As Julian danced to his opponent, Lyneah had to ask, “My god, who was that clown?”
“That's Julian Featherstone. I've known him for years,” Isabella said. “And he's not so bad... usually.”
Julian's opponent was Sir Reginald Snowe, a knight of staggering popularity. In fact, in the front row, there were at least a dozen young ladies who squealed when he entered the arena. When Reginald raked his fingers through his long, glorious chestnut mane, they squealed even louder.
They screamed in unison, “We love you Reggie!”
“Well... damn.” Julian sulked as the knight approached. “I was supposed to be the popular one!”
“I've no time to waste on talking, knave!” As soon as Reginald's gloves were off, he threw the first punch. Julian wasn't anticipating an attack so soon, so the fist hit him directly on the nose.
Julian staggered backward. “Hey now!” He gripped his nose and whined. “If you could avoid my face, I'd very much appreciate it!”
When Reginald's fist flew forward again, Julian raised his arms, blocking his face. It left his stomach exposed, so Reginald popped him in the gut. As Julian doubled over, Reginald smacked the side of his head.
“Oh no...” whispered Lettie, who watched through narrowed eyes. “I don't know if he can do this! Captain Featherstone usually runs away from fights!”
She was sitting next to Wiggly Joe—but not too close, because he didn't smell particularly pleasant. “Don't worry,” Wiggly tried to encourage her. “The captain's tougher than you think... I think?”
“Oh, it's not that I'm worried about him!” Lettie was quick to correct him. “I just don't think he can succeed. That Reginald fellow looks tough. And he's got a cheering squad!”
At the moment, Reginald's cheering squad was booing, because Julian's counterattack was successful. His right hook smashed into Reginald's jaw.
“You know, we can end all of this fisticuffs nonsense, if you'd like,” Julian attempted to negotiate with his opponent. “I can slide a little money your way, and we can make all of this unpleasantness go away. What do you say, Sir Reginald?”
Sir Reginald's left and right fists flew at Julian almost simultaneously. He hopped backward, narrowly dodging the barrage.
“Well, I guess that's my answer!” Julian laughed—but his laughter abruptly subsided when Reginald kicked his shin. “Ow!”
Reginald's fists continued to fly, and Julian stayed on the defensive, hoping the knight would eventually tire himself out. At one point, a few chestnut tendrils drifted into Reginald's eyes. When he stopped to tend to his hair, Julian made his move. While Reginald preened, Julian punched him in the jaw, the chin, the stomach, and at the end of the onslaught, he brought his knee into Reginald's stomach. When Reginald's ladies saw the blood spilling from their hero's mouth, they cried in unison.
Reginald tried to punch back at him, but the blow was weak. Julian leapt to the side and smashed another fist into Reginald's head. When the knight went down, a chorus of boos erupted from the frantic female crowd.
“I don't believe it,” Lettie whispered to her wild-eyed companion. “I can't believe he actually won!”
“Yep.” Wiggly sniffled loudly, as if he was touched. “I knew 'e would... okay, no I didn't.”
For some inexplicable reason, watching Julian's match made Lettie's heart pound. When the next two opponents entered the arena, her heart had yet to resume its usual placid thumping.
“What's with the mask?” Lettie asked, pointing at one of the next contenders. “It's covering half his face. It's... kind of creepy.”
“He looks like a twat,” Wiggly's opinion flew liberally from his lips. “Stupid mask twat.”
Princess Isabella, on the other hand, was thrilled to see Thomas Harriot enter the ring, though she tried not to show her excitement on her face. Then her stomach tightened when she saw his opponent. Sir Borace “The Beard” was a tall, broad, stocky man with an immense black beard and small, shrewd eyes. Harriot was a large man himself, but Borace was enormous.
While Isabella hid her excitement, her brother was a bit more transparent. “Go Harriot!” The prince cheered so wildly, he was thrashing in his seat. “Go Harriot! Goooo Harriot... that's my man! That's my buddy!”
When he heard Gemellus cheering, Harriot briefly glanced at the royal box. His head was shaking with disbelief as he turned in the direction of his heavily bearded opponent. As Borace flexed and boxed the air, Harriot was stock-still with his hands in his pockets. He was ready for the match to begin, because the sooner it started, the sooner he could finish it.
“What's with the mask, son?” the burly Borace asked as he closed the distance between them. “I think you should have to remove it! It ain't fair! How am I supposed to hit your damn face?”
“Aim for this side,” Harriot quietly suggested, pointing to the side of his face that wasn't concealed behind the mask.
“Sounds like a good idea to me!” Borace roared. He launched a fist at Harriot, who casually leaned backward, dodging the blow. He retaliated instantly, with a right hook, and then a left hook. Harriot hit him again and again, with such relentless brutality that the audience gasped. Because blocking was impossible, Borace had to run away.
“Bastard!” When Borace turned to spit, a blood-soaked tooth flew from his mouth. “Look at what you did!”
Harriot simply shrugged.
Borace, who was now fueled by rage, charged forward and swung his fist again. Harriot ducked the incoming fist, then he hopped up with an uppercut. As Borace fell backward, a dictionary of curses flew from his lips.
When Borace tried to get back up, Harriot kicked him down and kicked the side of his head.
“Alright!” Borace made a sharp squeaking noise. He held up his hands and begged for mercy. “Please... I'm done... I'm finished! You've won, don't hurt me!”
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd as Borace pitifully pleaded. The rest of the spectators had been awed into silence. No other match had concluded so quickly. Borace hadn't even touched him.
“Either that man is shockingly good,” Lettie observed, pointing at Harriot. “Or the other man was embarrassingly bad.”
“Or maybe both of them statements is true,” added Wiggly with a nod. “Old Wiggly would've beaten 'em all, though.”
After a few more matches and a short recess, the second event commenced. The arena was turned into a shooting gallery, where the remaining eight contenders would fire at targets from varying distances. The frontrunner was Lordon Flair, an exceptionally well-dressed gentleman in his fifties. Lordon was a renowned sharpshooter who had traveled the world performing tricks with his pistol. Only the two best shooters would be moving on to the next round, so Julian understood the importance of eliminating his competition, even if he had to resort to unfair methods.
Lord Cedric fired first. He started strong, but as the targets were smaller and further away, he started to falter. While the audience was distracted by Cedric's mediocre performance, Julian sidled to Lordon's side and cleared his throat. Lordon didn't react right away, so Julian gently poked his arm.
“What?” When Lordon turned to Julian, his droopy blue beret slipped over his eye. As he readjusted it, he asked, “Did you need something, Lord Featherstone?”
“Yes... well...” Julian paused to chuckle. “I was just wondering if... maybe... perhaps... I could persuade you to shoot a bit more shoddily than usual today?”
The older man's eyes narrowed at the suggestion. “You want to pay me off?”
“Precisely!” Julian lightly clapped the man's arm. “I'm glad we understand each other, Mr. Flair. Now... how much would it take for you to set aside your pride and let someone else win today? Honestly, I'm not a bad shot myself, but I'm not in your league. No one's in your league. So... if you'd be so kind as to give someone else a chance, I could make you a rich man today!”
“Double,” Lordon murmured. “Double, and not a penny less.”
Julian's eyelashe
s fluttered. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“The reward for winning is a thousand dollars,” Lordon explained. “For two thousand, you can buy yourself some less-than-perfect shooting from Lordon Flair.”
“Two thousand?” Julian hissed, perhaps a bit too loudly. When Harriot turned to glare at him, Julian lowered his voice and said, “That's a lot of money! Are you trying to rob me?”
Lordon started to turn away from him. “If I'm out of your price range, I guess that's too damn bad for you.”
“Wait!” It was almost Lordon's turn to shoot, so Julian had to complete their negotiations as quickly as possible. “Never mind. Deal. You have a deal. I'll give you two thousand if you lose on purpose. If you win, you get nothing.”
“Deal.” Lordon captured Julian's hand and gave it a firm shake. “You better not be lying to me, son.”
“No! Never! I'm a man of my word, I assure you.”
“You damn well better be, or I'll be using your balls for target practice next.”
“That would be... horrible.” Though Julian shuddered at the thought, he didn't let it bother him. He intended to keep his promise, and therefore had nothing to fear.
When Lordon stepped up to shoot, a grin flickered onto Julian's lips, and the grin strengthened when the sharpshooter missed a target. For several seconds, the crowd buzzed with murmurs of disappointment, but it didn't seem to affect Lordon, who walked past Julian and whispered a reminder, “Two thousand.”
After Lordon, it was Julian's turn. He hit the center of the first target easily enough, but the second was smaller and more tricky. He closed his left eye, then his right eye, then his left eye again. He usually closed one eye as he aimed, but he couldn't remember which one gave him the advantage. Julian leaned forward, leaned back, lifted his gun, and finally lowered his gun. He spent so much time lining up the perfect shot that the audience started laughing at him.
One particularly boisterous spectator even heckled him. “You can start shooting any day now, you pompous ass!”
“Hey!” Julian hollered back at him, “They never said there was a time limit, did they? You can shut your mouth, sir!”
Someone chucked a half-eaten tomato at him, presumably the man who heckled him, but Julian didn't allow himself to get discouraged. When he finally fired his gun, he hit the second target—not quite in the center, but close. He hit the third target too, in much less time than it took him to hit the second. Julian nodded self-satisfactorily as he strutted away. His shooting wasn't perfect, but for the most part, he was pleased with his performance.
However, his shooting was nothing compared to Thomas Harriot's, who hit all three targets as if his bullets were magnetized to hit the bullseye. He didn't even look surprised. He expected nothing less of himself.
When the first day of the tournament was over, Isabella couldn't have been more pleased with the results.
In the final round, Thomas Harriot would face off against Julian Featherstone.
Twenty Eight
When Kieran's motocarriage rolled into the town of Durby, it was dark. Only the pale light of a silvery crescent moon illuminated their path. Durby was unfamiliar territory to all of them, so they strained to see the buildings they passed. A post office. A residence. A restaurant. And finally--
“There!” shouted Nico, whose head popped out of the motocarriage window. “I think that's an inn!”
“Good eye, boy,” Kieran said as he halted the motocarriage in front of the half-timbered building. He hopped down from the driver's seat and offered a hand to Mae. Though she accepted his assistance, her nose wrinkled.
“Oh, you think I need help getting down from the carriage, do you? You think because I'm a woman that I can't get down by myse--” Before she could finish the thought, Mae lost her footing and toppled into Kieran's arms.
“And... you were saying?” Kieran chuckled as he set her on her feet. “I saved you from falling on your arse, girl. Aren't you going to thank me for that?”
Mae snorted and slapped his arm, which was all the thanks he was going to receive.
“This looks like a nice inn,” Nico remarked as they made their way inside. They were greeted by an elderly innkeeper with snow white mutton chops. As the man raised his monocle to study their faces, Nico whispered to his companions, “But... how are we supposed to pay for this? I don't have any money. I know Mae doesn't. Kieran's employed by us, so we can't expect him to pay...” Nico turned his eyes on Ella. Their night of comfort depended on her.
They told the innkeeper they needed two bedrooms: one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen. When he told them how much it would cost, Ella reached into her reticule and approached the counter.
“One... two...” Ella's lips dipped into a frown as she counted her pennies. “I... I think I have enough.”
Kieran suddenly stepped in front of her and tossed a handful of coins on the counter. “Don't worry, love,” Kieran winked at her. “I've got it covered.”
“Oh... but wait... we couldn't possibly ask you to pay!” Ella gasped. “You're taking us to the capital. We're supposed to be the ones paying you!”
“And I said I've got it covered,” Kieran insisted, lightly pushing her away from the counter. When the innkeeper passed him two keys, he handed one to Ella. “I guess that's that, then. We'll see you ladies in the morning.”
Ella and Mae parted from the men and climbed the stairs to their bedroom, which was on the second floor. Nico and Kieran continued to climb—their room was on the highest floor. Mae and Ella barely said a word to one another. They went inside, climbed into separate beds, and rolled away from each other. Ella started to say something, but as soon as she opened her mouth, she heard Mae snoring. Within a few minutes of her head hitting the pillow, Mae was sound asleep.
“Lucky her,” Ella whispered as she stared at the ceiling. She was in an unfamiliar place, far away from her brother and everyone she knew. If there was trouble, could she really rely on the strangers who traveled with her? It left her feeling vulnerable, and she struggled to quiet her thoughts.
The room was airy, clean and spacious, much different than anything Ella experienced in Bordeaux. She had lived in the same city for twenty-three years, which was a depressing thought, but Bordeaux was the only place she knew. Until she was in it, it was difficult to imagine a world beyond the dingy streets she usually traveled.
After an hour of tossing, rolling and sweating profusely, Ella climbed from bed and donned her slippers. She hoped a quick walk around the area would clear her head. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she walked past Kieran. He was sitting alone in the pub, downing shots of whiskey at half past midnight.
“Hey!” When he saw her heading toward the inn's exit, Kieran shouted. “Hey... Ella! Where do you think you're going?”
“Out.”
“At this hour, in this unfamiliar town?” Kieran tossed the rest of his whiskey down his throat and joined her at the door. “I'm not going to let you go out alone.”
“You're protecting me?” Ella gave him a lopsided grin as she opened the door. “But who's going to protect me from you, Kieran? Am I really any safer with you at my side?”
“Fine then. I won't come!” Kieran thrust his hands into his pockets and took a step backward. “Go out and get mugged. See if I care!”
“Goodness, I'm only teasing!” Ella grabbed his sleeve and tugged him through the door with her. “Don't be so sensitive!”
“I'm not being sensitive...” Kieran's hands stayed in his pockets as they sauntered around the inn. “You hurt my feelings.”
“Really?” Ella's nose puckered. “I did?”
“You did. I've been trying to prove I'm a good man, and then you go and say something like that...” Kieran sighed deeply. “It hurts. It really hurts.”
Ella could hardly believe her ears. She had to ask again, “Really?”
“No. Now I'm the one teasing you, love. You can say whatever you want to me. I really don't give a shit.”
&n
bsp; “That's... good to know.”
“Pardon my language. There are probably some words I shouldn't say around a lady.”
“Like shit, you mean?”
“Aye. Like that,” Kieran said with a nod. “I'm used to being around men... and some real rowdy bastards, at that. It's impossible to mind my tongue.”
“It really doesn't bother me. After all, I've lived in Bordeaux my whole life. I've heard all sorts of... shocking phrases.” When Ella glanced at Kieran, her face twisted into a grimace. “Actually, Kieran, I'm glad you're with me right now. There's something I've been wanting to ask you.”
“Have at it, beautiful.”
“Um...” Ella was momentarily distracted by his compliment. “I... was wondering... how am I supposed to get back home? When I get to the capital, I'll need to get back to Bordeaux, but I don't know how. I never really planned that far ahead.” Ella caught her bottom lip between her teeth. As she nibbled, she tried to think of the right way to phrase her question.
Kieran beat her to it. “Are you asking me to take you back?”
“Y-yes.” Ella winced. “I'm not sure I'll be able to pay you... not a lot, anyway. But my brother's life probably depends on me getting back home, and... and I feel like such a fool now. I really should have thought of this beforehand, but I'm stupid, and now I'm--”
“Shh!” Kieran suddenly hushed her. “Of course I'm taking you back. It goes without saying. Did you think I'd expect you to hitchhike home? You better start exercising your thumbs, sweetheart, because that bastard Kieran's going to abandon you in the capital. Damn, you must think I'm an arse!”
“Well, you're kind of an arse. That is to say... you're a little rough around the edges, but you can also be chivalrous at times. You're a difficult man to read.”
“There's probably a reason for that roughness.” Kieran pouted at her. “I had a difficult childhood.”
“Did you?” Ella looked surprised by his confession. “Did you want to talk about it?”
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