by Hilly Mason
He would be a fun one to fight, she thought. And wouldn’t go down easily, I’ll bet.
“I’m glad that they’re closing the menagerie,” she said aloud. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man turn to her in surprise. “They don’t treat the animals properly here. They should be in their natural habitat.” She gestured with her head to a vacant pen. “An elephant lived here once. It only lived for two years, unfortunately. Elephants in the wild can live just as long as humans, if not more. They’re probably smarter than humans, too,” she added under her breath.
The man didn’t respond. Isla raised an eyebrow and continued babbling.
“You’re probably wonderin’ how I ken so much. Well, I spend most of my free time here at the menagerie,” Isla admitted. “And I had one of the greatest teachers in England—Lady Sophia St. George. If I wanted to ken the answer to somethin’, she never just told me outright. She would sit me down and hand me a stack of books until I figured out the answer myself.”
A look of recognition passed over his face and swiftly left, but not quickly enough for her not to notice.
“What, do ye ken her?” she asked him shrewdly.
“I just know the name.” he mumbled.
Isla snorted. “Aye, of course ye do. Most people would ken of the St. Georges. If you stepped into a gaming hell, chances are it was one run by Lord Alexander St. George.”
“Hmm…” the man said and then gazed off into the distance.
“You’re not one for small talk, are ye?”
He glanced at her, slightly alarmed.
“Eh, not to worry. I tend to run my mouth off at all times of the day. My friends ignore me most of the time. What’s your name?”
She noticed his hesitation and marveled at it. Was he nervous? Maybe he finally recognized her and was intimidated by her? It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Jack,” he finally said. “Lord Jackson Craig.”
“Jack,” Isla repeated, as though testing it out on her lips. “I kent a Jack when I was a lass living in Scotland.”
She noticed the man stiffen. “Did you?” he asked mildly, and turned his head to look down at the lion. “It’s a common name, I suppose.”
“Aye, but the Jack I remembered was cross-eyed. And his eyes were green, not brown. And he definitely was not a lord.”
The man’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She narrowed her eyes at him. Why was she making him so uncomfortable?
“I should be going,” he mumbled.
“All right, it was a pleasure meeting ye, Lord Craig.”
“Likewise,” he muttered and turned quickly to leave.
Isla watched, her lips turned upward in amusement. He was a tall, bumbling fellow. Awkward, she decided. And he definitely did not have the look of an aristocrat. He looked more comfortable working as one of the bodyguards to Alexander’s gaming hells than a wealthy patron. What was he doing here, of all places, looking at the menagerie?
Och, she had no time to be thinking of men. She had to get ready for a fight! Isla took one last look at Golden before she left.
After Isla’s first appearance at the Carlton House for a prizefight in front of His Royal Highness King George IV, there had been an overblown debate over whether women should wear trousers in public. There was always the chance that she would get fined for what people considered “indecent exposure,” but she wasn’t going to bloody-well fight wearing flouncy skirts and a chemise! She was forever grateful that she had ties to the St. Georges. With that family by her side, the authorities didn’t bother her about her “indecency” very much, except for some sour looks and whispers behind her back every now and then.
She hoped that she would live to see the day when all women could wear whatever they liked without being harassed or criticized.
Isla stood in front of the full-length mirror and assessed herself. She was wearing white trousers tailored to her long, slender legs that tapered at the ankles. She also wore a linen shirt, over which another tailored coat in navy blue that was fitted at the waist and still accentuated her curves. Although people would still consider the fashion too masculine, she loved the way she looked and felt in trousers. The difference between fighting in trousers and fighting in skirts was the difference between night and day.
Isla slipped her feet into her black leather ankle boots and tied them tight. Then, she took a brush and combed out her red hair. It was well past her shoulders now, and more than once she had daydreamed about cutting it short like a man so she wouldn’t have to deal with it. She toyed with the idea of hiring a maid solely for the purpose of her doing her hair, but she could never get herself to make the investment. She liked being independent, even if it meant she had to spend several long minutes cursing as she pinned her insufferably thick hair up away from her face and shoulders.
The bruising on her face had faded somewhat throughout the day, and she was grateful that it wasn’t so bad that her eyes had swollen shut. Her head still hurt a bit, but the doctor said that the concussion was only minor. She would just need to be careful not to get hit in the same spot tonight.
That was not a problem; she wouldn’t be careless like she had been last night. She wouldn’t let Patrick’s death distract her again.
Her blue eyes, sapphire pools that contrasted against the slight bruising around her lids, sparkled brilliantly with tears. Isla’s nose and cheeks were splattered with freckles—every well-bred lady’s nightmare, but she rather liked the way they looked. Her nose was slightly crooked after being broken perhaps close to a dozen times, and she had a small scar on her forehead after losing consciousness and hitting her head against the corner of a nearby table during a rather intimate fight hosted by Madame Rose’s brothel near Hyde Park. It had been a small space with far too many prostitutes and their patrons and not enough room to fully dodge a punch.
Isla smiled. The scars and markings were all trophies of her accomplishments, and she did not hate anything about them. She had come so far from being the helpless orphan from Scotland to being a celebrity in London—and she was damn proud of herself.
And tonight she was going win.
Chapter Two
His mother always called him slow. According to her, Milton was the clever one.
Jack didn’t really believe his mother until now.
He should have known that this Isla St. George was the same girl he had been friends with as a boy. He should have recognized her at the very moment he had heard her name from the Murrays and seen her grinning portrait in the newspaper.
When he arrived in London from Liverpool, after wandering around the city for a few days, he had almost given up trying to find her. Nobody knew what she seemed to do during the daytime when she was not fighting, and he wanted to find her alone so he could speak privately to her. He asked around taverns and on the streets until someone told him that he saw a tall redhead walk into the Tower of London Menagerie. Luck so had it that he was heading that way anyway to oversee the transport of some of the animals in the menagerie to the Murrays’ estate in Pennsylvania. Yet he still couldn’t find her in the menagerie. He almost gave up then, and was taking a break when she practically materialized from nowhere.
It had been over fifteen years since he’d seen her. The girl that he remembered at the orphanage had been more limbs than not, with red hair that was always in some state of disarray. He and his brother had arrived at the orphanage at roughly the same time as her.
Being of similar age, he and Isla got along for a while, but once his brother noticed their attachment, he became ruthless towards Isla, calling her names. Being young, naïve, and, admittedly, an idiot, Jack sided with his brother and made Isla’s stay at the orphanage a living hell. When he heard about how she had escaped from the orphanage, he wondered if it was because of what he and his brother did to her. He felt a bit guilty about it for a while, but then subsequently went on with his life.
He never thought he would ever see her again. In fact, he had almost forgot
ten about her. This older version of Isla was tall and elegant, even in her shocking attire of men’s trousers and shirt. Her read hair was not the messy plaits of his childhood, but tied back neatly into a coil off her slender neck. Adulthood had gifted her with high cheek bones, a defined jaw line and plump pink lips that he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind.
Yet despite the natural changes that occurred while transitioning into adulthood, she was the same person; he still saw the sharpness behind her gaze and the proud lift of her chin that hinted at the intelligence he always knew she had. It reminded Jack of the keen eyes of a hawk watching its prey.
Jack should have just told her then and there that he had been sent for her, but he couldn’t find his tongue. He probably looked like a simpleton in her eyes. But if he had told her who he was, would she agree to accompany him to America? Or would she stomp on his foot and tell him to shove his hat where the sun doesn’t shine?
That would be more than he deserved.
“Idiot,” he murmured, as he pushed through the crowd near Mayfair. The fight that evening was being held in the St. Georges’ own gaming hell, The Green Room, located in the heart of one of the wealthiest areas in London.
Jack didn’t think to dress in anything other than his traveling clothes, yet he was beginning to regret it now as London’s aristocracy was eyeing him like he had come from the sewers. Not one to enjoy being the center of attention, Jack felt his face redden under the blatant stares. He ducked his head and continued on.
When he finally arrived at the Green Room, he flashed his ticket in front of a guard at the door before being led in. Jack followed the humming crowd into a small ballroom to the back of the gaming parlor. He whistled under his breath as the room was already filled with a few hundred people, dressed like they were going to watch an opera, not a violent spectacle.
The Murrays provided him with enough money to purchase a good seat, just two rows from the stage. He took his seat and waited. A sudden hush fell across the room as a small well-dressed man materialized onstage. It was warm in the room, and he took a tiny handkerchief and wiped a bead of sweat from his balding head before taking a piece of paper from his breast pocket.
“Today’s first fight is Andrew Adams against Billy Jones!” the arbiter called out in a nasal voice before disappearing behind the stage.
As the crowd finished their applause, two nondescript men came on stage and danced around each other. Jack stifled a yawn as he waited for the first one to make his hit. He hadn’t got much sleep since landing in Liverpool, and it was a struggle to remain upright in his seat.
The fights came and went. It was always the larger of the two who won, making Jack wonder how in the world Isla could stand a chance against these bruisers. But she did win, over and over again, if the newspapers were correct.
“And now,” said the arbiter announced after the fourth or fifth fight. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for… Our current champion, Isla the Bold!”
The crowd erupted into applause and cheer, jolting Jack out of his half-sleep. Suddenly alert, Jack sat up straight, watching as Isla waved emphatically at the crowd as she walked across the stage. This time, she was not wearing her coat, which gave him, as well as the rest of the audience, a decent view of her long legs. Lord, the garment was so tightly formed to her body that he could see the curve of her rump through the trousers. To his mortification, he began to feel his arousal and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably and grasped the arms of his chair and took a few deep breaths to get himself back under control.
“Tonight Isla will fight against Robert Dougal, Edinburgh’s current champion. But will he be able to defeat London’s own?”
Isla stood in front of a man roughly twice her size and a few inches taller. His face was similar to that of a craggy rock from a lifetime of breaks and bruising. As he lifted his massive fists in front of his face, Isla did likewise, and Jack could only think about the story of David and Goliath. Should he worry about Isla’s wellbeing? He was to bring her back to America alive, after all…
Before the fight commenced, Isla turned towards the crowd. Scanning the faces, she rested her eyes on Jack. She grinned fiercely at him.
It didn’t take Jack long before he realized how sorely he underestimated her.
Robert Dougal had said something to Isla that made her face turn red with anger. He then threw his first punch. Isla was fast, and easily dodged Robert’s attack. However, she was not quick enough to avoid the second punch to her face, which connected Robert’s fist with her jaw. A splatter of blood painted the wooden panels of the floor as Isla fell to her knees.
Jack almost jumped up out of his seat in outrage, but the crowd only grew more excited. Isla recovered quickly. She got back onto her feet and continued to dodge Robert’s blows. Being a large man with more strength than stamina, Isla’s technique quickly tired Robert, and he eventually lowered his guard. A quick punch the gut knocked the breath from his lungs, and another jab across his face sent him spinning. He landed hard on the ground and didn’t get up.
Isla was announced victorious, much to the excitement of the crowd. A few even threw flowers at her. The woman beamed at the audience and gave them a bow as a few men hauled Robert’s body off the stage.
“And now to my favorite part,” the arbiter said as he graced the stage once again. “Does anyone in the audience want to try their hand at fighting Isla the Bold?”
The crowd murmured amongst each other. No one spoke up. Jack didn’t blame them. Isla was a vicious and skilled fighter. The newspapers did not lie.
“You,” Isla said, pointing to the crowd.
Jack’s blood grew cold in his veins. She was pointing at him.
“Or are ye too scairt?” she taunted, her blue eyes flashing devilishly, drawing a few laughs from the crowd.
God, she did remember him. She remembered his brother bullying her at the orphanage while he stood idly by and watched it happen.
And she wanted her revenge.
His heart beating wildly, Jack got up from his seat and walked up the stage, feeling as though he was floating up to her, rather than using his legs.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered to her once she was close enough to hear.
Isla laughed. “He says he doesna want to hurt me,” she said loudly to the crowd. “He probably thinks I’m a weak, helpless lass.” She rubbed the back of her hand against her split lip and spat blood onto the ground.
She knows, he thought worriedly. She knows, and she’s angry. There was a glint of fire in her eyes and her mouth was turned upward in a sneer.
As the crowd laughed at him, Jack felt his anxiety soar. He had fought in a few prizefights before… but against a woman? Isla was tall, but he was taller, and perhaps twice as big if not more. One throw of his arm and he would knock her out cold. But she did defeat that brute of a man, Roger Dougal…
“Too late now, Lord Craig,” Isla said. She lifted her fists to protect her face. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Jack had enough pride left in him to not run off stage. Yet his body shook as he lifted his own fists.
He was never, ever going actually hit the woman. Perhaps he could throw some punches to off-balance her…
But no, he couldn’t even do that. When the fight started he froze and dropped his hands, just as Isla lodged her fist into his gut.
She had a surprisingly strong arm.
The crowd loudly voiced their displeasure as he immediately fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The ballroom swayed like he was back on the ship. Stars danced across his vision and increased in number until he couldn’t see anything but darkness.
“Dammit, ye let me win,” he heard Isla hiss before he passed out.
Jack woke up on his stomach, face down in the alleyway behind the gambling hell. He opened his eyes as a few rats scurried passed him and then rolled onto his back. His clothes were covered in mud and dampened with sweat and perhaps a little bit of blood.
<
br /> “Why are ye following me?” a voice said from behind him. He turned his head to see Isla standing by the door to the Green Room. She held a handkerchief to her swollen lip.
He squinted at her. “Did I do that to you?” he asked. He didn’t remember hitting her…
“Of course not,” Isla retorted, glaring at him. “Ye were too much of a coward to fight me. Now tell me, who are ye? Why are ye following me?”
Does she not remember me? Jack pushed himself up to his feet. Isla was standing on the top of the stairs so she didn’t have to crane her head up to look at him. She was frowning, her blue eyes looking black in the dim lighting of the alleyway. There wasn’t any recognition in her face at all.
“I’ve come to England to take you to your parents,” Jack told her.
“My parents?” Isla repeated incredulously. “I don’t have any parents, ye wee lobcock. You’ve seen me fight before, so I hope ye ken how dangerous it is to upset me. I’m going to ask ye again; why are ye following me?”
With a shaking hand, Jack retrieved a letter from his breast pocket. It was damp with his sweat and some of the ink bled through to the other side of the foolscap. He hoped it was still legible enough for her to read.