Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

K eenly, William watched as Bridget investigated her new bedchamber, a room separate from his by a mere corridor and two doors. His staff had cobbled the interior together, raiding other rooms and the attic, to be cozy and welcoming, but he knew his masculine presence contrasted the primrose silk walls and Persian rugs.

The sight of the large tester bed in the master suite marked her face with anxiety—or was it anticipation?—and he felt the simmering anticipation in his own blood rise another notch himself.

Catching the way her glance darted to the bed, he hid a smile; the poor girl must be a bundle of nerves and he couldn't blame her. But he had given her his word and he was not going to renege on it—unless she wanted it, of course.

She slipped off her gloves, the ring catching the last rays of the day. It gleamed softly, as if heralding a promise of things to come.

“Pleased?”

“It is more—” she swallowed. “—than I expected.”

“Good,” he nodded. “This is yours, your haven of privacy. I will not enter here again until you ask me to do so.”

“Thank you,” she came closer and rested her hands on his upper arms. Levering up from where he had leaned on the doorjamb, he did not speak. He wanted her to act on her impulses, not his orders.

Timidly, she tipped up on her toes and brought her mouth to his. Devil and damn, her lips were as plush as they looked, fitting perfectly to his firmer edges.

Even though he knew this wasn’t their first kiss, her kiss was everything an innocent Miss’s should be: soft and demure, a hint of wantonness in the way her tongue traced his lips. Her kiss spoke of a desire to please that aroused him utterly.

He could tell she wasn’t used to being in command, for she was attuned to his slightest reactions, her instinct to follow his lead. When he tested this by running his tongue along her mouth’s sweet seam, she parted her lips immediately, welcoming him in.

William kissed the way he did everything else: with absolute expertise… and handing over the initiative made her go pliant. His hands slid up to thumb over her nipples, and when her knees wobbled, he caught her securely against him.

“Oh no,” she mumbled. “That was… mortifying.”

“No, it was interesting,” he corrected. “It showed me how responsive you are.”

He lifted his hand, rubbing his thumb briefly over her bottom lip, which felt puffy from his kiss. “You did everything right. I will be away tonight, but we will marry in the morning.”

Bridget’s brows furrowed. “What is so important?”

“Remember our agreement,” he reminded, pointedly. “You should not ask about—”

“Your business, I know,” she mustered a small smile. “I suppose I will see you on the morrow.”

Thumbing her chin again, he kissed her one last time, enjoying the soft mewl that left her mouth.

With a bow, he ducked out of the room—there was another fight tonight, and this one, he had to win.

Six matches down for the opening rounds, now, this; the next level.

As it was the second round, the fights were no longer in seedy back alleys and street corners—the rounds were now held on lords' well-ventilated rooftops.

The ropes squaring off the floor were rich velvet red instead of fraying, and the match-keepers and bookmakers were assembled already with mostly gentry men—and a few beside their wives—that made up the crowd.

“Are you ready for this?” Silas nodded pointedly to the ring. “The stakes are higher tonight. They’re allowing everyone to make bets.”

“Everyone?”

“Even you.”

“How much blunt did you get from the last take?” William asked. “And do you have it on you?

“About seven hundred pounds,” Silas smirked. “Great minds think alike.”

While wrapping his wrists with thick strips of linen, he watched Silas go over and talk to the bookmaker who held a quill over the page. After a quick conversation, the man took a pouch and counted the money, and Silas headed back to him.

“The other bounder, some blunder named Ricky from Kent, has put up his house,” Silas shrugged. “I guess he is out of blunt.”

“Another house, eh?” William said, tightening a strap. “It’s probably some tumbledown hut not even worth the land it’s on.”

“Either way,” Silas shrugged. “It is an asset you can sell off later. Just get your head on top of the game, old boy.”

The rules of prizefighting were simple: fight until you had the other man on his back. Certain maneuvers—such as hitting below the belt, once overlooked in the street brawls—were now prohibited, and the match ended when a fighter was knocked or thrown off his feet.

“Get that man out by the sixth round,” Silas advised. “If you have to, stretch it to the eighth and let the bets roll in, but that is it. Do not let the man get to round ten.”

Nodding decisively, William bounced on his feet, when a flicker from the corner of his eye had him turning—and he spotted a familiar face. The boy he had trounced a few weeks ago stepped into the ring. He did not look as sallow as he’d been before—he somehow looked… worse.

His skin was an ill yellow and his eyes were jumpy. His thin wiry frame had muscles, but William did not know if the lad could manage the intense bout about to begin.

“ You ? How did you manage to get in?” William called over the crowd. “I was sure someone would have knocked you out of the Circuit by now.”

“I won all the matches after you,” Ricky sneered. “I am not the weakling you clearly think I am.”

“My mistake, but are you sure about this, lad?” he asked.

“I am no lad ,” Ricky spat. “I came to win, and to prove it, I have my house up on the betting bridge.”

A part of William wanted to take it easy with the young man, but he knew both of them had come into this match knowing it was all or nothing—and both had to do whatever they could to win.

His competitive spirit rallied at the thought. He could not risk his stability and advancement for someone else’s comfort. He had to win this and then get to the finals. Preferably without any overt bruises or woundings on his face. “Well then—” He struck out his hands and their hands met in a firm grip. “Let’s begin.”

The bell rang and the umpire commenced the match, but Ricky did not try the usual testing jabs with William and threw himself into the fight, letting his fists fly. Startled, William found himself on the defensive end, fending off frenzied blows until his back was against the rope.

A round of jeers had William gritting his teeth; this was not good. He dodged a flying punch and used the flat of both fists to force Ricky to stumble back. He pressed his advantage, rushing in with a controlled force of blows, jab-hook-uppercut combinations.

Ricky avoided the first two, but the uppercut sent him flying.

“Round to Marauder!” the Umpire called.

Bouncing on his feet, William grasped the desperation reeking from Ricky. The man was desperate to win, but William could not give him the pleasure. The umpire commenced the next round and William punched with precise, timed blows, landing them in a fierce, rhythmic staccato.

By round six, Ricky’s eyes had taken on a manic edge and he moved without tactic, leaving himself open to blows—and unpredictable in delivering them.

When William’s blow struck Ricky’s shoulder, a blinding hook snapped his head back and he stumbled into the ropes. Lights blinked in his vision, and he barely heard the boos, hoots and shouts.

He shook the sweat from his eyes and rallied, swung, trying to trick Ricky into a feint, but the man knocked away the fake punch and drove in again with a barrage of jabs that battered his breastbone and abdomen. He made the mistake of twisting his head the wrong way and took a blow to his brow.

Stunted, he had to grab the rope to steady himself and felt a trickle of blood slip down his temple.

“Come on, William,” he cursed himself as his head sang with pain. “You cannot lose, not now, not here.”

“Round to Ricky,” the Umpire shouted.

It was four to two, and William remembered Silas’s advice; he had to cut this off, now.

He leaped in with a vengeance and layered a complex set of quick punches to prevent retaliatory strikes.

He had to get the man unsteady and off his feet and confused. William felt no pleasure, only frustration, as his opponent stumbled to the ropes, clutching at his jaw and rubbing his chest. The crowd erupted, cheering and stamping, flinging adoration and encouragement to William who had decided on ending it now.

When Ricky came at him again, William levered a heavy punch that hit the side of his temple, a punch to his chest and the third on his stomach had Ricky doubling over—and then, he collapsed.

His body began to convulse, his chin tipping up and eyes rolling to the back of his head. Alarmed, William dropped to his knees, avoiding the flailing limbs while the man jerked uncontrollably. The crowd turned into a pandemonium of a different kind; shouts of fear instead of encouragement.

“Medic!” he shouted over the din, seizing the man to keep his head from slamming back on the rough floor. “Where is the damned medic!”

Ricky’s chest was heaving, the bulge of his ribs pushing out and spit dribbling from his mouth. He was grabbing at William, clutching at him, his words a mumble, head shaking, “…failed you, I-I f-failed you.”

What did that mean?

“Stay with me, man,” William held him tight. “Don’t give up now. Live, damn it, you have to live! Where is the damned medic! He’s dying!”

It was torturous, having the man flail and convulse, his chest heaving like a drowning man gasping for air. The speeding moments felt drawn out like hours and William held him tightly.

The place was clearing and he gripped Ricky's hand, frantic. Had he killed him? Had the blows to the chest been too much?

“Medic!” He screamed. “Hurry!”

Clutching his wrist with a tight grip William had not expected, Ricky stammered, “T-tell her I l-love her, I—I…” His eyes fluttered.

The moment the medic slid through the ropes, the man shooed him away, and helpless, William leaned on the ropes, unable to do anything but watch.

The medic tried to stabilize the man, trying to pump his chest, get him to drink water, put him on his side—but nothing worked. Ricky’s body jerked one final time, and his boots slapped on the floor as his head went slack.

William knew it was too late. The man was dead.

The deafening pub William stumbled into near-midnight… he barely made it to a chair before his knees gave out. The moment Ricky lost his life kept replaying itself in his mind’s eye as he gazed at the worn grain on the small round table.

“Need something, guv?” A buxom woman asked while passing with a tray of drink.

“Whisky,” he murmured.

She laughed. “Oh, no, sirrah, you’re in the wrong side of town. We’ve only got Blue Ruin, rum, and ale.”

“Ruin,” William leaned forward, gripping his hair.

“You got into a fight, luv?” the lady said as she moved away. “Yer knuckles are all busted up.”

While she went off, he looked at his knuckles, the bloody tips, the black and blue skin, and the tiny cuts on his middle phalanx, but as he looked on, he could not believe his hands had sent that poor man to his death.

Guilt, horror, and shame warred inside him as death was the furthest thing he had imagined when he had started bare-knuckle boxing.

He thought back to the first time he had seen a boxer in that countryside fair, handsome and muscular, with hundreds of people cheering him on and dozens of ladies all throwing themselves at him.

William had only thought about the pomp and prestige. No one had warned him about death.

He barely looked up when the cup was placed before him.

“Hartwell!” Colin called while pressing his way through the throng of drunks. “Christ above, do you know how many hovels and alleys we searched thinking you went off and got mugged?”

Instead of facing his friend, William stared down at his cup. “I killed a man.”

Sliding into the chair beside him, Anthony let out a sigh. “We know, we saw. But I don’t think it was all your fault. The man looked... peaky when he entered the ring.”

Little comfort.

“And it was fate that my fist sealed the deal then?” William grunted, then threw back half his drink in one gulp. The burn felt like a pittance in contrast to the scorch of guilt in his breastbone. “I must be cursed.”

“No,” Colin muttered. “Believe me, he was gone before you touched him.”

They did not understand—they would never understand what it meant to deliver death to someone, the moment the light left their eyes. He swallowed the rest of his drink and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes as he tried to shut out the memory.

“I need time to digest this,” William mumbled.

“Well,” Colin sighed, “if you’re going to drink, we’ll join you. We’re not letting you go through this alone, old boy.”

Andrew called the waiting girl over and requested his drink, then turned to William. “We’ll be right here, William. We’re not going anywhere.”

It was somewhere in the early hours of the morning she heard the familiar tread of boots over the corridor, and they paused right before her door. She waited—and then heard the other door open.

He is home then.

After a moment, she turned on her side and set her back to the door, deciding to speak with him in the morning.

Suddenly, there was a loud stumble and she spun around, ready to leap into action if William fell—but heard him continue into his room without a collapse.

Maybe he misstepped.

By morning, she was up and washing in the basin, her stomach twisting at knowing by noon, she would be a married woman.

Clad in her best robe, she left her chambers to find the breakfast room—that doubled as a supper room—but found William’s door ajar. Had he left it open last night?

And that was when she heard the noise. A faint splash. From the bathing room.

I should go. Leave him to his privacy .

She intended to head to the breakfast room—but her feet fell rooted at his door. After a long moment, instead of heading off, she entered his room, feeling oddly like she was trespassing, when she had not felt that way last night.

Nearing the open door of the bathing chamber, she felt the warm wisps of citrus-scented steam drifting out and the gentle lap of water drew her closer.

William was lying in the large copper tub while a fire crackled in the hearth behind him. From her vantage point, she could see his side profile, his dark, wet hair pushed back from his chiseled face. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back lip of the tub…

Oh my goodness. Her heart shot into her throat.

Dear Lord in Heaven—purple bruises darkened one of his perfect cheekbones, he had a split lip and a blackening eye. His long eyelashes lay in shadowed crescents against his pale skin, and dark stubble covered his jaw.

Even while injured, he was beautiful.

Perhaps beautiful was the wrong word. Elegant. Dangerous. Unpredictable… but still beautiful.

Silently, she breezed through the open door and made her way toward him. Slowly, she knelt beside his prone figure, her heart lurching at the sight of dried blood clinging to his left temple.

“William, oh God… William, what happened?”

Had he gotten into a brawl? Had he been mugged?

With tender care, she plucked a rag from a nearby rack and wiped the towel gently over his damaged temple. “William? Are you conscious? Please… answer me.”