Still, it would be exciting to witness the contest….
No, she must not.
With a reluctance equal to her disappointment, she started back toward the livery stable—until she saw the Three Geese slipping into the milliner’s shop.
Her first thought was that they must have seen Gordon McHeath. Her second was that Sarah Taggart was a good friend of the milliner, whose family lived on the second floor. Sarah and her friends must be planning to watch the match from the upper windows.
Her third was that it was too bad she couldn’t join them.
Sighing, she continued on her way, past the milliner’s and the lane between it and the bookseller. It was like the lane where she’d been with Mr. McHeath, except that this one had several empty crates taking up much of the space toward the rear, where there was also a lean-to attached to the milliner’s shop.
Moira paused and looked more closely. If she piled some of those crates on top of each other, she could climb onto the top of the lean-to and from there to the roof, where she could see the meadow, and the match.
It wouldn’t be a ladylike thing to do, but if she were careful, no one would be able to see her on the roof.
A swift survey of the market revealed that no one was looking her way. Their attention was either on the meadow, or trying to get a bargain, and some of the merchants and peddlers had already started packing up their goods. Sam Corlett had put away most of the trimmings that had decorated his wagon and was moving with haste to finish the rest, glancing frequently at the crowd gathering in the meadow.
Moira ducked into the alley. Once more glad she’d spent all those hours clambering around her father’s warehouses like a monkey, she began piling the empty crates that had likely held books or pamphlets. Whatever they’d held, she was relieved she was wearing her gloves so she wouldn’t get splinters. When she had a sufficient pile, she hiked up her skirt and petticoat and put one booted foot on the bottom crate. Holding her breath, she grabbed hold of a crate two levels above and pulled herself up.
The pile shifted a little, but not enough to fall. Now she could reach the edge of the roof of the lean-to, and holding tight to it, she climbed another level of crates. Again they shifted, but again they held. Finally she managed to get onto the top of the lean-to.
Panting, she had to wait a bit to catch her breath, then got on her hands and knees.
Her skirts were not going to make the rest of her plan easy to put into effect, but she hadn’t spent all that time climbing without learning a thing or two about dealing with feminine clothing. After first making sure nobody was in the lane, she started to roll her skirts until they were about midthigh, and fastened one side into a knot to hold them. Her dress would be wrinkled, but hopefully only the servants would see that when she returned.
Once her skirts were secured, she carefully made her way up onto the roof of the milliners. She had to go slowly, for it would be disastrous if she fell or dislodged a piece of slate.
She obviously wasn’t as strong as she used to be; nevertheless, she wasn’t going to let her own weakness defeat her. At last she reached the ridgepole and peered over the peak of the roof. She could indeed see into the meadow, as if she were a bird flying overhead.
“Isn’t he marvellous?”
Sarah Taggart’s voice was as clear as if she were beside Moira on the roof.
They must have opened the window below to see better.
“He’ll win. I’m sure of it, even against the Titan,” Emmeline Swanson declared.
Moira nearly let go. Everybody in Dunbrachie and the surrounding villages had heard of that particular boxer, who weighed three hundred pounds at least and had left a trail of broken bones and bruises in his undefeated wake.
This was the man Gordon McHeath was going to box?
Had he taken complete leave of his senses?
Regardless of the wager he’d made, despite the possibility that winning this fight would make Robbie drop his suit, he never should have agreed to this, Gordon thought as he followed the excited and more-than-half-inebriated Robbie toward the makeshift ring. He should have come up with a better way to end the lawsuit, or simply refused to represent Robbie anymore and gone home to Edinburgh.
Coming to Dunbrachie was proving to be as great a mistake as believing Catriona McNare cared for him, and being alone with Lady Moira at any time was obviously an even worse one.
He also should have kept on his shirt and trousers rather than accepting the tavern keeper’s offer of this old kilt. That would have been warmer and more modest, and would it have really mattered if a pair of trousers and shirt got ruined in the mud that was sure to be churned up?
“I’m to be your bottle man,” Robbie reminded him as they drew near the excited crowd composed entirely of men. “The tavern keeper’s son’s going to be your knee man. He’s fetching the bucket with a sponge.”
Gordon nodded absently. The knee man would go down on one knee so the fighter could use his thigh as a stool between rounds, rounds that would only end when one of the two fighters got knocked to the ground.
He hoped it would be a short fight, and thank God Lady Moira wasn’t here to see this barbaric spectacle. At least, he hoped she wasn’t here, but he wasn’t about to scan the crowd, either, because if she was…
If she was, the die was cast and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Well, where’s your champion?” Robbie asked the man with the bright yellow vest, who was waiting in the ring.
In daylight, the fellow looked even more seedy, with a day’s growth of dark whiskers on his face, squinting eyes and a greasy hat pulled down over his forehead.
Beside him was a slender fellow in his late teens wearing a brown wool greatcoat and hat and holding a bucket with a ladle. There was another bucket at his feet, with a large sponge in it for wiping a fighter’s face. On his other side was a short, beefy fellow whose wide thigh could probably hold both Lady Moira and Lady Catriona McNare at once.
“Let’s just get started, shall we?” Gordon said, anxious to get this over with.
“Keen to have your nose broken, are you?” the seedy fellow said with a cold laugh. “That’s the Titan’s specialty, so I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.”
Robbie hadn’t told Gordon anything about his opponent—nor had he asked, which might, Gordon realized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, turn out to be another colossal blunder. Nevertheless, Gordon kept his voice impartial as he replied. “Titan? As in, father of the gods? Am I to assume my foe is a supernatural being?”
“Never mind what they call him,” Robbie said quickly—too quickly. “You can beat him with your eyes shut.”
“You can try,” the man with the yellow vest said with a smirk, “but they don’t call him the Titan of Inverness because he’s a wee lad.” He nodded across the ring. “Here he comes.” Gordon really wished he hadn’t agreed to fight when he saw the man they called the Titan of Inverness. His opponent might not have passed for an Olympian god, but if somebody had told Gordon this was a son of Hercules, he might have believed it. The man was easily six foot six and had to weigh over three hundred pounds. Not only that, not an ounce of his weight appeared to be fat. He could probably pull an oxcart full of rocks all by himself. His eyes were little slits in his broad face; his head was bald as an egg and shaped like one, too. Like Gordon, he wore only a kilt; no shirt, boots or stockings.
He was, without doubt, the largest, most unsettling opponent Gordon had ever seen, let alone faced in the ring.
The Titan strode to the center of the square and regarded Gordon with a raised brow, as if to say, “This is the best you can bring against me?”
Gordon was equally silent as he marched out to meet his enormous adversary. Instead of facing the man, though, he walked around him, studying the Titan, seeking any weakness or vulnerability and making the Titan crane his neck to see what he was doing.
A hush fell over the crowd. The Titan held out his
hand. Gordon shook it and then let go, signaling the start of the match.
The Titan immediately lashed out with his longer arms. Fists up defensively, Gordon leaped back. Fortunately he was light on his feet—certainly lighter than a man the size of the Titan would be. Yet he mustn’t assume that would be a winning advantage, not when the man had that long a reach, plus strength and experience, as well as no qualms at all about breaking his opponent’s nose and probably any other bones, as well.
The Titan’s right arm shot out again. Gordon ducked and moved in for a quick jab at the area of the man’s kidneys. He hit the Titan hard, but the fellow barely seemed to feel it.
Gordon danced backward. The Titan followed, moving with more speed than Gordon expected. He nearly got hit in the face, only avoiding the blow by instinct. He dodged another rapid strike, then lashed at the Titan’s jaw.
He didn’t connect, yet the way the man reared back gave Gordon sudden hope. Some men could endure blows anywhere but the jaw, and a strong punch there would knock them flat.
The only trouble was landing a good, strong punch to the more easily defended face.
If he could tire the Titan, Gordon reasoned, he would be less able to defend himself. That meant he had to keep the man moving.
And Gordon had to stay on his feet.
That wasn’t easy, not when the Titan kept him bobbing and weaving to avoid his massive fists.
The Titan moved him back to the edge of the ring. He lunged and struck Gordon’s right shoulder. Gordon fell backward, landing hard on his rear.
“End of round!” Robbie shouted.
He and a lad of about sixteen rushed toward him, helping him to his feet and toward their corner. He was especially glad to have the chance to sit and catch his breath, and take a long drink of cold water from the ladle Robbie held for him.
“You’ve got him, Gordo,” Robbie whispered in his ear. “Man’s as slow as a turtle.”
Had Robbie actually been watching?
“He can’t keep up with you for much longer!”
Gordon wasn’t sure he could keep up with the Titan much longer, either.
“Watch his fists,” Robbie added.
Gordon didn’t bother to respond to that unnecessary advice. He scanned the crowd, seeing no familiar faces and certainly no female ones.
He glanced up at the sky, trying to judge the time. About two in the afternoon, he made it, so it would get warmer yet.
As he lowered his gaze, he saw something that made him think he was hallucinating, despite not having been hit in the head. Either that, or someone wearing Lady Moira’s bonnet was lying on the roof of a shop on the other side of the green.
He blinked and wiped his face, but before he could look again, Robbie shoved him to his feet.
And a new round began.
“Oh, surely it can’t last much longer, can it?” Mabel Hornby cried.
Still lying on the roof, Moira wondered the same thing as she watched the two men circle each other yet again. The bout had already lasted at least an hour, to judge by the changing shadows. Both Gordon McHeath and his opponent were bleeding and bruised and had been knocked down more than once, although Mr. McHeath had been on the ground less than the man she knew only as the Titan of Inverness.
The Titan was huge, seemingly all brawn. Fortunately, Mr. McHeath was faster on his feet and often deftly eluded the blows. He also managed to make his fewer strikes more effective.
By now, though, both men were showing signs of wearying and she feared McHeath would soon be too tired to avoid a crushing punch from the Titan’s beefy fist.
Nor should she stay here much longer, lest her father start to wonder where she was. But she didn’t want to leave until she knew who had won the fight.
She hoped it would be Mr. McHeath—because he seemed so outmatched yet was holding his own, or so she tried to convince herself.
“Papa told me of a boxing match that went for fifty rounds,” Sarah Taggart said, her voice quivering with excitement, as if she wanted to see this fight go at least as long.
“Oh, dear!” Mabel Hornby replied. “I do hope—”
Whatever she hoped was lost in the roar that went up from the crowd as Mr. McHeath, kilt swirling, dodged another blow aimed at his face.
None shouted so loudly or enthusiastically as Robbie McStuart. Judging by his flushed face and the way he kept taking swigs from the jug in his hand, he wasn’t just excited, he was drunk. Moira wouldn’t be surprised to discover he had wagered on the outcome, too.
How could she have missed the signs of his weaknesses for so long? How could she have been so blind she hadn’t realized the kind of man he was from the first time she met him at the ball they’d hosted shortly after they’d arrived in Dunbrachie?
Even though being a lady was new and wondrous, and he was charming and flattering, she should have paid more attention, and been much more careful.
At least she’d never been intimate with him. She’d never even kissed him, except for a few mild kisses on the cheek. She’d told herself that Robbie was treating her the way a lady ought to be treated and she should be glad. Only later had she realized he probably didn’t feel much desire for her.
And today, she’d been made to see how little she’d desired Robbie, compared to the passion Mr. McHeath aroused.
Yet if she hadn’t become engaged to Robbie and broken that engagement, she might never have met Gordon McHeath. Never been helped by him, or kissed by him, or met him in a secluded lane and discovered that although he should be her enemy, all she wanted to do was—
The Titan suddenly jabbed, catching Mr. McHeath in the gut. Moira gasped in dismay as the solicitor fell hard on his knees. But in the next moment, McHeath’s fist flew up, connecting with the Titan’s jaw. The big man stumbled back. McHeath leaped to his feet and struck again with a series of jabs to the face and chest that soon had the Titan sprawled flat on his back, his eyes closed. His legs moved and she feared he was going to get up, but it was like watching a man trying to swim on dry land before he gave up the effort and stayed still.
He had won! Mr. McHeath had won!
He staggered away from his fallen foe, while Robbie McStuart shouted with glee as if he’d won the fight himself and didn’t care how battered and bruised his friend might be.
As the Three Geese chattered and giggled and talked about Mr. McHeath’s victory, Moira began to climb gingerly down from the roof. She would have to come up with some excuse to explain the state of her clothes, even to the maid, but that didn’t worry her. It had been worth wrinkling her gown to see McHeath win.
Wearing nothing but a kilt.
“You came out of it better than I would have imagined,” the gray-haired local doctor said as he finished dabbing at the cut over Gordon’s eye with witch hazel.
Although the short and stocky Dr. Campbell looked more like a butcher or baker than a man of medicine, his movements were deft and his touch light and gentle. His hands were also clean, Gordon was pleased to note, his beard well trimmed and he exuded an air of calm competence that Gordon appreciated as he sat on a bed in an upper room of the tavern.
Sounds of merriment and Robbie’s laughter, as well as the smell of roast beef and bacon, wafted up through the floorboards from the taproom below. The mud-splattered kilt lay on the floor nearby, and Gordon was once again attired in his own clothes.
“I never would have guessed a solicitor would want to be a prizefighter, too. I should think you have enough conflict in your life, doing battle in court or wrangling over contracts,” the doctor noted with a wry smile.
“I do,” Gordon agreed, wincing at the sharp little pains that even Doctor Campbell’s light ministrations couldn’t prevent. “Participating in the match wasn’t my idea.”
“Ah,” the doctor said, his smile shrinking to a frown. “Sir Robert’s?”
“Aye.”
The doctor drew back and regarded Gordon gravely. “A word of advice there, my young man. I’ve seen Si
r Robert’s sort, and they are very good at not only going astray themselves, but taking others with them. I would be very careful if I were you.”
“I shall be,” Gordon assured him. He grimaced as the doctor dabbed at the cut over his eye. “Especially after this.”
“Good, because you’re lucky you weren’t more badly hurt,” the doctor said as he stopped dabbing. “None of your bones were broken and you have only a few cuts and bruises. I’ve tended to others the Titan’s fought who came out of it much worse.”
“How is the Titan? Not badly hurt, I hope,” Gordon said, having asked the doctor to check his opponent first.
“Not bad at all,” the doctor replied as he finished putting the witch hazel and leftover bandages back into his black valise. “He’s below in the taproom, holding court with Sir Robert. I daresay he’s not saying much of anything about today’s fight, though. More likely he’s reliving past glories.”
Gordon rose with slow deliberation, reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
The doctor named a very reasonable sum, which Gordon gladly paid.
“You’ll be a little sore for the next few days,” the doctor advised, “but otherwise, you should be right as rain soon. Now I give you good day, Mr. McHeath, and I wish you a safe journey back to Edinburgh.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Gordon replied as the man departed.
The solicitor pulled on his jacket and made his way to the stairs. Judging from the raised voices, the Titan wasn’t the only person holding court below. Robbie had obviously had more to drink—something that became even more obvious when Gordon entered the taproom and saw his friend lounging in a chair by the hearth, with a barmaid on his lap.
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