Chapter Nineteen

“Benny Hardcastle,” Myfanwy said the following night while her hands were busy massaging Samuel’s thigh. This time around it hadn’t taken her nearly as long to get to the matter at hand, since Samuel had been incredibly helpful before she even knocked on his door. Naturally, the man had already been in bed—naked, with the tincture on the table next to him.

Myfanwy still didn’t know what game they were playing, though she wasn’t of a mind to stop anytime soon. In all honesty, she didn’t see the problem in becoming lovers by night and coach and player by day. It worked. For now. And now was all she had. Soon, she would reach her majority and move out, starting her new life. She would have her club and Samuel would have…Samuel.

She’d arranged this entire liaison, and it was all going as she’d planned. Myfanwy told herself that questioning it would only use up time neither of them had and also dredge up words like ruin and responsibility and ward, which only served to depress the romance. Their lives had been difficult enough these past years—why create drama and confusion that threatened to steal the joy they were experiencing with each other?

“Benny Hardcastle?” Samuel repeated, his eyes closed, his expression blissful as he rested against his headboard. “Why the hell are you thinking of that old bastard when this magnificent specimen is before you?”

He meant it as a joke, but Myfanwy’s laugh was paltry at best. It took everything for her to actually perform the massage and not throw herself on his mouth. It had been thrilling to discover that Samuel Everett was good at so many things other than cricket.

A fire burned in the hearth, and Myfanwy wiped away sweat from her temples. She was always so hot around him. His body was dewy and shining against the backdrop of the flames, his pale skin, tight but fluid, not nearly as knotted as it had been previously. She smiled to herself. Myfanwy should tell Holly to bottle this miracle tincture and make a fortune.

“I’ve actually been thinking about him a lot today.”

“You have?” His voice was soft but dangerous.

“I have.”

Suddenly, Samuel moved. As agile as a cat, he threw Myfanwy down on the bed and loomed over her, his arm muscles bulging at her sides, framing her.

“Tell me,” he said, placing a light kiss on the side of her neck. Myfanwy had also come prepared that night, wearing a robe—and only a robe. The belt was doing its job at the moment, but there was no telling how long it would last. “What is so special about Benny Hardcastle that has made him stick in that head of yours?”

Even with the crispness in his voice, Samuel couldn’t hide his playful nature. Myfanwy wondered if he even noticed that he didn’t duck his head with her anymore. His milky eye was no longer a concern; she could look her fill at the exotic blue ring and he didn’t seem to mind. Trust. He was beginning to trust her.

“We need a practice game before we meet the matrons on the pitch,” she replied, running her hands up his arms, delighting in the rough-hewn nature. The bumps and bruises, the scrapes and scars, only added to his appeal. This was no peacock, no corset-wearing dandy.

Samuel frowned against her neck, stopping mid-kiss. “I’m lost. Now we’re talking about a practice game?”

Myfanwy smiled cheekily, bending her legs on either side of him, cupping his pelvis. Samuel’s abdominal muscles flexed in response. He liked that indeed.

“You’re the one who told me about Benny’s benefit match, the one that Lord Cremly ruined, correct?”

Samuel’s good mood soured. “Correct.”

Reaching up, Myfanwy kissed the frown off his face. “I think he deserves another. Can you find old friends and players who would want to play us? Really play us, not humiliate us with arms tied behind their backs?”

“I don’t know,” Samuel said, toying with the knot of her belt. “Many of the old lads are lost now, drunkards or dead or beating out a living in factories.” He eyed her warily. “And the rest might not want to play women.”

“You can convince them,” Myfanwy urged. For extra measure, she ground her pelvis along him in invitation, watching as he licked his lips. “You’re the great Samuel Everett. They’ll do anything you say. Tell them the women always get a good crowd and that they’re playing for Benny. They’ll do it. I know they will.”

“All this for Benny, huh?”

Myfanwy twisted her lips impishly. “And us, of course. We need the practice. And you know I want to win.”

Samuel went back to his kissing. With his tongue, he traced a path to her ear, where he whispered seductively, “Yes, I know you want to win. So do I.”

“Then let’s win,” Myfanwy breathed. “Together.”

*

Samuel fought agrin. He couldn’t have been more pleased with himself if he tried. It had only taken him a couple of weeks, but he’d managed to do as Myfanwy asked. He’d scrounged up all the best ex-players he could find and announced Benny’s benefit match to all the papers.

The turnout astounded even him. Myfanwy had been right—some might consider female cricket players a spectacle, but it was one they didn’t want to miss. He’d sold tickets to the event out of the tavern, and in the end, five hundred had been bought.

Five hundred people! To watch a bunch of ladies smack the ball around with a load of dried-up, has-been cricketers. It boggled the mind. And it also put a salve on the spirit. It was commendable for Myfanwy’s team, that was true, but it also signified that his men weren’t all down and out. England still remembered their old favorites. His friends’ bodies might be hoary, but they weren’t forgotten.

Samuel wasn’t na?ve. He understood that this one event wouldn’t change much for the retired cricketers, but maybe—just maybe—playing for Benny’s benefit would revive something inside them. Maybe they wouldn’t drink themselves to sleep tonight. Maybe they would feel less like failures when they found their beds. Maybe they would recall that they used to be great, and nothing, not age nor neglect, could take that away from them.

Although, to be fair…they weren’t the best-looking bunch.

Minutes before the match was set to begin, Lady Everly marched up to him on the pitch, a pinched expression on her genteel face. “That is who you found? But there’s only nine of…them,” she said, adding so much weight to the last word that Samuel was surprised he didn’t sink into the grass.

He held his grin, nodding at the men limbering up on the other side of the field. Nine men he’d known since he was Aaron’s age; nine men who’d played with him and against him in the most vicious battles of his life; nine men who were on the wrong side of thirty and had gained more weight than muscle.

“They’ll give you a match. You just worry about your grip,” he said, morphing into the coach once more.

Lady Everly blanched at his tone. “My grip is fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Samuel countered. “You see Bucky Walton over there, scratching his head?”

She squinted against the sun. “You mean the man who looks like he hasn’t seen a bath in three years?”

“He doesn’t look that bad.” In fact, he did look that bad. Samuel reminded himself to offer Bucky a free room at the inn tonight with one of the biggest tubs he had. “If you choke your grip with Bucky, he’ll break your hands. He bowls so fast that you’ll drop the bat the moment it makes contact. If it even makes contact.”

Lady Everly flicked him a dismissive glance from the side of her eye, never taking her focus off Bucky. “I’ll score runs off him.”

Samuel snorted. “Not with that grip. You have to loosen it, Jane. You’re playing too tight, like you don’t want to lose.”

She snorted right back. “I don’t want to lose, coach. I assume you don’t want to either.”

“No,” Samuel answered, folding his arms, moving to block her line of vision. “I want to win more than I don’t want to lose. There’s a difference there, and I’m not sure you’ve found it yet.” He sighed when she turned on him and began walking away. “Look, Jane. I know I don’t know much about you.”

“You can start by learning my name. It’s Jo, not Jane,” she said over her shoulder.

Fuck.He knew that. “Yes, my apologies. Jo. I know your name. I do. And I know you played for the matrons. Myfi told me what they did to you.”

Jo’s skirts flared when she twirled back around. Her face, usually so placid and refined, was mottled with raw emotion. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Samuel retreated, balancing on his heels. “You’re right. I don’t. But I know what it’s like to want revenge. I know that murderous feeling you get when you see the others who’ve wronged you. It’s like your whole body gears up to strike, builds to such a crescendo that nothing will start again in life until you right all your goddamn wrongs. But even when you do, even when you beat them or punch them in the face, it doesn’t change anything. They’ll always be bastards who treated you badly. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but no matter how good it feels to win, for some reason, that feeling will never be as strong as the nasty way they made you feel.”

Jo sniffed, shielding her face from his. “So?” She shrugged. “What do you do if beating them doesn’t solve anything? You want me to just not care?”

“Fuck no,” Samuel spat with a sneer. Jo flinched at his coarse words, and then she laughed. “I want you to loosen the fuck up. Forget about what those slags did, so that when you beat the pulp out of them, you’ll be able to bloody enjoy it. Christ, what the hell did you think I was going to say? Now stop standing around, speculating on the cleaning habits of the other team, and get ready.”

Samuel stomped off, leaving an amused but inspired Lady Everly in his wake. The pleased feeling came back to him. Yes, he was mighty proud of himself today. No one had told him coaching would be this difficult, but he was quite sure he was getting the right of it.

“But there’s only nine. You didn’t find enough men,” she called after.

Samuel didn’t answer. She’d get her answer soon enough.