by Willa Ramsey
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should just give in. Make a dramatic show of it, perhaps. The words of Lady Cantemere knocked around his head: She will continue to suffer, until the next giant falls. Well, it was in his power to make the next giant fall. It could all be over now—Caro’s position at the top of the gossip pages, this fight, his reputation as a great fighter.
How freeing it would all be.
But as much as he loathed every second that passed and dreaded every one that was to come, he could not bring himself to lose the fight intentionally. He would be indulging his own unhappiness, he would be cheating the assembled crowd, and he would be disappointing the stern, and ever-present, ghost of his father. He pivoted away when the duke took a little too long positioning his next punch, and danced away. The crowed whooped again.
He wondered where Caro was, and what he would say to her when he saw her next. Would she—oh my God—that tousled hair, that minxy stance, that angry glare! There she is! Three-deep in the crowd, to his right! He wanted to look again but knew the duke would punish him for such a folly, so he continued to dance around, hoping to orient himself for another look. Realizing it would never happen, he took a knee and went quickly to his corner, to scattered applause from the crowd, who would probably have preferred to see him continue to take a beating on the ropes.
“That round was another twenty minutes,” said Quillen.
“Please stop shouting at me.” Every word was like a stake being driven into his skull.
“I’m not shouting.”
He ignored him and turned to where he had seen Caro. They made eye contact and he yelled out to her at once. “Let her through! Let the lady through!”
Slowly, after much jostling and disgruntled elbowing, enough people moved aside to allow her through, with two others whom he recognized as her housekeeper and a footman. Caro was still glaring at him, and although the sun had sunk well behind the trees, there was still a glow of sorts in her eyes.
It probably wasn’t the kind he wanted, but he would take it.
“Has it occurred to you,” she asked, “that if you win today, there will only be more pressure on you to fight?”
He gave her a lopsided grin as Navy Man dumped a pail of water on his head. “Thank you for your faith in my abilities, dearest. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”
She didn’t appear to be amused.
“Win or lose, my love, the newspapermen will be only too glad to report it. Or the newspaperwomen, of course.”
That last bit made her smile, as he’d hoped. “I appreciate what you are trying to do, Lord Ryland, but you’ve made your point. I just want you out of there. Unhurt, and as soon as possible.”
“What will you do with me when you get me?” But before she could answer, Navy Man pulled him up and shoved him toward the scratch line.
He went on the attack this time, and the Duke matched him, blow for blow, block for block. They were both invested now, as seeing Caro had made Adam realize just how much he wanted to be done with the thing. It gave him the energy he had lacked to that point, igniting the memory in his muscles, bringing back to vivid life the lessons Father had taught him all those years ago. He and Portson slipped into some known rhythm—part primal, part studied—and suddenly he was back to his boyhood again, practicing with Father.
He had never been a competitive boy, and bloodlust was a mystery to him. So Adam had taught himself—over many years of training—to take and throw punches that were just enough to keep an opponent working hard and feeling frustrated. He’d developed his own style of sparring, and it was as free of punishment as possible: it limited the pain of his opponent, without requiring him to intentionally lose. He just fought (and fought and fought and fought) until he reached that happy point when Father called the whole miserable affair a draw, and he could race back to his garden and his books.
That was what he had been in it for, all those years ago: as a means to avoid disappointing Father without revealing his cowardice.
Or at least, what he’d thought had been cowardice.
Father had never used that word, of course; he’d come to the conclusion himself that he lacked something important when it came to being a gentleman. He had his legendary father’s encouragement, advice, and cheers. He was big, strong, and well-trained. But even as a boy, he knew he would avoid the real ring his whole life if he could help it—and this was curiously at odds with every one of his schoolmate’s wishes to become champion one day.
It isn’t cowardice, Caro had said, to be wary of hurting another. He hadn’t allowed himself to believe it until now, but she’d been right: His aversion to the ring was not cowardice; it was a bone-deep revulsion to violence. That was the only thing about fighting that had always come naturally to him, and had only multiplied when he’d injured the duke back at school.
But he had volunteered for the soonest, nearest fight the very moment he’d realized it could be a boon for Caro. He was no less repulsed by the potential violence of it, mind, but in going, he’d proven to himself that he could surmount his old reluctance when it was truly required. And that, he supposed, was bravery of a sort.
It was also bravery to show one’s true self to society, as Caro had always done, and as he intended to do from here on out.
He realized all this now, just as he noticed the sweat on Portson’s brow, his wrinkled forehead, his bloodshot eyes. Was the duke tired, too? What was he in this for? His own purpose in entering that ring—to create a sensation that London’s gossips would chew on for weeks—was done.
“What are you in this for, Portson?” he asked during a step back.
The duke’s eyes widened, his brows raised. “To win, of course.”
He thinks this is part of my strategy. Adam reached out and put his hands around Portson’s neck and yanked him into a hold. The duke immediately reciprocated the gesture, as if he, too, was desperate for a rest.
“I want to be done, Portson. That’s all I want. But I am not beaten, and neither do I want to do what it takes to win.”
“Spare me your claim that you can’t hurt a fly, Ryland. I know better.”
“I can’t do it, Portson. I haven’t thrown a punch since our school days. I detest this business.”
“Are you saying you want to throw this thing? Which did you have in mind to be, the winner or the loser? I daresay it’s not the latter.”
“Let’s both put a knee down. Together. We’ll say we can’t go on, and it will end a draw.”
“There will be a mob!”
“We’ve given them nearly two hours! Two hours of the best boxing many of these folks will have seen.”
After a few more seconds—and a few boos—Portson replied, “Let me bloody you up a bit more, and I’ll do it.”
Adam stepped back and took an immediate punch, then another, to the temple then the jaw. His eye stung, and he tasted the metal of blood. “All right, then,” he laughed.
But Portson hit him again, right in the stomach and he bent forward with an ooof! He was beginning to think Portson had played him again when he heard him rasp, “Your turn. Make it good.”
He grinned and took a swipe at Portson, who ducked and grinned—his teeth covered in blood. Adam came at him again and this time he landed the thing. Blood spurted from the duke’s mouth. He barreled into him, grabbing him above the waist and tackling him into the ropes. The crowd whooped in delight. He held him there some minutes before allowing him to wrestle free, then danced around as they traded a few more showy punches, each one eliciting a new “Ah!” or “Oh!” from the crowd.
By the time they came into another hold, Adam was deeply, truly weary. “Ready?” he whispered. “One, two, three, down.” They went to their knees, simultaneously as agreed, and were swarmed by their men as if it were just the end of another hard-fought round.
“I’m done,” they announced in unison. “I cannot go on.”
The referee raised his hand and called the draw
, eliciting shock from their seconds and a roar from the crowd that seemed mostly approving, albeit with a few scattered jeers. Their men pulled them up and they shook hands, exchanging just the hint of a smile.
Quillen and Navy Man helped him to the corner, where he saw Caro just beyond the ropes, looking as pale and grim as a gravedigger. “What is the matter, darling? Are you quite well?”
“Me?” she asked, her voice breaking.
Her reaching for him was the last thing he saw before passing out.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adam came to in a quiet Banmoor bedroom. Dark curtains alternated with columns of hazy autumn sunlight, and a fire brewed its woody aromas from the far wall.
He tried to sit up, but pain shot through his back. So he laid down again and went still, grimacing in discomfort.
Why was his eyesight foggy? His head felt dull, so perhaps it was from that. He felt weak, too, utterly knackered, and looked for the cord at the bedside, which he knew would summon a servant. He wasn’t sure he could reach it without feeling the wrath of God upon him, via long angry fingers reaching deep into his back.
“Do you need something?” said a voice. He tilted his head toward it and spied a figure curled in a chair by the window, and though his vision was too fuzzy to confirm it by the features of her face or the curl of her hair, he knew it was Caro.
“Are we alone?” His voice sounded dry and strained. “How scandalous.”
Her blurry form rose from the chair and came over. “How are you feeling? What can I get you?” she asked as she sat gently on the edge of the bed.
“Caro,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
“You are injured, Adam. And I suspect in a lot of pain.”
“I am not asking for a tumble. Not yet, anyway.”
“And I am offering far less than that,” she replied. She’d attempted to sound irritated, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “Not yet, anyway.”
He smiled and reached for her, and she took the hand he offered. “I’m not sure yet how cross I should be with you,” she continued. Her voice carried with it the promise of tears, and he squeezed her hand.
“Just wait, Caro. Wait until we see what the newspapers have to say about what I did.”
“I already know what they have to say.”
“That was fast.”
“Not really. We’ve had two mornings—”
“What?”
She laughed. “You’ve been sleeping for a day and a half. And I can report that you’ve successfully commandeered the headlines in all the gossip columns and society pages. All they can talk about is your bout. Although, if you ask me, it’s hardly a scandal for a man to have fought like a champion against one of the winningest fighters in all of England.”
“See? How can you be cross with me, when I am quite your hero?” he teased.
“Yes,” she replied. “Indeed, you are. Although I never wanted you to do something that you hate for me, especially something you revile so much as fighting. And to risk…”
“Risk what?”
“Adam…” she sighed. “Never mind. You should rest.”
“I—”
“Please try to rest.” She got up and leaned over him, kissing him on the forehead. She lingered for several seconds, and the heat of her lips stayed long in his skin, long after she’d gotten up and promised to return to him with soup for his belly and salve for his muscles, some hours hence.
“Turn over.”
He grinned at her, still chewing a bit of his lunch. “Can you demonstrate?”
“Do you want more of Lord Quillen’s salve on your back, or do you want to stay in bed—alone—for the foreseeable future?”
Caro lifted the tray of dishes from his bed and put it aside. He turned over and she closed her eyes, preparing for the sight of his back. She removed the lid from the glass jar and inhaled deeply of the lavender and peppermint, then opened her eyes again.
They’d been at Banmoor four nights now, but the bruises were still thunderclouds across Adam’s skin: purple and blue and angry as all get-out. When she exhaled a bit too loudly he asked, “That bad, as yet?” He had crossed his bare arms atop his pillow, and was resting his head on them.
“I don’t know how you can smile like that through all of this.” At least he could move comfortably, now.
“I don’t have to see it.”
She scooped some of the salve into her hands and began spreading it across his skin, as softly as she could. “Actually, this has improved some, over yesterday. More yellow, and very little black.”
He closed his eyes and moaned a little. “I don’t know what that is, but it makes a pleasant sort of tingling on the skin.”
“I believe it’s peppermint,” she replied. “Though Lord Quillen told me not to ask too much about it, or where it came from.”
“He says that a lot.”
She laughed.
“What do you think of the country?” he continued.
She stopped rubbing. “What do you mean?”
“You said once that you loved town, but hadn’t had much chance to spend time in the country. I want to know what you think of it now.”
She scooped more of the salve and went back to making broad circles across the expanse of his nearest shoulder. She imagined this sort of touch in better circumstances, but quickly cursed herself for such selfish, trivial thoughts. “We’re but ten miles from Charing Cross, Adam. It’s hardly the hinterlands.”
“Ardythe is only twenty. I wonder how you would like it.”
Now her chest felt like her salve-covered hands—a curious, hot-cold tingling that couldn’t be controlled. She had to speak up; she had to thank Adam for the brave, selfless gesture he had made in entering the boxing ring for her, and she had to apologize for what she had said in the servants’ staircase of her house. She had to say all these things before she could hear any more talk of the future.
But he spoke up before she could assemble the words. “You are tired, I think.”
“No, I am fine,” she replied, sitting up straighter and trying to brighten herself.
Like any accomplished flirt, she knew how to widen her eyes for effect and smile effortlessly. But in truth, she was exhausted. She had slept but a few hours each of the nights she’d been there, and all of them had been in the chair by the window, within steps of Adam’s bed. The surgeon who had seen him upon his return to Banmoor had said he was in no real danger, that he only needed rest, but she’d heard stories of men who had died a few days—or even weeks—after a particularly bruising fight. She couldn’t bear to think of Adam’s discomfort either, and if he woke and needed something she wanted to be there. Her nerves had begun to fray from too little rest, and too great a worry.
“What do your parents think of your being here? I’m loathe to complain, but this is a bit scandalous.”
“Stinson and Edwards informed them of my whereabouts when they took the carriage back to town. Mama and Papa have since written twice, urging me to come home as soon as I can; and now that you’re on the mend,” she said, pausing, “Lord Quillen has offered me his carriage so that I can go back to them tomorrow.”
He fidgeted.
“But Mrs. Meary has stayed on, as my chaperone,” she continued. “She seems happy to have nothing to do but rehash the fight with anyone who will listen. All of the maids and footmen are now exceedingly familiar with your tendency to favor your left side.”
He laughed. “She’s an aficionado, then? What other assessment did she have of my performance?”
“She’ll be sure to tell you once you’re on your feet again.”
“Well, now that I can roll over without shrieking like a lamb at slaughter, I think that will be quite soon. And with any luck, I’ll be able to see clearly by then.”
Her chin hit her chest. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried but failed to suppress the sob that came barreling up from her c
hest. She tried to cover her face with her hand and squeeze back the tears, but Adam’s fingers closed around her wrist and pulled it gently away.
“Come here,” he said softly. When she shook her head no, he pulled her out of her chair and onto the bed, first on top of him and then next to him.
“You’ll hurt yourself—”
His arms encircled her easily, and he pulled her to his chest. “I am fine,” he whispered.
They lay like that for some minutes, her hand swiping messily at her tears, Adam tightening his grip now and again and murmuring soft susurrations into her crown. His heartbeat provided a steady example for her own more erratic, more worried one; and soon, she was breathing normally again.
“I wanted to thank you, Adam, for what you did.”
“Shhh.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
He was silent.
“And I want to apologize for what I said the last time I saw you, in town. You are, as should be rather obvious by now, not just any assignation.”
“I knew you wanted to push me away, for Edie’s sake.”
She nodded her head, then turned and pressed her cheek against his chest, her arms bent in front of her.
“I hated hurting you.”
“You didn’t. I dismissed it at once.”
She chuckled. “You’ve always had a talent for sorting through my bluster.”
He chuckled too, and the vibrations traveled through him and into her, and lulled her to sleep.
It was night when Adam awoke again. He got up slowly, pausing twice to stretch his stiff limbs, and lit a candle on the bedside table. He was a nighttime reader, by long habit, and having slept for nearly three days, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed a minute more. He longed for a book and luckily, he had a good one—and his spectacles—in the pocket of his greatcoat.
He climbed back into bed, next to Caro, smiling at her hair tumbling onto the pillow and her frock fanned out across his bed. Her body curled toward him. She looked worried, however, even in slumber.