by Gina Conkle
The other brawler swung wide, slamming a hard fist into Cyrus’s face. His head snapped sideways, loose as a rag doll, eyes going wide, then drooping shut. Powerful legs buckled at the knees. The black silk brawler teetered a second.
Then, Cyrus Ryland, the Stretford Bruiser, fell to the ground with a mighty thud.
Nine
Besides, you are a woman: you must never speak what you think; your words must contradict your thoughts, but your actions may contradict your words.
William Congreve, Love for Love
Sawdust bit his back, tiny stings to his hot skin the same as when he had laid down in a field as a boy and red ants nipped him. The pain was minor compared to his throbbing cheek, where a cut stung deep. Blood trickled from the spot where he’d been hit hardest, but the murky world behind his eyelids promised to spare him further agony with heavy sleep.
Because he was felled. By a woman.
His chest moved with steady breaths, a chest on which a small hand tenderly stroked the flesh over his heart.
Claire.
“Mr. Ryland. Are you awake?” her voice called to him. “It’s Miss Mayhew.”
Another heave of his chest brought robust, life-giving air, as sweet as the feminine thumb stroking his breastbone.
“Of course it’s you.” His lids opened halfway with sluggish fortitude, a lazy smile forming. “The Swede wouldn’t dare caress my chest.”
Her hand stiffened over his heart. “I’m not caressing your chest, Mr. Ryland. Someone needed to take care of you, and that oaf who hit you wouldn’t do it…though he did bring a bucket of water.” Amusement touched her voice. “He wanted to douse you.”
“I’m sure he did.” Cyrus let his lids fall shut again. “And since your hand is on my bare chest, we can dispense with proprieties. Call me Cyrus.”
If he had to be flat on the ground, why not surrender to her hands on him? He could get used to her tending him. Hands and cloth moved with gentle touches, cleaning him. Near his head, water dribbled on water. A cool, damp cloth wiped the sweat from his forehead again. She leaned over him, and he smelled cinnamon on her clothes and skin, something far better than the rest of the crowd.
The crowd…
Cyrus raised his head, squinting as facts sunk in. His last fight, a lost fight. Men loitered around crates and barrels, a hum of noise on the perimeter. The ringmaster set to work coiling the ring’s heavy rope with another man assisting him.
The Swede was nowhere to be seen, probably at the Fox Tail, raising a victory pint. Just as well. His opponent had seized a moment of weakness and took his shot when Cyrus let his defenses down. He would’ve done the same.
He shut his eyes and stole the luxury of quiet seconds, nursing his bruised pride at the loss. He was favored to win despite having more than a few years on the Swede, but once again, he’d been stunned—floored it would seem—by a particular woman, this time amidst a rough mob instead of his refined West End home.
“Do you take joy in leveling me, Miss Mayhew?”
She hadn’t given him leave to call her Claire. Best he played this safe. The cool cloth brushed his forehead. Her tender care was a pleasure he would milk as long as possible, even if he had to stay flat on his back in sawdust.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her hair trailed over his chest, feathery and ticklish.
“First the masked ball and now this.” His voice rasped from the sharp aches claiming his limbs.
“You fell down at your sister’s ball?” Concern notched her voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. Must’ve been awful.”
Of course she didn’t fully grasp her effect on him. Yet.
Her officious cloth dripped cool water high on his chest, stroking his skin. Her breath fanned the side of his face and ear as though she scrutinized him. The cloth dabbed his cheekbone where the Swede had done his best.
“Sorry to touch the wound direct. I’m cleaning up the blood. Of course, you’ll heal, but you may have a scar.” Another gentle tap of the cloth, and her prim voice hovered close to his ear. “Really, I fail to understand the appeal of these fights.”
“A test of skills, the chance for one man to bash another.” His tired hand batted the air. “All quite acceptable.”
In some social circles, that is.
Sportive West End men practiced polite fisticuffs in their gentleman’s clubs, mincing their way through a mockery of a fight. Real bare-knuckle bouts called for blood and sweat. A man could test his mettle, giving in to the explosive need to hit something hard.
He worked diligently to hide his youthful pastime from his Piccadilly acquaintances, trying to distance himself from his rough, Midlands roots. But the truth was he hadn’t given much time to the sport for a long while. People and responsibilities pulled his attentions in too many directions.
And the one woman who didn’t want his attentions knelt beside him, cleaning his bare chest.
In his warehouse, late at night.
If ever there was a perfect example of a woman in need of protection, his protection…
Head aching, he opened his eyes and hoisted himself up on one elbow.
“You shouldn’t be here in the first place. Billingsgate after dark isn’t safe for a woman.” Cyrus scrubbed a hand over his face and scanned her glorious hair falling wildly everywhere. “How did you know about this?”
Watson never posted placards when he used Cyrus’s warehouse. Everything was done by word of mouth.
Miss Mayhew’s kerchief-dabbing hand dropped to her lap. She crouched in the dirt beside him, cloak and skirts pooling around her.
“Nate brought me. To place a bet.”
“Nate,” he repeated, wincing as he hitched one knee up to move off the ground. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Fincher. He shouldn’t have brought you here.” He brushed sawdust from his palms before offering her his hand.
“As to that,” she said as he hoisted her upright. “You don’t have any say in the matter.”
Miss Mayhew shook her skirts. He frowned, taking great swipes at the mess clinging to his breeches, not liking the truth of what she said.
“Be reasonable. Even coming here in a hack”—he winced, turning his throbbing head for a view of his back—“can be a bad risk.” He tried to clean the sawdust from his shoulders.
“Let me do that.” Claire stepped behind him and wiped her damp kerchief in long strokes down his back. “As to taking a hack, you’ll be interested to know, Nate and I walked.”
She peeked up at him around his arm, her pretty face impertinent among all that untamed hair. Her tone and bearing matched the prim coffee shop proprietress, but the view was pure brazen tavern maid at the end of her day.
His arms flexed. So, the East Ender gave him up. He wanted to thrash the lad for doing something so foolhardy as bringing Claire here. Too many bad things happened to women in this ward, even those who lived here and knew their way around.
Claire placed a hand high on his arm while her flimsy linen cleaned him. She made small, soft sweeps low, where his spine met his breeches. Her skirts brushed the backs of his exposed calves, something more intimate than their first dance. A wicked need to tease her struck, lightening his mood.
“I have a better idea for getting my back clean. It involves a copper tub, large enough for two.”
The swiping slowed. Her hand on his arm lifted, and the loss left his skin cool.
Perhaps he went too far.
Then her palm rested on his ribs, settling there with discovery. The heat of each curious finger splayed provocatively on his flesh in a lover’s exploratory touch. A heady rush followed, sending a pleasant burn over his already-hot torso.
“Whatever your plans in that copper tub of yours, I’m sure it’s not safe for a woman like me,” she said softly against his shoulder blade. “Though I’m sure you have some creative ideas.”
Cyrus looked over his shoulder, her blond head close to his back. “Careful, Miss Mayhew, or you’ll admit out loud you want more to happen between us.”
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Ryland?”
“That would be a skill I’ve not mastered.”
If he read her right, he was closing in on the hunt for the elusive proprietress. What did he need to do to finally snare her?
She moved around to face him, her hair brushing his bicep. Her pink mouth opened as though she’d give him a retort, but her jeweled gaze dropped to his navel, dawdling a long stretch on the indent surrounded by a whorl of brown hair. When she looked up, he met her hungry, fascinated stare with a silent challenge.
Go ahead. Touch.
The light in her eyes wavered. She read his invitation, her slender nostrils flaring when she took a deeper breath of him. She fought their attraction hard, her fair face tilted up to his, fine boned and flushed.
The high tip of her nose and set of her pale pink mouth told him his shopgirl’s defensive wall was well in place, but she was like a moth drawn to a candle lantern, bouncing against the glass. What was her self-imposed barrier?
The proper midtown woman stepped back, pulling her cloak about her. “You know, I’ve figured something else about you.”
“Yet another observation?” A light chill swept his exposed torso. “Pray tell.”
He grabbed his shirt off the barrel where his clothes draped. He slipped his arms inside the linen, steeling himself for the worst.
Miss Mayhew’s heavy-lidded stare followed the twitch of his muscles. “You welcome a woman speaking her mind as long as she heeds your words…toes the mark you set.”
“Exactly.” He donned his waistcoat, securing a few buttons. “None have found fault with how I conduct matters. And for those women I’ve shared a”—he paused and slid an arm through his wool coat, searching for the right word—“connection with…they did not leave unsatisfied.”
Her mouth pinched when he finished the arrogant proclamation, and Miss Mayhew’s jeweled gaze flickered elsewhere. Brashness worked for a freehold farmer climbing to his current place in life, but would do little to win the heart of one independent proprietress.
Her heart?
He fixed one sleeve and then the other, his brows pressing in a firm line. Was her heart what he wanted?
A high-pitched, cheery whistle cut the air. Nate Fincher ambled into the ring with two coin bags in his grasp, both bursting at the seams. The lad quit his jaunty tune and bowed with a flourish, presenting one coin pouch to a delighted Miss Mayhew.
The hunt for a certain woman would have to wait.
Nate rose to his full height and set his candle lantern on a crate, whistling a high note when he saw Cyrus.
“The Swede got ye good, didn’t he?”
“I have you to thank for this, don’t I?” he asked, tipping his head at Miss Mayhew.
She cupped her wilted kerchief and the winnings with both hands, her mouth dropping beguilingly open. The lad’s black forelock covered part of his smirking face.
“I didn’t cry rope on ye. Ye said not to say a word to her, but you didn’t say not to show her.” The East Ender tucked his bag inside his shabby coat, his grin cocksure. “Comin’ here tonight was my idea. She didn’t know about ye till she saw ye in the ring.”
Cyrus slid on his shoes, not bothering with his stockings. He wouldn’t split hairs with Nate, because he figured out quickly what the lad was about with the hefty winnings. Miss Mayhew needed funds badly. The odds favored Cyrus over the Swede, and Nate must’ve bet against him.
The lad reckoned on surprising Cyrus with Miss Mayhew’s ringside appearance. These fights had few rules. On one hand, he couldn’t fault Mr. Fincher: the brazen plan worked.
“And you think it was a good idea to walk her here?”
The cocky grin slipped. “Did what I had to do. ’Sides, I figured ye’d take her home. Mr. Watson already had yer carriage fetched. It’s out front.”
“And do you need a ride home?”
“Naw. Need to hide my winnings.” Nate tapped his chest, where his newfound wealth clinked. He slipped out the other side of the now rope-less ring, his lantern hanging from his fingertips. “Then I’m meeting the others at the Fox Tail.”
Walking backward, Nate dipped a parting bow, doffing his black wool cap at them both. “A pleasure doin’ business with ye.”
“Wait,” Claire called to his retreating form. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
The youth sidled a barrel, his feet slowing. “Ye want me back?” His voice rose in a boyish pitch.
“Oh, Nate, of course.”
The lad’s bruised face cracked in a wide, comical grin. “Bright and early then, miss.”
Young Mr. Fincher bowed again and waved a hearty farewell before slipping from sight with a bounce in his step. He didn’t have to work again for a long time, but he wanted to…at least at the New Union Coffeehouse for Miss Mayhew.
A tender expression played on her features. A light shined in her eyes, brighter than any polished shilling bagged neatly in her hands. Mr. Fincher gave Miss Mayhew something she badly needed: better footing in this world. Her winnings did as much, saving her shop and her from financial ruin.
But there was more joy in the exchange with Nate, in the lad himself, than the silver.
Truth opened Cyrus’s eyes, at once revealing and trouncing him in the gut.
He had this, her, all wrong. Some women wanted a man to bleed money, shower her with gifts. Others needed to be worshipped, wanting lavish words and time spent on them. Some simply wanted sexual pleasure, a diversion from their bored lives. Hadn’t he met all kinds of women?
Miss Mayhew sought equal footing with a man, yes, but even more she wanted, needed, a man to give of himself. Silver and independence were nice, but his proprietress wanted much more.
She craved a man’s willingness to trust her. A man needed to expose himself to her, all his defenseless parts.
Hadn’t Nate done that? Trusted her with the truth of his St. Giles thievery? His past failings? And in doing so, endeared himself to Miss Mayhew all the more.
Cyrus’s arms hung limp at his sides. This knowledge knocked him down a peg, floored him as good as the Swede had.
* * *
What was she going to do about this unrelenting attraction to Mr. Cyrus Ryland?
She was still warm from cleaning him up, touching him. Cyrus’s large, masculine frame set her pulse thrumming, a fact she could not push away no matter how hard she tried.
Until tonight, a man’s chest was not a thing of beauty, but seeing him stripped down and half-naked captivated her. She wished to discover each sizable curve and angle. His legs were bared below his breeches, and the bristly hairs on his large, tapered calves begged for exploration.
And he wanted her.
Claire turned around, her movements stiff and mechanical. Her body twined with unexpected tightness, a craving sensation pooling low in her abdomen. She bumped Cyrus awkwardly when she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. She leaned close, his strength her bellwether.
“Please, would you take me home?”
She now possessed the coinage to live well and could safely ignore the advice to get married for security’s sake.
“I’d be happy to give you a safe escort home.” Cyrus extended his open hand, gesturing to her flush coin bag. “Will you allow me to carry that for you?”
She set the leather pouch in his hand, the trust coming easy. They moved out of the warehouse, her limbs taut with vexing need. Her stalwart protector didn’t say anything. He was solicitous of her but quiet. She glanced sideways at his taciturn profile, unmarred save the egg-sized, maroon bruise swelling on his face. The gash high on his cheekbone already clotted dark red. He looked to heal quickly from his wounds
. Was he like this with other pains in life?
Her gallant hero inadvertently saved her tonight by taking an unwanted fall.
Claire kept her vision on the ground. What Nate did tonight would not be listed as a crime in Bow Street’s Gazette, but stealing a look at the stone-cut profile beside her, a spirit of wrongness hung heavy. She was complicit in the evening’s doings, however unintentional.
And the belief no one will get hurt turned stale among other notions wrestling inside her.
She stole something from Cyrus Ryland again, though she couldn’t put a name to her transgression.
His shoulders squared in that implacable way of his, but his mouth pressed in a taut line. He stared straight ahead, fixed on some unseen point. Was this turn in him because she disrupted the fight, causing him to lose? Somehow the explanation didn’t sit right.
They came to the warehouse door. Clouds swirled wraithlike everywhere. Her pattens walked on the smooth surface of Billingsgate’s flat cobbles, but she couldn’t see the ground below or the sky above. Across the way, the ships were gone, swallowed in a ghostly fog.
Heaven had fallen to earth.
The Ryland carriage sat directly in front of them at the ready, a great black beast on wheels. Candle lanterns hung from the carriage, their light haloing in the mist.
“Sir, fog’s worse than an ol’ buttermilk sky.” The coachman approached, holding a lantern high over his tricorne. “I’ll have the footmen lead the horses, but it’ll be slow goin’.”
“Do whatever is safest,” Cyrus said. “We stop first by way of the New Union Coffeehouse on Cornhill to see Miss Mayhew home.”
Cyrus gave her a lift up into the carriage and she settled on the seat, grateful for the luxury of a ride home. Before Cyrus found his seat, the attendant’s outside light bounced off hundreds of dazzling brass tacks. The burnished points pinned the cushioned leather squab into place, a rich sight to behold. Then the door was shut, and all went dark. Claire touched the cold glass window.
“Odd night,” she said, shivering.