The Marriage Ring (16 page)

“I know, and that’s why
I
risked
myself
—”

“There’s
no
risk involved. You
threw
yourself away. You told a field full of people that you were worth nothing.”

The accusation stung like a swarm of hornets. “I told a field full of people that I believe in
you
.”

“You don’t know that I’m going to win, Grace,” he countered, the light in his eyes livid. “If I fail, do you think this is the price I want to pay? It’s one thing to take a beating. Another to let you go off with that disgusting pig of a man.”

“You aren’t going to lose,” she told him. “I know you won’t.”

“And I’m not so certain,” he shot back. He turned and began walking away from her.

“Where are you going?”

“To think,” he threw over his shoulder. He turned a corner and he was out of sight.

Grace waited a moment, willing him to return. She took a few steps after him and then stopped.

He would come back. She knew he would. His pride would make him fight.

But the question was, would he come back
to her
?

She started walking after him.

Richard walked as far as he could without leaving the village. Grace didn’t understand. She’d decided that he would be her rescuer in spite of his proving he couldn’t rescue anyone.

He
had
looked forward to the challenge. He’d wanted the fight—until Grace had become involved. Now his confidence waivered. He couldn’t bear to think of the consequences if he failed her…

With a shake of his head he tried to erase all the vivid images in his mind. Of course right now, he didn’t just want to knock McGowan out, he wanted to rip out his throat.

And he didn’t know what he wanted to do with Grace. Witnessing her put herself in danger on his account made him crazed.

She’d been raised well. He didn’t understand why she continued to toss herself away—and twice she’d done it for him.

Twice.

Richard sank down on a rough-hewn mounting block, startled, humbled, and frightened by her sacrifice.

No one had paid attention to him. He’d worked for both father and uncle and had received little notice for what he’d done for their business. He’d been an outstanding student in school, excelled at all his studies, and yet people discounted his brain because of his size…or, at least, that is what he’d told himself.

But a part of him feared it was true.

“Before McGowan made his challenge, you believed you could beat him,” he heard Grace’s voice say from behind him. “You asked me to believe in you, Richard. I do.”

“You know the times I’ve failed.” He refused to look at her.

“I know only the number of times you’ve thrown your heart and soul into something you believe in. I know you aren’t afraid to do what is right. I know I trust you with my life.”

“You are trusting me with
more
than your life,” he told her.

“I’m trusting you because I love you.”

He couldn’t have heard her correctly. He went still, hoping she’d repeat herself. Hoping it wasn’t a trick.

“I know I’m not the sort of woman a man like you loves,” she said, her voice tight as she held back tears. “I didn’t want to love you. You were my enemy and yet, everything you did, I admired. You are like no other man I’ve ever met. And I couldn’t stop myself from falling in love with you—”

Any other words she was going to say were cut off by his whirling around, coming to his feet, and sweeping her up in his arms.

Richard kissed her. He kissed her the way he’d dreamed of kissing her. Fully, completely, possessively.
She loved him.

He didn’t hold back. He couldn’t. He loved her, too. Passionately.

And the wonder of the kiss was that Grace kissed him back.

They breathed the same air. He wrapped his arms around her. He’d never let her go.
Never.

He tasted the salt of her tears. He kissed them. Kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her nose.

She held him as tightly as he held her. Her fingers curled into his hair. “Does this mean you care for me? Please, Richard, even a little?”

“I worship the ground you walk on. You are more important to me than my own life.”

Her gaze met his. “Then you’d best last three minutes with McGowan.”

He leaned his head near hers. “Ah, Grace, you know how to put pressure on a man.”

She started laughing and he found himself laughing with her. He, the man who never laughed. He’d done more living, more laughing during his days with Grace MacEachin than in all his life before.

But what was truly amazing was that he was no longer alone. They stood side by side, two against the world.

The miracle of this moment sent shock waves through him. The March wind blew around them and yet nothing could touch them, not when they were in each other’s arms.

“You won’t let McGowan win,” she said. “Your pride won’t let you, not once you step in to fight him.”

“You have such faith in me?”

She nodded, and then she said something that changed his life. “There isn’t anything I believe you can’t do.”

“Is it almost three?” he asked.

“It may be.”

“Then come along, lass. I have a fight to win.” He took her hand and together they marched to the clearing.

The crowd had quadrupled in size while they’d been gone. The boys who’d been handing out the bills now collected twenty pence a person to watch the fights. The atmosphere was one of a fair, with women carrying trays of pies and jugs of cider and ale for sale.

Everyone seemed to know who Richard was. They cleared a path for him and Grace to the caravan, where McGowan stalked his turf like a wildcat. When he saw Grace, he stopped, a toothless grin spreading across his face.

Richard would never let him touch her. He placed her cape around her shoulders, a silent warning to McGowan to take his eyes off her.

The betting was against Richard. He could hear the wagers being called from all around him. Even grandmotherly old ladies had come for the fight and had bet he’d lose.

The manager came to McGowan’s side. Under the tree next to the caravan stood the other men who had signed up to win the purse.

“I want her up here,” McGowan shouted, pointing his finger at Grace. “Bring her here.”

Richard tucked Grace’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the wagon, where a dais has been hastily constructed. A chair was placed beside it for her to sit so that all would see her.

“You go join the others,” the manager instructed Richard.

“No, I’ll stay right here,” Richard answered.

The manager started to protest and then nodded to Oscar. “Keep an eye on him.”

Oscar took a position next to Richard.

A group of men had been selected to join hands in a very large circle to keep the crowd a distance from the fighters. Richard removed his jacket, boots, and socks as the others had done. Some had even taken off their shirts. He removed his neck cloth but kept the shirt on. That’s what McGowan did and that is what he would do.

The manager started the contest. Richard had anticipated the dozen other fighters would take up at least an hour or so before he and McGowan fought. He was hoping the first matches would wear down the fighter.

He was wrong.

McGowan dispatched the other contestants in less than eighteen minutes. After watching the first two challengers get knocked unconscious, the next three men walked off without fighting. The remainder dashed out of the ring within seconds of facing the champion. The manager attempted to prove true to his word and force the fellows back, to the hearty amusement of the crowd.

Richard knew the passage of time because the manager gleefully announced it.

Not one of the other contestants had any boxing form. Richard had watched them with a critical eye, just as he watched McGowan. Of course, he hardly had the opportunity to see the Scot in action because most of his opponents vanquished themselves.

Grace sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

At last, all eyes turned to him. He was the last contestant and this was the match they’d all gathered for.

McGowan crooked a finger at him, ordering him to step into the ring of men.

Richard kissed Grace. “For luck,” he whispered.

Her face was pale, her brow worried, but she smiled.

“I know what I’m doing,” he promised her and walked into the ring. He put up his fists, taking his stance.

However, the manager handled this bout differently from the others. “Take it easy, man,” he ordered. “There will be plenty of time to raise your fists. But first, let me give you a proper sendoff.” He strutted past the boxers to address the crowd. With a flourish, he announced, “This fight is between Royce McGowan—”

The crowd cheered.

“And John Bull.”

Catcalls and boos met Richard’s name. He raised his fist in a salute anyway, proud to be representing his country against this hooligan McGowan, and noticing the betting was against him.

“It’s bare knuckles,” the manager announced, “no rules, and let the best man win the wager. Shake hands, lads.”

He stepped out of their way as Richard turned to shake his opponent’s hand—but McGowan wasn’t in the mood for shake.

Instead, he took advantage of Richard’s lack of protection and brought a big meaty fist the size of a small anvil barreling into the side of Richard’s head so hard his neck snapped back.

Darkness blinded Richard and with a will of its own, his body went down.

His knees. He had to stay on his knees…

Chapter Sixteen

S
hocked silence met McGowan’s unfair punch. Grace watched Richard go to his knees, his eyes losing their focus. She rose from her chair and came down from the dais, moving as close as she could to him. “Richard, please,
Richard
.”

He didn’t respond but stayed on his knees.

This was exactly what she had feared in the beginning. A fight in a Scottish field was a far cry from two gentlemen sparring in a fancy boxing saloon.

The crowd recovered their voice. The bidding had been against John Bull and many saw their wager was about to be won. They let out a cheer, shouting McGowan’s name as the manager began the thirty-second count.

“This isn’t fair,” Grace protested to the manager. He laughed and kept counting.

The crowd started counting with him. “Eleven…twelve…”

Grace panicked, not for herself but for Richard. “Richard,
you must fight this unfairness
.” Such a task would have set him to work in the past. She prayed he heard her.

For his part, McGowan was pleased with his handiwork. He adored the crowd’s cheering and then his attention turned to Grace.

“Come here, my pretty, pretty. Let me show you what a real man has—”

Any other suggestions he had were cut off in surprise as his feet came off the ground.

McGowan had been so interested in her, he’d not paid attention to the count and had failed to notice his opponent was back in action.

Richard lifted the Scot and tossed him as if he were a caber, a huge log thrown for sport. He made it look effortless. McGowan landed hard on the ground.

The crowd caught its collective breath and while some began shouting for McGowan to rise from the dirt and start fighting, another group started calling to place a wager on the Englishman.

Again, Richard put up his fists in proper style. Grace thought he should have jumped on McGowan while he was down and pummeled him silly…but then that wasn’t her man. He would fight fairly, and he would win. Her faith would not waver again.

McGowan raised his fists and moved forward. He had the longer arms but in a matter of seconds and three short jabs, Richard proved he had speed and agility his opponent lacked. He was also better than the Scot at protecting his head.

Grace found herself clenching her own fists and had to fight the urge to punch the air like so many of the men around her in the crowd were doing.

Richard was nothing short of brilliant. He really could fight, even she could see that. And now that he knew McGowan used dirty tricks, he seemed to thwart every one of them before they started.

At one point the Scot threw all his weight into a punch and as Richard blocked it, McGowan rammed his other punch below the belt. But Richard was a canny one. He’d obviously been expecting such a trick because he turned at the last minute and McGowan’s blow bounced off his hip.

Richard now had the hearts of the crowd. Scots had a passion for a good fight.

Three times McGowan went down on one knee, holding it just long enough during the thirty-second count to recover and come up fighting.

But it didn’t do him any good.

Richard moved like a man possessed. He dictated the fight, hitting McGowan at will, keeping him off balance so his longer arms were not effective weapons.

McGowan grew desperate. The smile was no longer on his face.

Nor was the crowd behind him. He did not fight well and had started doing more running then punching. The times he tried to step out of the ring, the onlookers shoved him back in with admonishments to “own up,” meaning they wanted him to be a man and take his punishment like a dozen other fighters had before this bout.

And then it came, the deciding blow. Richard’s fist struck McGowan right below the chin.

The fighter reeled back. He balanced on one foot, and then went down with a crash.

Richard stared at him, his fists up as if expecting him to rise again. Grace shouted to the manager, “Start your count.”

The man gave her a dazed stare as if he couldn’t believe his man was out.

Grace counted for him. “One,” she shouted. “Two.”

The crowd took up the count. Richard still waited, ready for anything.

And when the crowd finally reached “Thirty!” Grace ran into the ring and threw her arms around her champion. “I knew you could do it.”

His arms came down over her and he stumbled backward. Laughing with happiness, she almost fell with him but he caught them both.

“I did do it, didn’t I?” he said, sounding amazed.

“You are the
best
,” she assured him.

He laughed, the sound carefree and joyous.

After that, he was rushed on all sides by well-wishers. They’d enjoyed the fight and even though many had lost a wager against him, the sport was such that there could be no hard feelings. Before Grace knew what anyone was about, Richard was being dragged from her arms and carried away for a pint at the pub, but he shook them off.

He walked back to where McGowan’s manager knelt on the ground, still trying to bring his fighter to his senses. He had McGowan sitting up but the man sat with his head resting on his knees and didn’t appear ready to move any time soon.

“You owe me money,” Richard said.

The manager made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. “You’ve ruined him.”

“Nonsense. He can go on to fight Cribb. No one who is important will know about this.”

“Word has a way of being spread.”

“And you’ll deny it.” Richard held out his hand. “Double the purse for a knocking out, remember? A hundred pounds. I’ll thank you kindly for it.”

At that moment, McGowan came to his senses with a snort and a groan. The manager shrugged Richard off. “I must see to him first.”

Richard took the manager’s arm and brought him to his feet. “I have no desire to interfere with McGowan’s fight with Cribb, but I might change my mind.”

The manager reached into his pocket and pulled out the purse. He began counting money into Richard’s hand.

McGowan lay back on the ground with a groan. Grace was concerned but one of the elderly ladies who had watched the fight told her, “Don’t be worried. It’s his pride that is keeping him down there.”

“You are certain?” she asked, concerned.

The woman made a blowing noise through her lips, dismissing any doubts.

“A hundred pounds,” the manager said, having counted out the money. “Now take off. I never want to see your likes again.”

Richard looked to Grace, both of his hands full of money. He had done it. He’d told her that he would win the fight and he had. Her heart brimmed with pride in him.

And then his gaze slid to the young pregnant couple she had noticed earlier, the ones who the manager had tossed out of the competition because they lacked the fee to compete.

Before Grace knew what Richard was about, he walked over to the couple and, offering them a handful of his winnings, said, “Here, buy something special for your wife and the baby.”

The husband was speechless. “Sir, you, you—”

“You are to be thanked,” said his practical wife. She held out her apron and Richard poured the money into it.

Everyone watching was touched by the gesture. Grace most of all. She’d thought him so wrapped up in the fight he hadn’t noticed earlier the plight of the couple.

Richard looked to the crowd, who now gave him unwavering support. “Is there a pub in this village?”

The answer was a hearty chorus of “ayes.” Someone mentioned the Crown’s Thistle.

“I think we should celebrate. I’m buying the first round.” Richard said. That’s all he needed to say. Such an announcement was met with an even louder shout of approval. Richard took Grace’s arm before they were swept away from each other by the tide of people happy to show him to the pub.

The crowd carried them through the maze of streets to the hewn oak door of the Crown’s Thistle, a public house and inn down the row from St. Nicholas Church. They all squeezed through the door and drinks were quickly poured all around. Richard went up to the bar while Grace lingered by the door.

Two serving girls began filling tankards from a tapped keg as fast as they could. The tankards were picked up and handed around the room to man and woman alike. Even the vicar who had thrown them out of the church was amongst their number. If there were any hard feelings over losing a wager over Richard’s fight, they didn’t appear in evidence as the Scots raised their drinks to salute Richard’s health.

“A good man you have there, missus,” someone said to Grace’s right.

The gent on her left quaffed his ale as he approvingly added, “Knows how to use his fists.”

“Well, I had some worries in the beginning. McGowan leveled him with a powerful blow,” another commented, and talk about the fight was on. It was almost more entertaining than the fight itself.

Richard listened, throwing in a word or two that everyone in the room held their breaths to catch—and from her vantage point, Grace realized he had come the distance. He’d not bothered to retie his natty neck cloth. His jacket was open and the shine had long ago left his boots. But he looked younger and more at ease with himself. No one would call him a prig now, not with two days of whisker shadow on his jaw. It gave him a rough, dashing air, and more than one woman in the room had her eye on him.

The men were all reliving the fight with him. The women closed in around him, caught up in the men’s excitement and in being close to the hero of the hour.

Grace leaned against the door frame and watched Richard bask in being the center of attention, and realized this was what he’d once dreamed of—to be included. He was especially celebrated because apparently from what she could overhear McGowan had not endeared himself to the villagers. During the two days he’d set up camp here, he’d chased their daughters and bullied their merchants into providing him free food, drink, and whatever else had met his fancy.

“He’s already packed and out of here,” a man proclaimed who had just joined them. “His wagon and everything is gone. So here’s to John Bull.” Another round of toasts ensured.

For his part, Richard smiled with modest good humor. He didn’t brag or boast like so many men would have. He let the villagers tell the story of the fight back to him, and they enjoyed every moment of it.

And Grace fell deeper in love.

She’d known many men in her life but this bear of a man with a lawyer’s mind, an accountant’s habits, and a knight’s spirit outshone them all.

At that moment, Richard looked around the room, his brows coming together in concern. He caught sight of her at the doorway and the tension eased. He held out his hand, motioning her forward and bringing the attention of everyone in the room to her—especially that of several comely village girls standing as close to Richard as they could.

A man’s voice called out, “To John Bull’s lady and the bundle of joy that will soon grace their lives.”

Both Richard and Grace were startled until they saw the toast came from the “Chicken Man,” who had given them a ride that morning. He stood against the back wall with a few of his mates.

“Ah, a baby,” one of the matrons interpreted with approval. “Are you bearing, lass?” she asked Grace.

Thankful she still had her cape on, Grace nodded.

Tankards and glasses were lifted higher as toasts had to be announced for the baby. Grace joined Richard, who brought his arm around her shoulder as he offered her a glass of golden ale.

He didn’t move that arm as the toast was repeated but left it resting there with easy possessiveness.

The village girls backed away, losing interest now that they knew he was taken.

“See what happens when you tell a fib?” Grace whispered to Richard.

He laughed, the sound free of his usual tightness. “It’s not such a bad thing, is it?” he offered. “In fact, I like the feeling of having you mine.”

And she liked the idea of being his…but had never thought to hear it from his lips when first they’d started this trip. Words couldn’t form in her mind, other than a desire to throw herself into his arms and tell him to never let her go.

He leaned close to her ear and gave it a kiss, a sign the ale was having its effect. “Don’t tell me I have shocked Grace MacEachin?” He sighed and said with the candor of ale, “I can’t help myself, Grace. Every time I look at you I turn buffle-headed.”

“Buffle-headed?”

“You know what I mean.”

She did.

“I turn buffle-headed around you, too,” she confessed.

Time stopped.

The crowd, the noise, the drinking good humor around them faded.

There was just him.

He brought his other arm around her, hugged her close. He understood. He
knew
…because he felt the same?

His lips brushed her hair. Several women cooed an “ah,” and someone murmured, “That’s so sweet.”

A man standing close said, “Here, mate, have another drink before you do something you’ll regret.” His wit was met with several guffaws over how he already had done something he’d regret. Married humor, the sort couples with longstanding affection understood.

She, Grace MacEachin, was part of that conversation.

Richard wasn’t the only one to have his life changed this trip.

A yawn escaped her.

“It’s been a long day,” Richard murmured.

She nodded. “You are holding me up.” But she wasn’t thinking about sleep.

A glance up at the look in his eye told her he wasn’t either.

“Come along,” he said. “Ladies, gentleman, good night,” he announced.

They didn’t want him to leave, convinced him to have just one more ale. Some of the lads that had more than their fill started to follow them out the door, but Richard gently pushed them back.

In the hallway, they came upon a red-haired woman with two chins wearing a mob cap and a clean apron over her dress. A set of keys was at her waist. Earlier, she’d been in the taproom serving drinks.

“Excuse me,” Richard asked. “I need to see the innkeeper about a room.”

“You are looking at him, or her,” the woman said with a smile. “I’m Mrs. Fraley. I prefer being called an inn mistress over innkeeper.”