That should be a neutral ground to meet my brother even if you do end up opposing each other again. Which pub is it?”

“The Cygnet.”

“Then we'll see you there later, too.” Trisha elected to quit while she had an affirmative response from him.

As Luz approached the picket line, grooms were walking down tired and sweaty horses. Among the dismounted riders, there was a lot of backslapping going on, and hearty voices filling the air. Rob's face was wreathed in a smile of exhilaration. He was an emotional player, and this time he'd won.

“Congratulations, Rob.”

“It's the Argentine horses Henry bought. They are the best ponies I've ever ridden.” He shook his head in a marveling gesture as he glanced at a sweat-slick bay being led away by a groom. “I thought the gray couldn't be beaten in his prime, but these mounts … someday I hope I can have a couple of them on my string.”

“Maybe we'll look into the possibility.”

“Do you mean it, Luz?”

“A player is only as good as his ponies.” Luz didn't feel she was indulging him in a whim. Rob had already proved to her that he was serious about the sport. As in any other sport, he needed the proper equipment and coaching. She had discussed the latter on several occasions with Henry Sherboume, getting his recommendations on possible mentors. But this wasn't the time to tell Rob of her future intentions. After the tournament, she would talk to him about them.

“Good game, Rob.” Trisha joined them.

Her congratulations didn't make much of an impression. “Can we start looking as soon as we get home?”

“Looking for what?” Trisha asked.

“Rob needs to improve his polo string. He's so impressed with these Argentine horses of Henry's that I suggested we might buy some.”

“I know who you should talk to, Rob.”

“Who?” He looked skeptical.

“Raul Buchanan. He and a bunch of other players are stopping at a local pub for a beer. I was going to ask if you wanted to go there with me.” She knew Rob was aware he was being used as a means of seeing Raul again.

“You don't mind, do you, Luz?” Of late, Rob had become reluctant to be away from Luz for long, behaving as though he had to make up for Drew's absence.

Maybe that was normal under the circumstances. And maybe Trisha resented Luz's turning to Rob for comfort instead of her. She didn't know. She simply didn't think it was wise of her mother to let her life revolve around Rob so much. Maybe it was too soon, but she still felt Luz should go out on her own more.

“I don't mind,” Luz insisted blandly. “Go enjoy yourselves.” But it was her expression—or lack of one—that made it seem like a sacrifice. Not for a minute did Trisha believe it was deliberate.

“You should start dating, Luz,” she said impulsively.

The snapping sharpness was suddenly there. “Which old fart would you suggest I pursue? Simon Thornton-White, who belches like a foghorn, or maybe old Mr. Tynsdale, who wheezes climbing two steps? In case you haven't noticed, there is not exactly a surfeit of unmarried men my age. Although I suppose I could always take a young lover.”

“Luz, I—”

“You meant well, Trisha. I shouldn't have …” The anger dissolved in a weary sigh. “It's the sun. It's given me a rotten headache. I think I prefer a quiet evening. And if I'm lucky”—her lips twisted in a wry, humorless smile—“Fiona won't ask me to be the fourth at bridge tonight.”

“We don't have to go to the pub,” Rob said.

“Maybe some of his string will be for sale. These Argentines are always selling their ponies. Henry would like it if you bought some of the opposition's mounts before the big game. You two have a good time tonight. And don't come early or
I'll think it's my fault,” she declared and walked away before Rob could protest further.

“I guess we have our orders,” Trisha murmured as she watched her mother leave. The hat, the gloves, the flat-heeled shoes all created the proper image of sophistication and poise, yet something was missing.

“Have you noticed how frightened and lost she looks sometimes when she doesn't know you're watching her?” Rob observed grimly. “That's what he's done to her.”

“It must be like losing half of yourself,” Trisha guessed. “Do you think Dad will ever come back?” The possibility seemed so remote that her question was almost a childish wish, but Trisha longed for the even tenor of her former life.

“No, and good riddance to the bastard,” Rob muttered and caught at her arm. “Let's go to your pub.”

The public house was on a narrow, winding street, cobble-stoned and old. Above the timbered door of the wood-and-stone building was the weathered sign depicting a young swan, the royal bird that inhabited the noble Thames. The popular meeting place was half filled with customers and there was a low but steady din of voices. Heavy old furniture and raftered ceilings and bulky wood trim, all darkened by age, combined to give a certain gloom to the ancient drinking establishment, an aura that wasn't improved by the dusty-paned front windows and inadequate lighting.

Trisha scanned the room, searching the tables in the dark corners, skipping over the locals in their workclothes and worn business suits. A handful of men in riding clothes sat at a far table. “There they are.” She pointed them out to Rob, then led the way across the planked floor, dodging tables, chairs, and milling customers.

The air was pungent with the smell of ale and stout, spiced with pipe smoke. They approached the far corner where Raul was seated with his polo-playing friends. When he saw Trisha making her way to his table, he pushed his chair back and rose to meet them. He clasped her hand in greeting, and she felt a tingle of excitement at his firm, warm grip.

“My brother, Rob Thomas. Raul Buchanan.” As she watched the two shake hands, she noticed the stark differences between them.

Only an inch or so separated them in height, yet Rob looked smaller, more wiry and slim, while Raul had a filled-out completeness, his chest and shoulders flatly roped with muscle. Maturity and experience were stamped in Raul's dark face, but her fair-skinned brother looked young and untried. Rob had been the older brother for so long that she had expected more equality between the two, but Rob was a boy next to a man.