“Perry! Stop the goddamned fight! Stop it this instant or by God, I’ll haul you straight to the gallows for manslaughter!”
“No!” Gareth cried, shaking his head, and then pandemonium broke loose as Lucien spurred Armageddon right up the shallow stairs onto the stage, the crowd shouting and roaring behind him. The referees were yelling. Snelling was hollering. The crowd swelled in a mighty human tide toward the ropes, Campbell came charging down on Gareth like a lion on a kill, and Gareth knew then that if he didn’t do something, he was going to die.
Lunging to his feet, he braced himself, took a deep breath, and stopped the Butcher with a single blow between the eyes. Campbell dropped like a stone. The crowd went insane. And Gareth staggered away, reeling off the ropes and mustering all his strength in a desperate bid to stay on his feet as the referee began the slow count for his opponent.
“Twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty.” He grabbed Gareth’s bleeding fist and thrust it high. “The winner!”
And then the screaming throngs were rushing the stage, the Den members were vaulting in over the ropes, and Lucien, his face thunderous, was heading straight to where Gareth, sporting a silly little grin, stood swaying dizzily.
“Guess what, Luce I’m a landowner now!”
He blinked as a slight form brushed past his brother and came running across the stage, skirts flying, tears streaming down her face.
“Juliet?” he managed, in stunned disbelief.
And as Gareth’s tenuous hold on consciousness finally broke, it was she who caught him and, holding him until Lucien could pick him up and lift him over his shoulder, silently followed the brothers back across the stage to where Armageddon waited—leaving Sir Roger Foxcote, and the constable, to approach a suddenly quaking Snelling.
“You, my man, are under arrest.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
If Campbell hadn’t nearly murdered his brother, Lucien swore he would’ve done so himself.
It had taken Gareth almost two hours to regain consciousness after he’d gone down that final time, and as a grim-faced Lucien had put his senseless sibling aboard Armageddon and brought him back to Swanthorpe with hundreds of cheering, reveling people following in their wake, he had thought for sure he’d soon be mourning a second brother.
Victory, exhaustion, and a concussion had made for a powerful sedative. But later that night—after the doctor had set his broken arm, and while Juliet was sitting on the bed holding wet compresses to his swollen face—Gareth finally opened his eyes, his dizzy return to consciousness greeted by blurred vision and bouts of severe nausea.
“Serves you right,” Lucien growled. He took the cloth from Juliet and hurled it at his brother’s bare chest. “Put this against your head, and it won’t hurt so bad.”
But Gareth, looking dazedly up at Juliet, wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, he was staring at his wife as though she was the dearest thing he had ever beheld, as though he had never expected to see her again. Which, Lucien reflected dryly, was not so unlikely a supposition. He had arrived at the dower house just after six to find his brother already gone to the fight—and his new sister-in-law packing her trunk and sobbing her eyes out.
Crying females did not amuse him. Soppy tales of prideful husbands did not faze him. And her angry protests did not deter him when, his patience exhausted, he plucked Charlotte from her arms and thrust her into the stunned Sir Hugh’s, bodily threw Juliet over his shoulder and, striding back outside to where Armageddon waited, personally brought her to the fight himself—where her bristling defiance had turned to heartbroken misery as she’d seen Gareth taking a beating from the Butcher and realized just what her husband was doing for her.
Not for himself—but for her and Charlotte.
Now, as Lucien stood there watching their nauseating display of love and forgiveness, he felt compelled to vent his spleen.
“All right, that’s enough of this damned sickly-sweet foolishness,” he growled, stalking to the bed and glaring down at his brother. “You listen to me, and you listen well, Gareth. Your fighting days are over. And if I ever hear of you taking on a champion pugilist again—”
Gareth waved him off. “Give me some credit, would you? After all, I did beat the fellow.”
Lucien tightened his jaw. So he had. He’d also won himself a lucrative estate, exposed Snelling for the murdering swindler he was, and won the hearts of the people of Abingdon with his courage against the Butcher.
Earlier, while waiting for Gareth to come to his senses, Juliet had told Lucien everything she knew. Her story had been confirmed by Fox, who had stopped by after having applied a certain amount of duress to Snelling to get a confession not only from him, but also from Woodford, Creedon, and even Angus “the Butcher” Campbell—who admitted that Snelling had promised him an additional two hundred pounds if he killed his opponent during the fight.
Enhanced by testimonies from the widowed Mrs. Fleming, the chemist in Oxford, and even a sober Bull O’Rourke, it was not hard to put together a frightening picture.
Snelling, it appeared, had assembled a stable of tough, seasoned fighters who were among the best in England and pitted them against each other every Friday night. When he’d seen Gareth fight Joe Lumford that evening at Mrs. Bottomley’s, Snelling had come up with a scheme that would make him a staggering amount of money. As Gareth was an unknown newcomer, there was little reason for the vast crowds who came to watch the fights to think he could hold his own against the likes of Nails Fleming, Bull O’Rourke, or Angus “the Butcher” Campbell—much less beat them. And they had bet their money accordingly. With each fight, Snelling had matched Gareth against a man who was heavily favored to trounce him. Then, all Snelling had to do was put his money on Gareth, slip just enough laudanum to the favorite to subtly dull his reflexes, and take home a fortune.
Unfortunately, an innocent man had died because of it. But Nails’s death would not go unavenged. The next trip Snelling made would be his last, for at this very moment, the brilliant Fox was pulling out all the stops to ensure that Snelling and his henchman would hang for Nails’s murder.
And for plotting to kill my brother, Lucien thought, savagely.
Thank God for his trusty informer, who was not quite as brainless as he appeared. If Chilcot had not sent word to him, he would never have reached Abingdon in time.
Not that it would’ve mattered. As things turned out, his brother had done just fine without him.
Lucien was still scowling as he helped Juliet prop Gareth’s shoulders up on the pillows to ease his throbbing head. Amazingly, she was not angry with him for dragging her to the fight in such a rough and undignified way—not that he cared one way or another whether she was or not. She had seen him cursing Snelling to eternal hell while the doctor had set Gareth’s arm. She had seen him fretting, swearing, and pacing as he’d waited impatiently for his brother to come to. Oh, she saw right through him, had done so from the start, and knew him exactly for what he was: an overprotective older brother whose fear for the sibling he loved had switched to angry relief the moment Gareth had opened those guileless blue eyes of his.
Lucien grabbed up the candlestick beside the bed. “You ought to count yourself damned lucky that you’re not dead,” he growled, holding the candle over Gareth’s face and leaning down to stare into his eyes.
Gareth swatted him away. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“The doctor told us to watch your pupils,” Juliet explained. “If they’re different sizes, it could mean you have brain damage.”
Gareth only laughed.
“Nothing wrong with you,” Lucien muttered, straightening up. He slammed the candlestick back on the night table so hard that it dented the wood.
“Yes, well, stay out of my face and there’ll be nothing wrong with you, either,” Gareth returned with mock threat, sighing happily as Juliet pulled the covers up over his arms. Lucien saw another of those nauseatingly sweet, sickeningly t
ender gazes pass between them. Faintly disgusted, he rolled his eyes and turned away.
Leave it to the Wild One to stumble into a killer’s scheme and emerge with one of the finest estates in Berkshire. He was lucky he wasn’t dead.
But by God, I am proud of him.
Proud, yes. But furious. And what still had him particularly incensed was the fact that Gareth had known what Snelling was doing, but hadn’t summoned him until it was nearly too late. Then Snelling’s man had intercepted his message. Christ. Had Snelling found out any earlier that Gareth had been on to him, Gareth—like Charles—might be lying in a grave with a bullet in him. Lucien cursed between his teeth, even as he silently admired his brother for his courage and cleverness.
“Luce?”
Lucien, hiding that admiration beneath a black scowl, turned and stared down at him.
“You still haven’t told me how you got Crusader back.”
“Fox saw him at Tattersall’s and promptly bought him back for you. Now, go to sleep. Get some rest. I want you to heal up so I can beat the living daylights out of you, myself.”
“I dare you to try it,” Gareth whispered, with a weak grin. “I’m a champion now, you know.”
Lucien stared down at him. And then he shook his head, no longer able to prevent a little smile from touching his severe and unforgiving mouth. “So you are,” he said softly. “So you are.”
Gareth raised one eyebrow in surprise.
Lucien added, “Believe it or not, you’ve fulfilled my expectations and become the man I always thought you could be.” His smile deepened. “You’ve grown up, little brother. I’m proud of you.”
And with that he turned on his heel and left the couple staring after him in stunned shock.
The room was quiet, dimly lit by two candles on either side of the bed; pulled up near it in her cradle, Charlotte gave a tiny sigh as she dreamed.
Juliet waited until the duke’s footsteps faded, then looked down at her husband.
“Well, well. Monsters do have hearts, after all,” she mused, grinning. And then, as she caressed his lips with her fingertip: “Gareth?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Just one thing. If you ever do anything like this again, Lucien won’t have the chance to kill you because I’m going to get to you first.”
He laughed, curved his good arm around her neck, and, ignoring her feeble protests, pulled her down, kissing her so soundly that her head was soon as dizzy as his.
She snuggled up beside him and he drew her right up next to him. They lay facing each other on one pillow, his fingers lightly caressing her breast.
“I love you, Gareth.”
“Ah, Juliet, I love you, too. I cannot tell you what it meant to me to see you running across the stage toward me tonight to know that you had not left me, after all.” He swallowed hard, his eyes dark with the force of his gratitude, his love. “My greatest victory this evening was not defeating the Butcher; it was waking up and finding you here, with me.”
“Oh, Gareth can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”
“I will forgive you anything, my love. Now, snuff out the candles and get back down here under the covers with me, would you?” He found her nipple with his thumb and, with a wicked little grin, played with it until it peaked. “This bed is too big and lonely without you.”
Epilogue
It was three weeks before Christmas. Lucien, who’d lingered at breakfast after the others had made their excuses, was sipping his coffee and contemplating how to straighten out Andrew—as he had so cleverly straightened out Gareth—when a footman brought in a silver platter bearing the morning post, and presented it to His Grace.
He went through it with his usual lack of interest. Nothing out of the ordinary, here. Bills, investment opportunities, loan requests from friends and charities, invitations to social events, and ah!—his brows rose in interest—two letters. He tossed the other post aside and slit the seal on the first one. It was from Gareth and Juliet, full of recent news: about Charlotte, who was now walking; about Gareth, who’d recently been elected the local Member of Parliament; about Juliet, who was expecting their second child. The letter ended with an invitation for the whole family to spend Christmas at Swanthorpe.
The duke leaned back, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Outside, it was one of those rare days in an English winter when the sun, low in the sky and still weak, had managed to burn through the clouds and turn the sky the color of bluebells.
Christmas at Swanthorpe. He smiled. Hell, why not?
He folded the letter, basking in the satisfied glow he always got when he considered his part in bringing Gareth and Juliet together.
The Wild One all squared away. Time to get to work on Andrew, the Defiant One.
Ah, yes. Now there would be a challenge.
Still grinning, he picked up the other letter, bearing the postmark of some town in America he had never heard of. The writing on the front looked oddly familiar. Frowning, Lucien turned the letter over, broke the seal—and began to read:
28 October, 1776
My dear brother, Lucien
What?! Lucien came half-way out of his chair, nearly upsetting the table. “My God! He’s alive!”
He cursed his eyes for their inability to travel as fast as his excitement as he raced through the rest of the letter:
I do not quite know how to begin this letter, especially knowing what you must believe—and what you will think of me, after you have read it through. I hope to God my family has not wept for me, as I do not deserve your tears, your concern, not even your forgiveness. I have much to say, and much to explain as regards my absence and the unhappy fact that everyone seems to have believed me dead—but I dare say that a letter is not the place to do it, and there are things I would speak to you about only when I am back in England with my family.
To that end, I will be taking passage home in two weeks, and hope to be with you all for Christmas. Please discard all memories of the man you once knew me to be; illness and circumstance have made me but a shadow of my former self, and you should not expect too highly of me when next we meet.
I look forward to seeing you all soon. May God bless and keep you.
—Charles
Lucien sat there for a moment, stunned. Then, the letter clenched in his hand, he strode hurriedly from the room, bellowing for Nerissa and Andrew.
Work on the Defiant One, it seemed, would just have to wait.
The Beloved One was coming home.
Turn the page to keep reading and continue the journey with Book 2, The Beloved One, where you’ll fall in love with Lord Charles de Montforte, who awakens in the tender care of an American beauty after being wounded in battle. It’s a shame he’s sworn to love another…
Preview The Beloved One
Book 2 of The De Montforte Brothers Series
The moon was rising.
Earlier in the day, and throughout much of the previous one, it had been raining. Now, the last clouds filed swiftly out to sea, riding above trees still bare of leaves and allowing the moon to turn the steeples, rooftops and cobblestoned streets of Boston to silver. In the harbor, the bows of the great warships swung slowly around as the spring tide began to come in. In timber-framed houses all across the town, lamps glowed at doors, faint candlelight shone from behind windows, chimneys spewed wood smoke toward the stars. All was peaceful. All was quiet. The town was settling in for the night.
Or so it seemed.
History would remember two lanterns hung in the Old North Church, the midnight ride of Paul Revere, and at daybreak, the battle of Lexington and later, Concord, that would open the American Revolution.
But there were some things it would not remember.
On the second floor of Newman House, whose owner resentfully let rooms to the King’s officers, a captain in the proud scarlet regimentals of the Fourth Foot sat at his desk, finishing the letter he’d begun earlier to his family in far-off England. . . .
Newman
House, 18 April, 1775
My dear brother, Lucien,
It has just gone dark and as I pen these words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled town. Tonight, several regiments—including mine, the King’s Own—have been ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces here in Boston, out to Concord to seize and destroy a significant store of arms and munitions that the rebels have secreted there. Due to the clandestine nature of this assignment, I have ordered my batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of this letter until the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and secrecy will no longer be of concern.
Although it is my most ardent hope that no blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is restless and uneasy. It is not for myself that I am afraid, but another. As you know from my previous letters home, I have met a young woman here with whom I have become attached in a warm friendship. I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so enamoured of a storekeeper’s daughter, but things are different in this place, and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from home, love makes a far more desirable companion than loneliness. My dear Miss Paige has made me happy, Lucien, and earlier tonight, she accepted my plea for her hand in marriage. I beg you to understand, and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her, you will love her as I do.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 175