The Marriage Ring (15 page)

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It
is
simple. One man against another for three simple minutes.”

“This isn’t going to be the type of fighting you are accustomed to,” she warned.

“How would you know?”

“Because wherever there are men, there are fights. This is bare-knuckle fighting, Richard, and they are fighting for money, not sport. There will be no rules. I’ve never had the stomach to watch one, but I’ve seen the shape of the men who have come back from them and I thought them a right silly group of fools.”

“We could be in Inverness by tomorrow night. Think of your father.”

“I think of
you
.”

The implication of her words shot straight to his heart. He stared wanting to believe there were deeper feelings behind them.

He waited, expecting her to retract her statement.

She didn’t.

Instead, she rose up and kissed him on the lips.

Richard dared not move. Dared not breathe. The words
I love you, Grace
roiled in his mind, but he lacked the courage to speak them aloud. If only she would give him one more sign, then he’d declare himself—

Her lips left his. She brushed his whiskered jaw with the back of her fingers. “Don’t be noble.”

Noble?
Was that all she thought he was being? And what was the kiss? A way to bring him in line? To save him from harm?

Everything masculine inside him revolted.

“I’m no Galahad searching for some holy grail that he’ll never find,” he said, stepping away from her. “I can do this, Grace. I will.”

He turned and began moving toward the nearest clump of men. They would know where McGowan was.

Grace was stunned by Richard’s anger.

What had she said wrong?

Why were men, especially this one, so insistent upon proving themselves?

She knew the answer. He wanted her to believe in him. Richard Lynsted had pride, and Grace understood pride. Why else had she done so many foolish things in her life?

She wanted to save him from himself. But that wasn’t what he was asking her to do. All he wanted was for her to believe in him.

Such a simple request, and yet it called for all her courage. If she put her faith in another, what if that person failed her? Or turned on her? She’d had that happen, too.

Life had taught her there was only one person she could trust, and that was herself.

And Richard.

Not once had he failed her. Events hadn’t always unfolded as he’d thought they would, but he hadn’t left her and he would never betray her.

Nor would he marry her
, that devil inside of her whispered, searching as it always did for what was wrong with each man she’d met, belittling him until she packed her bags and left. Except this time was different. This time, Grace had the wisdom to respond with maturity.

The truth was, with her past, few men would offer her marriage no matter how many times she repented.

Furthermore, Richard wasn’t asking for heart and soul. He just wanted her to place a little faith in him.

She could do that. She could do
more
than that. This man had slipped past years of her distrust and disappointment, and she loved him enough to follow him into the fires of hell if need be. Soon they might have to part because she would never measure up to his ideal, but for right now, they were together and she realized that was enough for her.

Awe filled her at exactly how unselfish love was. She’d not imagined she could ever be so. She’d always expected tit for tat. Now, she would support him because what was important to her man was important to her—even in something so foolish and potentially dangerous.

He’d started walking away from the group of men, moving with a sense of purpose. He’d found his fight—and she’d not let him go alone.

Grace lifted her skirts and began running after him. When she caught up to him, she slipped her hand in his.

He looked down at her, his expression still grim. That was all right. Grace had a purpose. She’d stand beside him no matter what.

Chapter Fifteen

R
ichard led Grace to a field at the edge of Lanark where a crowd of men were gathering. Apparently Richard wasn’t the only one interested in the purse.

Boxing was not outlawed in Scotland the way it was in England. Although even there, as long as the fights were held away from populated areas such as the one they’d stumbled upon their first night on the road, authorities did very little to interfere with the matches. Still, even though the sport was legal, Grace thought there was an unsavory air about it.

The fight was man against man until one of them went down and could not rise for thirty seconds. There were few rules. Grace thought of them more like codes of conduct. Hitting an opponent below the belt was considered unsporting and, if a fighter did need a break, he could drop to one knee to start a thirty-second count while he gathered his wits up again.

The men lining up to form a queue were of all shapes and sizes—burly men with arms the size of cannons, whipcord-thin lads who were as hard as leather, old men wanting to prove their strength and validate their youth, and young men wishing to prove their mettle. More than a few were almost as tall and strong-looking as Richard.

A good number of women waited with their men. Some were hard-looking or carefree. The majority appeared anxious.

Grace took a step closer to Richard, knowing what category she fit into.

He’d been quietly looking around, taking in his competition. He hadn’t said a word to her since she’d joined him.

As she studied the other men present, she realized that Richard had become the best-looking man she’d ever seen. He was masculine and strong, but he also had character.

His hand still held hers. He might be angry but he had not forgotten her. She clasped her fingers around his, not wanting to let him go.

On one side of the field was a brightly painted covered wagon much like a gypsy caravan. It had a green bed and a yellow hood with a howling wolf painted on the side.

The calico-curtained door at the back was flipped aside and a bantam rooster of a man climbed down. He wore a dandy’s yellow pantaloons, bright blue jacket, a cherry-striped vest and red shoes with pointed toes. Tight brown curls of hair stuck out this way and that from under the man’s blue wide-brimmed hat. It sported a huge pheasant feather that sliced the air with the movement of his head as he boomed out, “Here now, I’m the McGowan’s manager. Do what I say.” Grace was surprised he was English. “Contestants line up. Right over there. McGowan wants a look at you.”

The crowd of men moved to comply.

Grace didn’t want to leave Richard even after he let go of her hand. She stepped back with the other women. The day was growing warm. Spring was in the air. Grace took off her cape and folded it over her arm.

McGowan’s manager began marching back and forth in front of the line of men, holding his hat out for their two guineas. Two of the men didn’t have the funds and had to move to join the onlookers. One tried to argue his way into a bout, but the manager nodded to a barrel-shaped man with a hard jaw to escort the man out of the queue.

The woman next to Grace, a young thing who was very heavy with child, made a soft cry of alarm. The man being ordered out of the line was hers. She hurried to join him with the onlookers. The young couple put their heads together and clasped hands. Grace couldn’t help but pity them. They probably had more need of the prize purse than she and Richard.

She glanced over to him to see if he’d noticed the couple. He hadn’t. He was listening to McGowan’s manager go over the rules.

“We start the bouts at three. That’s an hour from now and as you can see the crowd is already forming. If your knee hits the ground and you are there for a count of thirty, you’re out.”

“Who does the counting?” one of the contenders asked.

“I do,” the manager said. “So if you are going to knock out the McGowan, you’d best do it good and right so I can’t cheat on the count.”

A nervous laugh met his comment. The manager puffed up his chest. “I’m not teasing you, lads. Fighting is a dirty, grim business. If you want out of your bout, you go to your knees for thirty—that is if McGowan hasn’t knocked you out.”

“What if I stay in for the three minutes?” Richard asked.

The manager smiled, the expression not particularly nice. “Then you receive twenty-five pounds. But you have to stand and take your blows like a man. I warn you, I run a clean fight. Even the vicar of St. Nicholas Church will be here and he’ll vouch for me. I’ve seen some who think they can run around like a chicken without its head for three minutes and win the twenty-five. We’ll have none of that. Oscar will see that you face your opponent, and I should warn you now, McGowan will not be pleased with you. He’s not a friendly man when he isn’t pleased.”

Three more men stepped out of the queue. There were now twenty men, Richard being one of them, ready to face the McGowan.

One of the men in line asked, “Will there be time in the day for him to fight all of us?”

“We shall see, won’t we?” the manager said as if that was the least of his concerns. “Any other questions?” There were none. “Very well, stand tall. McGowan will want a look at you. He’s the one who decides the order of the fight.” He went over to the caravan and gave the side a knock. “They are ready for you, Mr. McGowan.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the calico curtain.

There was a dramatic pause, and then the curtain opened for a man to climb out. He had to bend over to fit through the door, and once his feet hit the ground, he unfolded, and unfolded, and unfolded his body.

The McGowan was as tall as Richard and he looked more like a crofter than a fighter. There was little humane intelligence to his face. His nose and eyes appeared scrunched together and his thick lips curved into an expression of disdain. He wore his shirt hem out over his homespun breeches and on his feet were heavy wool socks and worn, sturdy shoes. His hair flowed past his shoulders, a dirty yellow mess that made Grace itch to look at it.

Heedless of his audience, McGowan stretched his arms in a yawn. His big gaping hole of a mouth held very few teeth. He scratched his belly with a groan of satisfaction and then dropped his arms to his side—and his hands almost reached his knees.

Grace shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She’d never seen such long arms in her life.

Or a nose as flat. He’d taken a hit or two there and it wasn’t a pretty sight. It was barely recognizable as a nose.

Another occupant of the tent climbed out. This person was a blowzy bawd with impossibly red hair. She scrambled out of the tent, her blouse gaping loose and exposing almost every inch of her impressively large, soft breasts.

She took a moment to hike her blouse up and tie it at the neck. Her feet were bare. She reached back into the wagon for her shoes and socks.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, giving McGowan a cheeky bump with her hip as she passed him, clearly enjoying the attention her appearance was receiving.

McGowan grabbed her around the waist, drew her close to him so her feet were off the ground, and was about to bury his whiskered face in her neck to give her a gobble of a kiss—when his gaze fell on Grace. His piggy eyes homed right in on her.

He dropped the bawd. She wasn’t ready for his release and didn’t catch herself. Her bottom hit the ground and caused her to give a surprised wheeze.

McGowan began walking toward Grace. “I want this one.” He had a voice as gruff as the rest of him.

Grace took a step back. McGowan’s manager raced forward. He caught the fighter’s shirt tail and tried to drag him back, receiving a shove in the face for his trouble.

But Richard was already there to protect her. He stepped into McGowan’s path. “She’s mine,” he said.

McGowan pulled back so that he could give Richard a good look up and down. “I want her.”

Richard tapped the fighter’s forehead with three fingers as if to wake him up. “You can’t have her.”

“I think I can,” McGowan replied, looking past Richard’s shoulder to where Grace stood, horrified at the turn of events and at being the center of attention.

“You are wrong,” Richard answered, taking a step over to block the fighter’s view of Grace.

McGowan took another look at Richard. He reached for the collar of his jacket and rubbed it between his fingers. “Good coat,” he said.

Richard didn’t answer.

“Good boots,” McGowan continued. “No farmer. No Scotsman.” He turned to his manager. “I fight him for the girl,” he said, pointing at Grace with a jerk of his thumb.

“The girl?” the manager echoed.

“Aye, the girl. I want the girl. Fight him for the girl. Do it.” McGowan retreated to the corner of the wagon, where he dipped a ladle into a rain bucket and drank deeply, his piggy gaze on Grace.

His manager puffed his cheeks and released his breath. “Very well.” He looked to Richard. “He fights you for your woman.”

“No,” Richard said as if he thought the man simple-minded. “She’s not a prize. She’s not a part of this.”

“You’ll be the last fight of the day,” the manager offered. “Everyone will be here.”

“I’m not fighting. My woman is not a prize.” He turned to Grace. “Come along, let’s go.”

The manager held his hand up to stave off Richard’s departure. “You want a bigger purse,” he said. “We can manage that. A fight between the two of you will be something to see. I’ll double the prize if you win.”

“I’ll not risk my woman,” Richard said. He held out a hand to Grace but before she could go forward, McGowan placed himself between them.

The swiftness of his approach alarmed Grace. He moved fast for a man of his size.

“I fight you for the woman,” he said. “You win, you keep her and the purse. But you won’t win—you are not a fighter.”

The other contestants and onlookers had created a circle around them. Grace could see anger at the boast build inside Richard, especially in front of this crowd.

“I would win, but my lady is not a part of this,” Richard said.

McGowan’s thick lips curved into a cocksure smile. “His
ladee
,” he mocked, looking around at those gathered around them. “Such a fancy man. Makes me want him to eat dust.” He held his hands up as if shaking in terror and earned a good laugh for his silliness.

“Come, Grace,” Richard said

“Come with
me
, Grace,” McGowan said, echoing Richard’s king’s English. “Let me show you what a real man can do with a pretty thing like you.”

“He’s a good one,” the bawd cheerfully endorsed. “Kept it up all night till I thought it wouldn’t come down. I’m aching all the way through.” She hunched over to demonstrate what she meant and the crowd couldn’t help but laugh.

Richard started to step around McGowan but the fighter again blocked his path. He shoved Richard’s shoulder, making him take a step back. The humor had left McGowan’s face. “You’ve never fought before in your life, have you, mate?” he said. “You are running because you are afraid.”

“The lady is not a prize,” Richard repeated, his voice tight but controlled.

But Grace knew the cost of this confrontation. It was his rounds with Lord Stone all over again. It was what he’d fought against.

“Oh, she is a prize,” McGowan corrected him. “I imagine she is a right, tight poke.”

Richard’s fingers curled into fists.

Grace was certain their audience couldn’t overhear all of what was being said, but they knew Richard was being baited and they judged him less for not rising to defend her.

He would judge himself less as well.

“We’ll accept your offer,” she heard herself say. “My man will fight you for double the purse. And we’ll share it with that couple over there.” She nodded to the pregnant woman and her man, who couldn’t afford to fight.

McGowan’s tiny eyes gleamed with triumph. “You are my prize if he loses.”

“I am.”

“Grace, what are you doing
?” Richard demanded.

She looked to the manager. “We are here at three?”

“Aye, missus, be waiting under that tree yonder.” The manager nodded to a chestnut on the other side of the caravan.

“Tell the vicar at St. Nicholas to put his money on my man,” Grace instructed him, raising her voice for all to hear.

“And what is the name of your man?” the manager asked.

Grace thought fast. Richard wasn’t going to answer. He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. She was certain they didn’t want to use his real name, especially since there was an order for his hanging under it.

Inspiration struck. “Why, John Bull,” she said. “A bold, proud Englishman who is going to teach this Scottish pig some lessons.”

Her declaration was met by a chorus of catcalls and derisive comments.

“Englishman versus Scot,” the manager said, quick to capitalize on the rivalry. “We’ll see you at three, John Bull.”

McGowan lingered, insultingly letting his eyes rove over her person, until Richard grabbed him by the chin and turned his head away. The Scot laughed and meandered off one way.

Richard stomped off in the other.

Grace hurried after him.

“What did you do?” Richard demanded in a furious under voice once she’d caught up with him.

Conscious that eyes were upon them, Grace took his arm and led him down one of the roads leading to the market. “What we have to do. Richard, you can beat him.”

“I want to murder him.” Richard’s stride grew longer, faster. She had to hurry to keep up with him. “But I would never,
never
put you up as the prize.”

“I know,” Grace said. “That’s why I had to do it myself.”

He stopped so abruptly she almost ran into him. They stood on a side street, not far from St. Nicholas Church. He faced her. “I must not do this fight.”

“Why?”

“Because what if I lose?” he asked as if the reason was clear.

“You told me you would
not
lose.”

His brows came together. “Is that what this is? An opportunity to throw my words back at me? Didn’t I say I wasn’t willing to risk you?”