Justin could imagine Osborne’s reaction if he accepted that offer. Of course, he had no intention of going anywhere with Osborne. And no intention of letting Drew go with him. No matter what he had suggested to Sarah about legality and rights.
“What about Sarah?” Justin asked. “What shall I tell her?”
“That I have gone with my father to see the tigers in India,” the child said. It was almost as if that answer had been rehearsed. Almost like the rote phrases Drew repeated about his grandfather.
“India is a very long way away, you know,” the earl said. “I should miss you very much if you went so far. I know Sarah would miss you, too. I imagine you would miss her as well.”
Again, there was silence from Andrew.
“You’re no longer a baby, Drew. I know that. But you are still just a boy,” Justin continued, his voice reasonable, but carefully not patronizing. “I think such a long and dangerous journey might well be delayed until you are older. After all, your father didn’t travel to India until he was a grown man.”
“Is that true?” Drew asked his father. “Were you a man when you went to India?”
“I wasn’t still clinging to my mama’s skirts,” Osborne said coldly.
“I’m not clinging to Sarah’s skirts,” Drew protested. “But... I have never been so very far away from home. Except when we went to visit Wynfield in London. That was with Sarah, and it was a Christmas journey. Did I tell you about London?”
Osborne’s lips had tightened, his eyes still meeting Justin’s. And then, with practiced control, they relaxed into a smile as he turned to look at his son for the first time.
“You told me all about London,” he said, his voice assuming its previous pleasantness. “But you and I are going much farther than that, Drew. And we’ll see more wonderful things than you can even imagine.”
“Could Sarah come with us?” Drew asked.
Osborne laughed. “I’m amenable to that...arrangement. Why don’t you ask the earl if he is?” he suggested maliciously, his eyes returning to Wynfield’s face.
“Sarah can’t go to India, Drew,” Justin said. “She must look after Brynmoor. She has to look after everything at Longford. You know that.”
“Rather dog in the manger, my lord,” Osborne said, his voice deliberately low enough not to carry across the room. “If you don’t want her...”
At the taunting words, a wave of fury roiled through Justin’s body. There was only one way Osborne could know the dynamics of his relationship with Sarah. Sarah herself must have told him.
“If Sarah can’t come with us, then perhaps...” Drew’s voice faded.
It was obvious to Justin that he feared Osborne’s scorn. And obvious as well that he was not eager to leave the only home he had ever known. Or to leave the people who loved him and accepted him for what he was—a very small boy trying desperately to acquire the qualities he had been taught to admire: courage, honor, truthfulness. None of which his father, with whom the child was presently enamored, seemed to possess.
“Let me take you to Sarah, Drew,” Justin urged.
“I think that would be best,” Andrew agreed, his voice hesitant and very soft. “I can go with you to India another time,” he offered to his father, and then he added, “but I think it would be best if I went home with Sarah tonight.”
Osborne’s mouth curved. “We can talk about this tomorrow, Andrew,” he said patiently: “You need to go back to sleep. Things will look different in the morning. I’ll tell you some more about what we’ll see in India.
“But...Sarah is waiting for me,” Drew said.
“Sarah...” David began, the edge of anger in his own voice quite clear before he made an almost visible effort to modify it. “Sarah isn’t in charge of you, Drew,” he said. “I am. And I’m the one who will decide what you will and won’t do. And you will not be returning to Longford tonight.”
“But—”
“No arguments,” Osborne ordered. “You’ll never be a man if you let a woman rule you.”
“Come, Drew,” Justin said quietly, deciding this wrangling had gone on long enough. Despite what he had told Sarah, he didn’t intend to leave here tonight without the child, who obviously wanted to come home. “Your father may come to Longford tomorrow if he wants to talk to you. But for tonight—” Justin’s eyes didn’t falter before the sudden fury in Osborne’s “—for tonight, I’m taking you home.”
“Don’t begin something you aren’t capable of finishing, my lord,” David said. The anger was again controlled, replaced by the earlier derision.
“Come, Drew,” Justin said without raising his voice. He started to walk across the room toward the bed.
The little boy had already begun to scramble out of the tangled sheets. He was wearing one of Osborne’s shirts. The sleeves had been rolled up, and the child’s thin wrists were barely visible under their fall.
Suddenly Osborne moved, taking a step to the side, which put him directly in Justin’s path. “I’m warning you,” he said, fists raised.
Justin laughed. He couldn’t help it. Osborne’s forte, it seemed, was melodrama.
“Afraid, my lord?” Osborne challenged.
“Bored,” Justin said succinctly. Then his tone hardened. “Don’t be a fool, Osborne. There would be no quicker way to bring the magistrates down on our heads.”
“I’m not opposed to that. After all, I’m in the right here. You are trying to steal my son.”
“Who is Sarah Spenser’s son as well,” Justin said. “And Brynmoor’s influence is enough in this district to call your claim into question, I should think, no matter what your paper says. And I’d be willing to bet if I spent a few pounds in the right places, I could discover some things in your past that you’d rather not have reach the ears of the authorities.”
“Blackmail, my lord?” Osborne said mockingly, but it was apparent by the delay in his answer that he had thought about the validity of the threat.
“Why not? It’s only what you’re trying to do.”
As he spoke, Justin took another step toward Drew, who was now standing beside the bed. He looked lost and a little forlorn in the too-large shirt, which swallowed his thin frame and was so long it fell over his small, bare feet.
In response to the earl’s advance, Osborne’s right fist stabbed out. Justin moved his head so that the blow whistled harmlessly by his ear. That avoidance had been by instinct alone. Or perhaps through some unconscious memory of those long-ago hours spent under Gentleman Jackson’s excellent tutelage. The earl straightened his head, considering the man before him, and allowed one brow to lift in question.
“Still bored?” Osborne asked softly, smiling at him. He raised his fists in front of his chin, just as if he were in a sparring ring. His feet danced, again putting himself directly in Justin’s path. “Or don’t you enjoy boxing anymore?” he continued sarcastically. “Andrew claims you were quite good. At one time, of course.”
“Good God,” Justin said, his voice full of genuine amusement. “Are you actually proposing that we fight? For control of the boy? Or to prove to Drew which of us is the better man, perhaps?”
Again, a fist shot forward. The earl dodged, but not quite quickly enough. Osborne’s knuckles grazed his cheekbone, a glancing blow that was still powerful enough to leave a reddened mark on his skin. Suddenly, the hazel eyes no longer reflected either boredom or amusement.
“I’m willing to let Drew make that evaluation,” Osborne said. “Aren’t you? After all, my lord, you are the heroic one. At least in Andrew’s eyes.”
“You don’t have to fight, Wynfield,” Drew said. “It doesn’t matter. I know—” He stopped, the words cut off too abruptly.
“What do you know, Drew?” Osborne asked. His fists were still raised, ready to place the next punch.
“That it wouldn’t be fair,” the child said very softly.
“And why not?” Osborne asked. “Why wouldn’t it be fair for his lordship to fight me?”
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His eyes had never left Justin’s face, and he was smiling. Enjoying himself. Drew said nothing, however, refusing to explain what he had meant, even in the face of his father’s goading. Of course, it was obvious to what he had referred. And just as obvious that Osborne cared nothing about the fairness of this contest.
Again, his right darted out. Justin moved in time to avoid it, and the blow sailed by. But almost without any conscious decision, Wynfield lifted his own hands, which had tightened into fists. It had been years since he had hit anyone, in anger or otherwise, but suddenly he thought it would be very satisfying to plant his left, once justifiably famous for its speed and power, into David Osborne’s handsome nose.
His opponent had begun to move in earnest, weaving and bobbing around him, one fist and then the other stabbing the air almost tauntingly. Justin’s eyes followed him, although he moved more slowly, shifting just enough to keep himself face-to-face with his enemy. He was taking infinite care with the placement of his feet. The awkwardness of his artificial foot and the amount of brandy he’d consumed earlier demanded that.
When Osborne landed his next blow, Justin was more than ready to respond. It was as if all the rage and frustrations he had denied expression for the last six months had finally boiled to the surface, directed now at the mocking face in front of him.
The earl had always had a good eye, and his right connected with Osborne’s chin, just where he’d aimed it. Osborne’s head recoiled from the force of the blow. There was something very satisfying about the surprise in the depths of his opponent’s eyes, Justin realized.
Especially since he immediately followed up that successful right with a left cross. It, too, found its target. And for the first time, Wynfield’s lips tilted in enjoyment.
He stepped back, feeling his balance falter briefly, but he recovered in time to dodge a left hook thrown at his head. He took the solid right to the body that followed it, however. He had known it was coming, but was unable, or unwilling to push his luck by trying to move fast enough to get out of the way. With that strike there was again a gleam of triumph—and perhaps even anticipation—in Osborne’s eyes.
Justin feinted with his left and then followed with an uppercut that opened a gash beside Osborne’s brow. The sight of blood was satisfying, although his knuckles stung from their encounter with solid bone.
He could probably manage to trade blows like this for a long time. This was how he had been taught. It was the standard of bare-knuckle fighting—simply to stand up and exchange punches with one’s opponent until one or the other was worn down. Justin knew he would be at a great disadvantage, however, if Osborne were smart enough to use his lack of mobility against him.
He dodged the next right, but took a hard left to the ribs. He countered with a one-two combination of his own, and heard the whoosh of expelled air as he landed a blow to Osborne’s solar plexus. That was a deeply satisfying sound, just as the sight of that thread of crimson over his opponent’s eye had been. It gave him confidence that in this battle he could hold his own—at least for a time.
“What are you doing?”
The words were touched with fear. Justin turned his head, automatically reacting to the sound of Sarah’s voice. She and the innkeeper were standing in the open doorway, watching them.
Her eyes should have warned him. Their dark pupils dilated suddenly, but Justin didn’t understand why until Osborne’s fist exploded against his temple. He staggered, falling into the table that stood before the fire. Hands back, Justin caught himself before he could go down. The table tilted under his weight and a couple of pieces of crockery fell onto the hearth and shattered.
“Here now!” the innkeeper shouted. “Stop this, you two. I told you, I run a respectable house.”
Wisely, Osborne had ignored everything but his opponent. He charged Justin now, fists windmilling in an attempt to follow up on his advantage.
Fighting to regain his balance and to shake off the effects of the blow to the head, which had left a ringing in his ears, the earl pressed his elbows inward, protecting the vulnerable center of his body. Osborne got in three or four good hits, but they fell on his arms and shoulders.
Since he was trapped by the table, however, Justin had nowhere to go to escape the barrage of blows his opponent had launched. He finally managed to shove Osborne away, and staggered a few feet to the side, his movements awkward and unbalanced, hampered by his foot. Dimly, he could hear voices raised in the background, despite the ringing in his ears.
Sarah’s voice, he thought, and even Drew’s, higher pitched than the others. Justin was also aware peripherally that the host had started into the room, obviously intending to put an end to the fight before more damage to his property could be done.
Then Osborne moved between Justin and the door. Ig noring the activities of the others, he renewed his attack, raining blows again on Justin’s upper arms, neck and shoulders, driving him back.
The earl kept his hands up and his chin down, protecting himself as well as he could, concentrating on keeping his balance as he staggered backward. He couldn’t afford to move out of his defensive posture, he knew, not even long enough to direct his own punches at the man who was pummeling him. The longer this went on, the more likely it was he would go down. Stubbornly, he determined not to let that happen. Not in front of Drew and Sarah. He knew he needed to end this as quickly as possible.
Giving up his protective posture, and suffering for it, he drove his right fist, the weight of his whole body behind it, into his opponent’s chin. When it connected, Osborne’s head snapped backward.
When it righted again, all the amusement had disappeared from the blue eyes. They were filled now with rage. And with blood lust. Justin had seen this same hatred, this same desire to kill in the eyes of hundreds of men he had fought. He moved forward, knowing he had to finish this now, before David, consumed by that black rage, could realize how truly vulnerable he was.
Suddenly, Osborne stuck out his foot, deliberately thrusting it between Justin’s legs. Justin stumbled, his left hand reaching out to grab at the wall, trying desperately not to fall. At the same time, Osborne raised his right fist, coming in high and hard from above, with a move that was popularly known, for painfully obvious reasons, as the pickax.
Justin dodged, turning his face away and hunching his shoulder. The blow landed on the side of his neck instead of on his nose. Already off balance as he was, the force of the blow drove Justin to his knees.
This was what he had dreaded since the beginning. And it had probably been inevitable. “Don’t begin something you aren’t capable of finishing,” Osborne had taunted. Justin had, however, goaded by those smiling eyes, and now he would pay the price. His opponent charged, obviously intending to take advantage of the fact that he was down. Intending to put an end to his resistance.
Justin somehow got his left foot under him and drove upward, his head slamming into Osborne’s stomach. Again, the involuntary exhalation of air was enormously satisfying. He locked his arms around his opponent’s body and let his forward momentum carry both of them down. He landed on top of Osborne and began pounding his ribs while he had the chance.
Osborne’s left arm was under him, but he slapped his right fist and forearm again and again against the side of Justin’s head. When that didn’t have the desired effect, he suddenly poked his stiffened fingers at the earl’s eyes. Justin recoiled, his upper body automatically jerking back, away from the stabbing fingers. Taking advantage of that reaction, Osborne somehow managed to get his knees up, throwing Justin to the side. Unencumbered, David quickly scrambled to his feet.
As soon as he had, he kicked out, his booted foot connecting with the earl’s shoulder. Justin rolled, trying to get away from the vicious kick, but he was too near the fire, still cheerfully blazing in the grate. He attempted to push himself up, at least to get to his hands and knees, but David kicked him again, in the ribs this time, effectively putting an end to that fledgling effort
.
“Stop it!” Drew screamed, rushing across the room.
He put his hands on Osborne’s arm, trying to pull him away. Angered at the interference, David shook the boy off. Then he drew his foot back again, aiming this time at Justin’s head.
Andrew threw himself at his father, wrapping his arms around his thigh. Osborne turned toward him, trying to push the child away. And in that split second, Justin realized, his concentration was on Andrew and not on him.
Trained by years of war to take advantage of any weakness the enemy displayed, of any opening he was given, Justin pushed up onto his knees, his hand fastening around the neck of the thick stone bottle on the hearth. As he swung it upward, he was aware that Sarah was running toward them, trying to protect Drew.
David had succeeded in pushing the boy away and was turning back to deal with him. At the top of its arc, the bottle connected with Osborne’s jaw, wine spilling out of its neck and cascading over them both in a warm crimson shower.
Osborne fell backward as if he’d been poleaxed, landing at Drew’s feet. His skull hit against the wooden floor, bouncing a little. And then he was still.
“You’ve killed him,” Drew said breathlessly, his eyes widened in horror. “You’ve killed my father.”
They all seemed frozen by Drew’s accusation. No one moved until Sarah knelt, putting her fingers on the pulse in David’s neck. Then she laid her ear against his mouth. “He’s breathing,” she announced, her voice full of relief. Straightening, she turned to look into Justin’s eyes.
Only with that look did he realize he was still on his hands and knees, swaying like a hurt animal. He straightened his torso and then, reaching out blindly with his left hand, found the mantel. Using its support, he pulled himself to his feet.
He could feel the blood trickling from his nose. He could even taste it, a salt-copper tang in the back of his throat. He wiped at the stream with the cuff of his shirt. And instead of meeting Sarah’s eyes again, or Drew’s, he looked down on the mingled stains of blood and wine that soaked the material.
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