The Dark Affair (12 page)

M
argaret eyed the crowd of men and bit back an unladylike curse. They’d headed east, as she was certain they would. It had been clear they weren’t heading for a gin shop or opium den. He knew she’d never condone that, and if he’d been after such a thing, he would have abandoned her after that strange conversation in the park.

She’d never imagined this.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she shouted above the raucous noise of men betting and roaring.

Powers gave her a terrifying grin. “I do, indeed. You’re sure about that kiss now? You might not like what you are about to see.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, and isn’t bare-knuckle boxing one of Ireland’s chief entertainments? I know exactly what’s about to happen. You might lose what’s left of your brain.”

“Your doubt in my skills wounds me.”

“You’re not exactly at the best of form.”

His brows lifted, shocked. “Are you worried for me?”

“Yes,” she retorted. “This isn’t Gentleman Jackson’s.”

“And what makes you think I do all my boxing there?”

“Just understand, I don’t like this and am here under protest.”

“Noted.”

He wasn’t taking her seriously. In fact, he’d become most irritated with her after that whole exchange about her parents. She’d hated sharing that. It had been terrifying. She never talked about the past, and it had been all she could do to stop tears from stinging her eyes.

She scowled at him. “Well, all I have to say is these lads are comers. They’re not going to treat you nice just because you’re in the mood to let off a little steam.”

Powers gave her cocky smile. “That is exactly what I am hoping for.”

“I hope your cook has more steak at home.”

“If not, we’ll order some in from Spittlefields,” he replied as if this were all a grand game.

She folded her arms over her chest and glanced across the room. She spotted James’s opponent. It had already been arranged. Sean Daughtery was Galway born, stood in at six feet and neared sixteen stone. His short, dark hair was already sweaty from an earlier fight, and his muscles nearly bulged out of his bare chest. She cocked her chin at the man. “You see that boyo?”

James followed her gaze. “Yes.”

“He’s going to knock your teeth in.”

“Maggie, with every moment, your lack of confidence truly wounds.”

“I saw him fight in Galway. The man is a bloody bull.”

Powers’s mask was firmly back in place. Gone was any earnest pain. In its place he’d pinned the nonchalant, sarcastic man she’d met in the asylum. It was something she could suddenly and most disturbingly identify with. Hadn’t she almost done the exact same thing about half an hour ago?

She rejected the thought and gave him a challenging stare. “He’s going to crack your ribs in.”

Powers wagged his brows at her. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

And with that, her
husband
swaggered off toward the front of the circle of rabid men ready to watch blood fly.

“Bloody hell,” she hissed beneath her breath; then she began elbowing her way through the tight crowd of beer-soaked and sweat-stained men to the front. She had to make it all the way or else she’d never see a thing. And while it might have a moment’s appeal to stick her proverbial head in the sand, she wasn’t going to do it. She’d pushed him too hard too soon. Her mistake, and now they’d both pay for it.

“Eh, lass, mind yourself,” a hulking big man warned as she angled to get a little closer.

“Mind yourself, indeed,” she sniffed before pointing at Powers. To a large degree, these were her people. She’d grown up with them, and they didn’t frighten her in the least. At least, not in this setting. “Our man there is about to lose his head.”

The big man laughed, a booming roar. “And you wouldn’t want to miss that, now, would you?”

He sidestepped to let her have a better view, folding his massive arms over his broad chest and grinning. “Fine, then. I’m O’Malley, and I’ll keep the others from pushing a wee thing like you about.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I can manage on my own, thanks.”

“Ah, sure, you’re a fire breather.” The big man hawked some saliva, then thumbed toward Powers. “That’s your man there?”

Her man? It sounded so primal even though she knew it was only a turn of phrase. “Well, he’s not mine so to speak, but I’m with him.”

O’Malley shook his shaggy head. “Then you haven’t any worries.”

“I beg your pardon?”

O’Malley bounced on his booted toes, his brawn surprisingly light. “That’s Powers the Pounder.”

She stared agape.
The Pounder
?

O’Malley nodded as if to emphasize his words. “The man’s got an anvil for a fist.”

Margaret studied the man’s face. No lies there. “He comes here often?”

“Not of late, but when he does, we put our money on him.”

She cleared her throat. The earl had failed to mention this. Still, Powers could hardly be in the other fighter’s class. He’d been in bed for nigh on three days. Then again, she’d found those who were in love with certain substances could be quite surprising in their strength. One moment they were weak as a babe. The next they were leveling you flat. Rather like Powers and the footman the night before.

Still, the Galway prizefighter was no young footman.

“Powers’s opponent, Sean Daughtery, is a tough one,” she said, not really sure what else to say. She was stunned. She’d grown up around the county fairs, watching men beat each other into pulp for enjoyment. It didn’t bother her. It’s what they did to let their anger dim, and oh did they have anger.

But this was on the verge of bothering her to no end. Powers was in her care and she never should have agreed to this, but it was by far too late now.

“Daughtery’s a right good fighter, but your man, I’d say he’ll win in the long run. Not only can he pound, but he can take a beatin’ like none other.”

“Faith.” Margaret sighed. She should have known Powers didn’t do anything by the book.

The shouts for odds went up around her. Money was quickly passing hands.

Powers was laughing as he chatted to a short little bookmaker. But there was something on edge about that laugh, as if he was about to become unhinged.

Perhaps she should have bloody kissed him in the park. At some point she was going to have to kiss him. After all, she’d promised his father an heir. And, well, kissing did lead to heirs. The thought fired her cheeks, and she swallowed.

The shift in energy changed as Powers and Daughtery stepped along the edge of the open yet tight circle with a white chalk stripe down the center.

And she pushed aside any surprisingly wicked thoughts of Powers and she doing what must be done to achieve offspring.

Powers looked back at her, his eyes cold, half dead. Another change since spotting that little girl in the park. Somehow, he’d regressed. It seemed he was bound and determined to wall away whatever memories he had.

He shrugged off his coat and waistcoat and then in one fast whip, he yanked off his shirt, exposing hard sinew over solid bone.

Her breath froze in her chest. She’d seen him time again unclothed. But there was something different in this moment. He was the tiger again, pacing his cage, testing the bars. And she’d allowed him to come here.

But what other choice had she? She’d seen the mad look in his eyes, the agony. And while she couldn’t support his choice, she understood it.

Powers swung his gaze back to Daughtery. His shoulders rolled back, preparing.

The referee urged the two men to the line.

As soon as Powers and Daughtery were facing each other, fists up, the referee, an older gentleman with silver hair and a fierce jaw, eyed them both. “Right, lads. Let’s have a nice, clean fight. No biting, no kicking, and absolutely no head butting.”

Powers gave a nod.

Daughtery lifted his fists. Powers mirrored the action, and they touched knuckles.

The referee stepped back. “Fight!”

Daughtery immediately sent a sharp right jab toward Powers. Powers darted away and blocked the punch. He danced back and to the side, his body curving, sinuous, at total ease.

Immediately, Margaret tensed, her blood humming with fear and the inevitable excitement that came to any who watched blood sport.

It was primal, instinctive. Her fingers curled into fists as she clamped her mouth shut.

Daughtery let fly again, and this time the jab smashed into Powers’s face.

The laugh that rolled from James’s lips sent a shiver down Margaret’s spine.

The entire crowd let out a roar of approval.

And a sudden thought hit Margaret. Powers had
let
Daughtery hit him.

Powers angled around the small enclosure, tucking his chin down. He gave a come-and-hit-me gesture with his hands.

Daughtery replied with a dangerous grin, and he obliged, slugging his fist in an uppercut right to Powers’s middle.

A grunt came from Powers, but he didn’t buckle. Instead, he twisted and slammed his own fist into Daughtery.

Daughtery staggered back, nearly going to one knee.

Margaret lifted her hands to her mouth, not sure if she was about to cheer or cry out, because as Daughtery struggled, he managed to reangle his movement, and he came up swinging.

Another blow landed on Powers’s face.

James was barely deflecting the blows, almost impassive.

“Ah.” The man next to her let out a whistle.

“What?” Margaret snapped.

“He’s here for a beating tonight.”

This didn’t surprise her. In truth, she knew he’d come here to feel physical pain, but she was shocked at how he was going about it. Because from what she could tell so far, Powers was
allowing
the blows to fall on him. From his precise movements, he could have avoided the hits.

Daughtery pulled back his fist and slammed a punch into Powers’s jaw.

At that moment, James’s silver hair swung about his face, his eyes closed briefly, and a plume of bright red blood sluiced through the air.

The sight terrified Margaret. “Hit back!”

As if he’d heard her, he spat the remainder of blood in his mouth on the floor, lifted his fists, circled Daughtery, and then let fly. In a series of bursts, he had his opponent back up, blocking his face with his forearms.

Margaret strained forward, her body so tense she was sure it would break. “Come on,” she murmured to herself. She didn’t want this to keep going, but suddenly she knew she did want Powers to win.

Powers wrapped his arm around Daughtery’s neck, forcing the other man to bend. Daughtery’s hands scrambled at Powers’s arms.

The referee darted in, wedging the two men away from each other.

Daughtery spat, then rolled a shoulder, eyeing Powers all the while.

For one split second, it looked like Powers was going to attack, but then he let his gaze slip away. Straight to Margaret. Those piercing blue eyes locked with hers. A message. He was going allow himself to be beaten to a pulp. Because she wouldn’t kiss him.

And if she had chosen differently, all this passion could have been hers.

•   •   •

Christ, the pain felt so good. Powers swung his head around, savoring the feel of his neck popping and stretching. He drew in a deep breath, ignored the sweat dripping down his brow, and stared at Daughtery.

He just needed the Irishman to pound his face into pulp for another round or so. Just another round and then he could turn the tables.

Daughtery cocked his chin, then spat on the filthy floor. The boxer lifted his ham-hock fists and swaggered to the right.

Powers angled his body and mirrored the other man’s steps. Waiting. Desperate for physical pain because, frankly, the pain was so bad inside he was half convinced he was going to start raging and never stop.

Daughtery stepped in, swinging a right hook.

Powers didn’t pull back, and the moment that hammerlike fist connected with his cheekbone, the room blackened. Everything disappeared, and he felt absolutely nothing except for the slight reverberation of his own flesh.

The blackness before his eyes was so welcome, he considered taking another blow just so he could forget. Maybe for forever if Daughtery hit him hard enough and in the correct place. But he couldn’t do that to Margaret. He’d not have his death on her conscience. But he also wanted her to see that this was what he needed.

Not sunshine, parks, and children. He swallowed back a sudden bout of nausea. He cocked his chin up and locked gazes with Daughtery. “Come on, you Irish bastard. Hit me like a man.”

Daughtery let out a growl and then charged in, fists pummeling.

Powers took the onslaught, barely tucking his elbows in to guard his innards.

The blows came again and again, pounding his guts until he couldn’t breathe.

For apparent good measure, Daughtery grabbed him in a headlock and slammed an uppercut straight into Powers’s mouth.

His lips split as sure as if a barber had come at him with a razor. Blood flooded his mouth. The iron taste covered his tongue.

He blinked several times, not quite able to see the floor as the room kept fading in and out.

The referee shouted, his big body getting between Daughtery and himself.

“Break it up, gents. Break it up. To your corners.”

Powers staggered back, then spit a plume of blood.

It spattered the crowd, and a roar of approval boomed around him. Their bloodthirsty hunger washed over him, marvelous and terrible. This crowd would jeer and shout and cheer if he was torn to pieces before them.

How could Margaret have such faith when humanity was such a dismal lot?

He swung his gaze to her for a moment. That pale face of hers was white. He’d expected to see a dose of fury in her gaze; instead an impassioned plea haunted her eyes. A plea for him to stop punishing himself.

But he couldn’t, and she needed to understand. He squared his shoulders and leveled her with a hard stare, a stare filled with desire and the promise to unleash all his passion on
her
if she would but let him.

Maggie’s eyes widened as she clearly caught his meaning.

With that, a hand clapped him on the back, signaling the return to the line.