Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “What is it?” Modesty asked.

  “You don’t want to know, but it’s saving your virtue.”

  Modesty shivered with the anticipation of pleasure. “Come to me tonight.” She hadn’t known she would say it, but she didn’t regret the words. She meant them. She wanted him in her bed tonight.

  He groaned. “You know I can’t.”

  “Why?” She looked at him, put a hand on his cheek, which was rough with stubble. “I want you, Rowden. I love you.”

  He closed his eyes as though the words hurt him. “Don’t love me.” But he tilted his head so his cheek was pressed closely against her hand.

  “It’s too late. I already love you. I think I’ve loved you for days. I know you don’t want to marry, but don’t you think you could love me—”

  He stepped back. “No. I can’t marry, and I can’t love you. I told you—”

  “Because of your wife, yes, You mourn her still.”

  He didn’t speak, and she straightened. “I understand. I can wait.”

  “No.” He moved close to her again, so close that this time she did lift a hand and press it to the center of his chest.

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “You think I’d ask you to wait? You deserve better than that and better than me, Modesty.”

  Her hand trailed down his chest to his flat belly. She felt his muscles tighten. “There is no one better than you,” she said.

  He caught her hand and held it. “It’s not that I mourn her. I was barely one and twenty when I married her, and she’s been gone ten years.”

  “There isn’t a time limit on grief,” she said. “Clearly you are still in pain.”

  He let out a breath and released her hand. “No. I’m far more of a coward than you think. That’s the real problem.”

  “You’re not a coward.” She wanted to touch him again. She felt as though she always needed to be touching him, but she knew he didn’t want that at the moment.

  “I am. I did mourn Mary, and—” His jaw worked as though he wasn’t sure how to say the next words.

  “And the baby,” he said. His voice was so low, she barely heard him. For a moment, she said nothing and then she grasped his hand, hard.

  “She died in childbirth?”

  He nodded, and she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. “The baby was...” His voice broke, and he swallowed and took a shaky breath. “Stillborn.”

  “Rowden.” She tried to hug him, but he held her at a distance.

  “I’m covered in this,” he said, but even if he hadn’t been, the divide between them would still have been there.

  He swiped at his eyes, seeming annoyed by the wetness. “I can’t go through that again,” he said, his voice stronger now. “I can’t risk it. The pain. I’d rather die.”

  Modesty didn’t speak. She didn’t have the words. There were no words. She knew the pain of loss, and she couldn’t provide any reassurance that her fate would be any different than Mary’s. Life was uncertain. Childbearing was dangerous. She’d wondered why he hadn’t taken any pleasure those two times they’d been alone in the carriage. It seemed to her, watching the men in the alleys of London, that they always took their pleasure.

  But she’d thought Rowden did not want to take her virginity or risk getting her with child and being forced to marry her. The idea of another pregnant wife probably terrified him. And how could she ask him to ignore his fears? She couldn’t discount them. She couldn’t promise him things would be different with her.

  “So you see, I am a coward,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “You’re not a coward. You’re afraid. Only a fool would risk pain like that again. I don’t blame you for protecting yourself.” She gave him a smile she hoped would make her look braver than she felt. It must have failed because he frowned with concern. “I still love you,” she said. “Even if you can’t love me back.”

  He closed his eyes, and she knew she was hurting him. She didn’t want to hurt him. Especially not now. “You have a fight to prepare for,” she said. “And I expect to see you win this time.”

  “Modesty, I don’t want to leave it like this.”

  “We’ll talk after you beat the German’s brains in,” she said, making her voice lighter than she felt. “Right now you have lemons and limes to eat.”

  “Don’t remind me.” He gave her a ghost of a smile, but it was better than nothing.

  “We’ll talk later,” she said, leading him back into the tent. She knew they would not, but she didn’t want to end it this way either. And he still had a formidable opponent to face in the arena.

  Once inside the tent, she found Mr. Okoro, whose worried expression immediately fell away. “Your fight is next,” he said.

  “Lime?” Trogdon offered.

  “I’ll just go back to my seat.” Modesty nodded at Rowden. “You’d better win this time.”

  “Count on it.”

  She did. That was all she could count on anymore.

  MR. STERLING LOOKED relieved to step away from Igor and escort her back to their seats. “I thought you’d eloped,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think Mr. Payne is the marrying sort.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said as they sat again. “I’ve seen men less likely than he marry. It seems to be an illness spreading through the countryside.”

  She glanced at him. “You seem immune.”

  “Because the only thing I love is money,” he said. She thought he was joking, but he didn’t smile.

  “You know what Christ said, that it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “I have heard that said.” He watched the roped off arena as the fighters inside pummeled each other. “You know my solution?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Build a really big needle.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think that’s the point of the saying.”

  “No? Damn.”

  “I wouldn’t consider you damned yet—”

  “Damn because I didn’t want to leave you, but I had to ply Igor with drinks to keep him busy and drank too much myself.”

  “I see. I will be fine for a few minutes. I’m sure I am safe in this crowd.”

  “Don’t move,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him maneuver through the seats and the crowd and then disappear out the tent entrance. The crowd quieted slightly, and she craned her neck to see the German and Rowden walking out of the back tent. Modesty clutched her hands together tightly. The German looked so much bigger than Rowden when they stood side by side. That was hard to believe as Rowden always seemed so large and strong and powerful. For the first time, she began to worry about Rowden’s safety. Of course, he made his living fighting large men, but she hadn’t considered what that actually meant. Now she realized it meant he would be dodging punches from the veritable blond giant.

  The master of ceremonies led both men into the arena, calling out their names and accomplishments. Rowden looked about the crowd, and though he seemed to be surveying them as a king might his subjects, she knew the moment he found her.

  His eyes softened, and his face broke into a smile. He’d been looking for her. He’d wanted to see her, perhaps needed to see her. Modesty smiled back at him, trying to look brave and as though she felt far more confident than she truly did. He needed her to believe in him. She could see it in the way his gaze locked on hers and held.

  And she saw something else too. He loved her. He might not want to love her. He might not acknowledge it or accept it, but she saw the love in his eyes.

  It was undeniable.

  Her own heart clenched in response as she stared back at him, showing him she loved him too. Then the moment was broken when the men were directed to go to their corners. Mr. Okoro and Trogdon were waiting at Rowden’s corner. Trogdon offered water, which Rowden waved away, and Mr. Okoro seemed to offer
last minute advice.

  Then the umpires called for the fight to begin and the German lumbered into the center of the roped off area and Rowden swaggered toward him. There was no other way to describe the way he moved. He gave every appearance of being cocky and sure he would win the day. Modesty wished she felt the same.

  The German threw the first punch, and she pushed her fist against her mouth to keep from gasping. Rowden ducked and danced around the German, forcing the lumbering man to turn and plod after Rowden. Rowden threw a few test jabs, and the German easily deflected all but one. That hit, and though she heard it land, the German seemed unaffected. She could see the German’s strategy already. He was not fast, but he did not need to be. He was big and could take a beating. One punch from him was enough to knock out an opponent.

  Rowden moved about the arena now, forcing the German to come after him. Rowden bobbed and weaved as the German threw hard punches, but even though Modesty screamed inside at every punch, Rowden was fast enough to evade them all. She saw his strategy now as well. He would tire the German out then pummel him until he was down. Modesty just hoped Rowden’s strength would not falter first.

  The German threw another punch and then another. Rowden actually ducked under one of the fighter’s arms, came up behind him, and booted him lightly in the arse. The crowd roared with laughter, and Rowden gave them a winning smile. Modesty tried to smile too, but she just wanted the fight over.

  She shifted forward as something pricked her in the back. But the feeling didn’t dissipate. Before she could turn to see what the bothersome object might be, a voice whispered in her ear. “Don’t say a word. Stand up and walk out of here. Slowly. Draw attention to yourself, and I’ll gut you.”

  Modesty froze, all of her muscles tensing. She looked toward the tent’s entrance, but Mr. Sterling was not back yet. She looked toward the arena, but Rowden was fighting for his life. No one would notice her leave. No one would notice if this man stabbed her. Everyone’s attention was on the fight.

  The knife in her back pricked harder. “Stand up,” the man said.

  Modesty stood and pushed through the crowd. She prayed someone would look at her, notice her. She wanted to meet just one person’s eyes and mouth the words, “help.” But no one paid her any attention. As soon as she was outside, the man grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her toward a group of other men who were waiting.

  Twenty

  Rowden was actually enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a fight. Maybe it was because the German was a worthy opponent. He wouldn’t be easy to beat. Maybe it was because of the roar of the crowd or the purse waiting for him if he won.

  But mostly it was because Modesty Brown was in the crowd watching him. He’d looked for her as soon as he’d stepped into the exhibition area. He glanced about for that beautiful red hair and that gold gown. It hadn’t taken long to find her. She was watching him, her stunning eyes fixed on his face. Her lips curved in a smile, but he saw the way they trembled. She was worried for him, and he gave her a cocky smile to let her know there was nothing to worry about. He intended to beat the German heartily. It wouldn’t be a quick fight. He’d have to wear his opponent down, but he could do it.

  And then he’d be through with this business, and he’d...he’d what? He wanted to go to her, to kiss her, hold her, tell her what it meant to him to have her there for him. But he couldn’t do that. He’d told her good-bye before the match tonight, and that was the right decision.

  In that moment, when she was smiling at him with hope and love in her face, it didn’t feel like the right decision. He needed her there. He needed her always.

  Rowden had gone to his corner, and Chibale had told him to focus. Rowden had taken thoughts of Modesty and put them in another room in his mind, closing the door. He’d open it later. He’d figure out what to do with his churning emotions later. It wasn’t hard to concentrate on the fight. When a man like the German threw punches at him, it got Rowden’s attention. But he was aware he was putting on a show of sorts too. The more the crowd enjoyed themselves, the more money they would wager. So he dodged the German and ducked behind him, giving him a playful kick in the arse. It wasn’t illegal—not much was in these fights—but it did little except anger the German.

  Anger worked in Rowden’s favor, though. The German threw harder punches and more of them, and Rowden had to work harder to avoid them. Still, if he had to guess, he’d say the German was breathing harder than he at the end of the first round when the two men went to their corners and Chibale handed Rowden the flask of water.

  “Where’s Trogdon?” he asked, wiping his mouth. He could have used a knee to sit on for a moment. He would happily forego citrus fruit for the next five years.

  Chibale looked uncomfortable, which was strange.

  “What’s wrong?” Rowden asked.

  “Nothing. Trogdon had to use the privy.”

  “In the middle of my fight?” This was it. This really was the last straw. Trogdon had fluff for brains, but Rowden could forgive that because he was always there when Rowden needed him. But if he couldn’t even count on the manservant at a time like this, the man’s employment was at an end. “You can tell him, if he returns, he’d better look for another position,” Rowden said.

  Chibale waved a hand. “Let’s not worry about that now. You have a fight to win.”

  “Right.” Rowden squared his shoulders and moved his neck about to loosen it.

  “Go out there and hit him hard,” Chibale said. “Nothing to worry about. Sterling must be with Miss Brown.”

  The umpires shouted and Rowden moved back into the center of the arena. He ducked and swung, making contact with the German and for the first time, hearing him grunt. But something niggled at his brain. Chibale had said Nothing to worry about. Rowden had taken it to mean that he needn’t worry he would win the fight. But then why had Chibale added, Sterling must be with Miss Brown?

  Why did it seem like Chibale was reassuring him that Aidan was with Modesty? Rowden hit again, punching the German in the face. That was the time he should have struck again, slamming the man in the chest when his head was thrown back and he was unprotected, but Rowden froze instead.

  Aidan Sterling had promised to stay with Modesty and never let her out of his sight. It was the only reason Rowden had agreed to let her come to the mill because he’d known Notley would be there looking for a way to strike back at Rowden.

  Rowden’s first impulse was to look for Modesty in the crowd, find her, and reassure himself she was safe. But that impulse would get him knocked out, and he’d be no good to anyone. The German was angry now and fighting back. He’d recovered and was advancing on Rowden, his face bloody and snarling. Rowden hadn’t given himself as much room as he would have liked to maneuver so he had little choice but to fight, rather than duck or feint. And so he fought. He took a glancing punch that left his ear ringing and delivered a hard dart to the German’s jaw. The German stumbled back and went to his knees. Instead of following up, as Chibale and the crowd urged, Rowden stepped back and looked up into the crowd.

  Modesty was not in her seat.

  Aidan was not in his seat.

  The umpires called for corners, and Rowden marched to his. “What the devil is happening?” he demanded, pushing the offered water away. “Where is Modesty?”

  “Trogdon went to find her,” Chibale said.

  “Trogdon? Trogdon? The man can’t even find an orange. I’m going.”

  Chibale grabbed him around the shoulders and made it seem as though he were imparting some important information. “Half of the men in this tent have money on you. You think they’ll let you leave? You have to finish this fight or be torn apart.”

  “Modesty—”

  “Trogdon is looking for her and Sterling. It’s the best I can do at the moment. I’m sure she’s with Sterling.”

  The umpires called for the fight to begin, but Rowden didn’t move. “When did you notice her missing?”


  “I didn’t. Trogdon did. He said she was leaving, and he was going after her.” Chibale took a step back. “Bloody hell. He’s coming.”

  Rowden looked just in time to duck and avoid the punch. It was strong enough that he felt the breeze whip over his head. Since his head was down anyway, he plowed into the German’s solid chest, pushing him back and thrusting him against the ropes on the other side of the arena.

  The crowd screamed for blood. Rowden was ready to give it. This fight was over, and he just needed to land the death blow.

  MODESTY’S MIND RACED. She needed to get back to the tent, back to the mill. The one thing she had learned in all her years preaching in the rookeries of London was never to allow anyone to separate her from the crowd. The man with the knife had just done that, and now he pushed her into a group of three other men. The men laughed as she stumbled.

  “Is this Payne’s woman?” one of them asked.

  “That’s right. Get her to the wagon,” the man with the knife said.

  Modesty backed up. “I’m returning to the tent. I won’t go with you.”

  “Oh, yes you will.” He brandished the knife. “One way or another.”

  Without warning, she turned and ran, but she only made it a few feet before she was caught and yanked back by the arm. The men were rougher now as they pushed her further away from the tent. One of them closed his hand over her mouth to keep her from calling out—not that anyone would have heard her. The crowd watching the fight was screaming and chanting. She hoped Rowden was winning.

  She could imagine his smile when he won. He’d look for her, and she wouldn’t be there. She struggled, trying to slow down the men dragging her. “Where are you taking me?” she asked when her mouth slipped free of the man’s hold. She could see they were heading for the area of the field where conveyances had been left. Perhaps she’d be able to cry out to a coachman for help.

  “Somewhere The Royal Payne in me arse will never find you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he took something of mine.”