Nothing.
Everything.
After Charles had died, she had thought the sun would never shine on her life again. But it had. By bringing Gareth—a man who, she now realized, fit all her crooked edges like two pieces of wood joined together in perfect dovetail; a man who could make her laugh like Charles had never done, a man who might make her happier than Charles could ever have dreamed. Charles, with his dignified polish, would have been shocked if called upon to behave as Gareth was wont to do. Charles had been too serious, too full of inhibiting maturity—and the two of them probably would, in time, have become bored with each other.
She gazed over the bridge, over Abingdon’s rooftops, and up at the high, orange-tinted clouds. One thing was sure about the Wild One: she would never become bored with him. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a million years.
Purple parts! she thought, with a little laugh.
“What’s so funny, eh?” Becky asked as they joined the traffic heading up Bridge Street. Around them buildings rose, the sun’s last rays slanting off the tiled roof of a coaching inn on their right, shadowing the warm brick and stone structures on their left.
“Oh, nothing I was just thinking about something my husband did, that’s all.”
“Think of ’im a lot, don’t ye?”
“Oh, go on with you!” Juliet said, laughing. Becky laughed, too, chattering on about her own man, Jack, and pointing out various townsfolk that she knew. The street climbed and curved, and there, dominating the Market Place, was the County Hall, a tall, open structure of golden stone, its stone flooring a few steps higher than street level and creating a sort of open-air theater for the crowds that surrounded it. Someone had erected a ring of rope in the center of this open arena where several people, including Snelling, were milling about.
“So, does Snelling makes his living promoting fights?” Juliet asked.
“’E doesn’t need foights to make a livin’. Swanthorpe brings in all the blunt ’e could ever know what to do with, it does. No, ’e does this because ’e loikes ’ob-nobbing with ’is betters. That’s all it is. Foights attract important people—nobs, statesmen, that sort. Snellin’, ’e ain’t no better than the rest of us, but by rubbin’ elbows with ’is betters, wearin’ fancy clothes, and apin’ manners ’e’s got no business apin’, it allows ’im to pretend to be somethink ’e’s not.”
“You don’t like Snelling, then.”
“Nobody ’ereabouts does. Wouldn’t trust ’im as far as Oi could throw ’im, Oi wouldn’t. Oh, look! There’s Bull O’Rourke!” Becky stood on tip-toe and tried to point over a hundred heads. “Can ye see ’im, Juliet?”
Juliet craned her neck until she could just see the ring that had been set up for the fight. It wasn’t hard to identify Bull O’Rourke. She had never seen an uglier man in her life. His nose was broken, his lips were huge, his brow looked like a ledge of granite, his hair was a shorn orange rug. But his shoulders were what commanded the eye, for they dominated his body as surely as his lips did his face.
“My goodness, I do pity the man who has to fight him,” Juliet murmured, shuddering. “You weren’t joking when you said he had hands the size of buckets!”
“Knows ’ow to use ’em, too,” Becky said. “Bones crack loike plaster beneath Bull’s fists, they do!”
“Indeed,” added a well-dressed man in the crowd who’d been breathing down Juliet’s neck in his eagerness to see the stage. “I was here last summer when he took on Savage Sean. You remember that match, eh Jem?”
“How could I forget?” answered a neighboring gentleman, crushed like a kipper between the first man and the surrounding crowd. “Called himself the Pride of Ireland, but Bull felled him like an ax to a tree. Blinded him in the third round, if I remember right.”
“Second.”
“Aye, you’re correct, second. ’Twas the end of that match, I daresay.”
“And of Savage Sean’s fighting days!”
“Anyone know who’ll be taking Bull’s punishment tonight?”
“Don’t know. Some newcomer, I hear. Supposed to be good.”
“How good?”
“Snelling’s put it about that he beat Joe Lumford.”
“Pshaw! Lumford’s the London champion; he’s never been beat. Snelling’s making up stories to make the betting hotter, that’s all. This newcomer? Bull’ll cut him to ribbons in less than five minutes.”
“Ha, I’ll up you a guinea that he’ll do it in three!”
Guffaws broke out all around, and for some strange reason she couldn’t fathom, Juliet felt suddenly uneasy.
Then Snelling was raising his hands and calling for quiet, strutting before the crowd with the easy confidence of a seasoned actor as Bull’s second—for pugilism was not unlike dueling in that respect—joined the prize-fighter. Snelling handed the second a large flask, and, laughing, the man passed it on to Bull, who promptly tipped it to his lips and guzzled heartily before tossing the vessel out into the audience. There was a mad scramble as some fifty people tried to catch it, and several men went down, fists flying as they fought each other for the prize.
A small roar went up as Snelling, turning to the shadows, called for Bull’s opponent to come out on the stage.
“And now, may I introduce to you, tonight’s challenger all the way from the Lambourn Downs, it’s the Wild One!”
The blood drained from Juliet’s face.
No. It couldn’t be.
But it was—
Gareth.
For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could only stand there trying to absorb what she was seeing as the crowds jostled her to and fro in their haste for a better look at O’Rourke’s challenger. Shocked into numbness, she watched her husband walk once across the stage and then back again, grinning confidently, as though telling this scornful crowd he’d soon put to rest their jeers.
“Who the hell is he?” complained the gentleman just behind Juliet in obvious disappointment.
“Don’t know, never heard of him. But I’ll tell you this: Bull’s going to put him to sleep by the end of the first round, I’ll bet you a crown on it!”
“If he lasts that long!”
“Dear God,” Juliet murmured, the nightmare becoming reality as the two pugilists began stripping off their shirts and sizing each other up from across the ring. She could not watch any more. Could not stand there and see Gareth hurt and humiliated and possibly—probably, by the look of Bull—killed. Was this his so-called “work?” Was this how he planned to support them?
Feeling sick, feeling betrayed, she spun on her heel and tried to shove her way back through the milling masses, earning curses, lecherous leers, and a few nasty pinches on her bottom in her haste to escape.
Becky was right behind her. “Juliet! Oi swear, Oi didn’t know!”
“He deliberately misled me!”
“What are ye talking about?”
“He let me believe that Snelling had hired him to do mock-fights with swords, not real fights with fists!”
Becky stared at her blankly.
“He’s going to get himself killed! Oh, forgive me, Becky, I cannot stay and witness this, I just can’t, it’ll be the end of me!”
“Juliet! Juliet!”
And then Becky’s voice was drowned beneath the sudden frenzied roar of the crowd as the first blows were exchanged. Blindly pushing people aside in her haste to get away, their cheers and yells ringing in her head, Juliet fought to reach open road and once there, ran for all she was worth.
She charged down Bridge Street, through the meadows and fields that bordered the river, and over the footbridge that spanned the Mill Stream. She raced past Swanthorpe Manor, tore across the lawns, and flew into the dower house. It was shadowy inside, empty and eerily quiet. She could hear the crazed roaring of the crowd a mile away, and, with a little sob, she collapsed into a corner, clapping her hands over her ears to block it out even as her eyes frantically sought out ink pot, pen and paper:
/> Your Grace,
You must forgive my shaky hand, but as I pen these words, your brother, who has taken a position as a pugilist for Jonathan Snelling, is engaged in a boxing match which has drawn the better half of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Please come quickly, Your Grace. We are at Swanthorpe Manor, which, as you know, is in Abingdon-on-Thames.
Godspeed,
Juliet de Montforte
She ran back out the door and up the steps of the manor house, where she persuaded a footman, just coming off duty, to deliver the note. Ten minutes later, it was on its way south toward Ravenscombe—and the only man Juliet knew who could put a swift end to this lunacy in which Gareth had embroiled them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gareth’s head was reeling as, supported by Snelling on one side, and Woodford, his second, on the other, he stumbled home through the darkened fields.
He was not hurt. He was not even exhausted. He was drunk on victory—and nearly half a bottle of celebratory champagne. Indeed, aside from some bruising high on his left side, where O’Rourke had caught him a real thumper before he could block the blow, he was unmarked. Sore and a little tender in a few places, but unmarked. It was a blessing, really. Unless Juliet had heard about the fight from someone at Swanthorpe, she’d have no reason to suspect he had been up to anything out of the ordinary.
“You’ll be the new English champion if you continue on as you did tonight,” Snelling gushed, laughing in Gareth’s face. ’Sdeath, what he wouldn’t give to send his fist crashing into that obnoxious visage; at least it would give him some real satisfaction, which he hadn’t got from this evening’s match, ending as it had before it even seemed to begin. “Nobody’s ever taken O’Rourke down, ever—let alone as quickly as you did! Bloody hell, I thought that crowd was going to go crazy for wanting their money back.”
“Aye, you were something,” grunted Woodford, a solid, bandy-legged farmer who also fought occasionally, for Snelling. “Thirty-five seconds into the third round and bang, that was it for ol’ Bull!”
Gareth frowned and shook his head, trying to clear it of champagne. Instead, the movement dizzied him and he stumbled, nearly bringing both other men down with him. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is over your man Bull,” he mused, recovering his balance. “I’d go to hit him, and he was so slow about blocking my blows, it was like fighting a man whose hand was tied behind his back.”
“Oh, the big ones are like that,” Snelling explained. “All that brawn and heavy muscle, you know—takes time to get it moving, eh, Woodford?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Just didn’t seem right,” Gareth persisted. “’Sdeath, I almost felt bad every time I hit the fellow.”
“Now, don’t you start thinking that way, I’ll not have you going all soft on me! You’re going to be great, Gareth. You’re going to be famous, I can tell you that right now—”
“Bloody hell,” Gareth swore, thinking of what Lucien’s reaction would be when he heard about all this.
“You’re going to be drawing crowds all the way from London, I tell you!”
“Look, I don’t want to be famous, I just want to make enough money to support my family—”
“You keep fighting, my boy, and you’ll make enough money to put diamonds around your wife’s neck and a tiara atop her head!”
“Aye, he’s not as big and beefy as some, but he sure can hit,” Woodford added. “I’d like to see him against Lumford in a staged match.”
“I’d like to see him against Nails Fleming!”
“No, we’ve got to pit him against the Butcher. Now, that’ll be a good fight”
Their prattle dissolved into a confusing jumble of words around him that Gareth didn’t even try to keep up with. He cursed himself for drinking so much champagne. He felt sick and unfocused and unsteady. Hard to believe there’d ever been a time he’d enjoyed this feeling. Something was not right about tonight, like an ugly stench seeping from a shallow grave, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something that had to do with the glazed look in Bull’s eyes, his sluggish punches and slow reaction time. Gareth shook his head, cursing beneath his breath. It would be nice if his brain was on dry land, instead of floating in a sea of champagne bubbles.
He wanted, needed, to think.
“Look,” he muttered, “you can plan all you want, Snelling, but you’ll not get any more fights out of me until I see my share from tonight.”
“Back at the house, my boy, back at the house! You just be patient, now—”
“Patience has nothing to do with it. And while we’re on the subject, I want the window in our bedroom replaced. There’s a cold draft coming in, and we have a baby to think of.”
Snelling clapped Gareth expansively across the back. “Now listen here, my good fellow, I don’t want you worrying yourself about windows; I want you to start training for next week’s match against—”
Gareth lurched to a stop and swung around to face his employer. “I will tell you once, Snelling, and only once. I want the window fixed. By tomorrow afternoon. Is that understood?”
Snelling’s smile froze; he removed his hand from Gareth’s back, his eyes narrowing, his lips thinning, and an ugly look coming over his face. He opened his mouth to retort; then, thinking better of it, he relaxed, breaking out a huge, beaming grin that didn’t fool Gareth in the least. Snelling didn’t like him, but Gareth didn’t give a damn; the feeling was mutual.
“For you, my lord, anything,” Snelling said tightly. “You want the window fixed, I’ll fix it. You want your earnings now, you’ll have them. Just ready yourself for next week’s match, that’s all I ask.”
And then the trio continued walking, all three men very silent now.
Sod you, you bastard, Gareth thought.
The lights of Swanthorpe Manor blazed through the trees up ahead. Just looking at the big house, Gareth felt the customary stab of longing. That was where his Juliet and little Charlotte deserved to be, not in a tiny dower house with shabby curtains, damp rising up the walls, and, yes, a cracked window that had made the room so cold the night before that they’d brought Charlotte into bed with them. And as Snelling led him inside, and Gareth stood in Snelling’s richly appointed parlor in a strange reversal of roles while his employer counted out his earnings, the longing only intensified until it felt like something was gnawing at the chambers of his heart.
I want this house. I want this estate. I want it so badly I can taste it.
And why not? A de Montforte had built it. A de Montforte had always lived here, cared for it, loved it. Now it belonged to a man who was not, and would never be, its rightful owner, and the house seemed to strain toward Gareth like a faithful dog whose leash was suddenly held by a stranger.
If it were mine, I would clear this room of all these foolish statues, paint the walls happy colors like sunny yellow and heather pink and sky blue, put a thick rug on the floor, and make it my Charlie-girl’s. This could be her very own play area. This could be where she’d learn to take her first steps, tumble with the puppies I would get for her, have her first tea party. Oh, if only this house were ours.
“Here you are, Gareth,” said Snelling, dropping a heavy leather pouch into his outstretched hand. “It’s all there. Count it if you want.”
Gareth didn’t bother. If it wasn’t all there, he knew where to find Snelling. He pocketed the pouch, and through the hazy blur of champagne that still fogged his head it occurred to him that Snelling was no longer preceding his name with his title. That bothered him. He wasn’t a snob; he was simply not comfortable with Snelling’s over-the-top attempt at easy friendship with him. It annoyed him, put his hackles up, set his teeth on edge. He considered making an issue over it but decided he’d irritated Snelling enough these last few minutes. He’d let it go.
For now.
Moments later he was walking unsteadily across the lawn, heading for the dower house. It was dark, save for a glow in a downstairs window.
&nb
sp; She’s waiting up for me, bless her.
He gulped several deep breaths of night air to clear his head, mounted the steps and pushed open the door.
“Juliet?”
It took him a moment to find her in the shadowy gloom. She was sitting in a chair by the cold hearth, still and silent. At the sound of his voice, she turned her head in a manner that suggested the effort had cost her all the energy she had.
“So, you survived after all,” she said woodenly.
He flinched. “You know about it, then.”
“I was there.”
Oh, hell. He gulped and grinned, trying to take the heat off himself. “I was pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Good? I wouldn’t know. I left as soon as I saw who it was that Bull O’Rourke was fighting.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? Because I didn’t want to see you hurt, that’s why.”
“Now, Juliet. Do you have so little faith in me that you think I cannot hold my own in a simple boxing match?”
“A simple boxing match? Gareth, the man was built like a like a medieval fortress!”
“So was that bloke at Mrs. Bottomley’s, but I took care of him easily enough.”
“Gareth.” She turned her level stare upon him, and he saw the hurt in her eyes, the betrayal, the sorrow. “Your abilities are not the issue here—and you know it.”
A bucket of ice water thrown over his head wouldn’t have sobered him faster. A guilty heat spread over his cheeks, and he kicked at a knothole in the wooden floorboards, staring at his foot and trying to figure out what to say, what to do, how to make amends. When he looked up, she was still gazing at him. Waiting.
“I am sorry, Juliet.”
She looked away, blinking, as though his quiet apology had brought tears to her eyes.
“I should have told you,” he added lamely. “I was wrong.”
“Yes, Gareth, you should have told me. Why didn’t you?”
Sighing, he crossed the room and sank to his knees on the floor beside her chair. Her hand rested on the chair’s arm, and he picked it up, kissed it, and laid it gently against his heart. “Because I knew you’d be worried. And well, you have enough to worry about, dearest. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 169