The Wild One (35 page)

"Most of us wonder if Bull even
is
'uman!"

Juliet merely laughed and followed Becky out
of the medieval buildings onto Thames Street, where the rushing
waters of the mill all but drowned out the sounds of the
festivities. Caught up in the excitement around her, she was
feeling increasingly happy and free of the cares of her world. She
had said her final goodbye to Charles, releasing him from her
heart. And, aside from Gareth's sister, how long had it been since
she'd spent time with a female friend? She didn't even want to
think about the answer. Motherhood had been a full time occupation,
and grief for Charles had robbed her of any desire to do anything
fun. But she was feeling more like her old self these days, thanks
to Gareth.

Dear, dear Gareth.

Her gaze softened as she thought of him. She
hadn't seen much of him that day, save for a brief few minutes when
he'd dropped by the dower house late that afternoon. She and Becky
had been on their hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when
he'd come in with an ear-to-ear grin, his skin glowing and his hair
damp, unruly, and deliciously tousled. With him around, getting any
work done had been impossible. He'd been munching an apple,
prowling the kitchen like a restless cat, and driving Juliet insane
with his playful feints to her face, to the wall, to the leg of a
chair.

"Would you
stop
?" she'd finally
cried, looking up at him and laughing as she'd swatted him
away.

"Can't," he'd said and, winking at Becky,
leaned down and kissed Juliet fully on the lips. He'd tasted of
sweet apples and sunshine, and she'd felt a rush of desire for him
that had made her wish Becky was anywhere but in their kitchen.

"What's got
you
in such a good mood?"
she'd managed after he finally broke the kiss and straightened up,
leaving her breathless and flushed, her hand to her suddenly
pounding heart.

"Oh, nothing." Another playful feint to her
shoulder. "Nothing at all, dearest!"

"The way you're acting, one might think
you
were going to the fight tonight."

His eyebrows had risen, and then he'd
laughed, loudly. "Well, maybe I am," he'd said, cheerfully; then,
saluting her with his apple, he'd swung back out the door.

Juliet had watched him as he crossed the
lawn and headed toward the manor house, his stride cocky and giving
him the appearance of owning the world. When she'd turned back to
Becky, the other girl was simply sitting back on her heels and
shaking her head in amusement. "Men! They just never grow up, do
they?"

"Do you know, Becky ... I hope that one
never does. He can make me laugh when all I want to do is cry. He
can make me see the good in a situation when all I see is the bad.
He knows when life should be taken seriously — and when it
shouldn't. He's delightful and funny and clever — and not afraid to
make a total cake of himself." She had smiled and given a little
sigh. "No, I never want him to grow up ... not if it means seeing
him change into something other than what he currently is."

Becky had sat back on her haunches, a sly
look on her face as she regarded Juliet.

"What?"

"Yer love for 'im is so obvious. 'Tis sweet
to see, it is!"

"Becky!"

The girl, still grinning, had shrugged. "Ye
can't hide it, ye know. And Oi'll wager yer man — charmin', kind,
an' 'andsome as 'e is — is a real easy one to love."

"Well yes, he is, but — it's just that —"
Juliet had turned as pink as Swanthorpe's brick and looked away,
suddenly flustered. "I guess it's just rather difficult to admit my
feelings, even to myself."

But Becky had merely laughed knowingly.
"'Well, then, maybe ye'd
better
admit 'em, 'cause it's plain
that yer man's roight in love with
you
, 'e is!"

"Becky, you're embarrassing me!" Juliet had
said, and the girl had merely chuckled before they'd gone back to
scrubbing the floor. Mercifully, Becky had said no more about the
subject, but the conversation had weighed heavily on Juliet's mind
the rest of the afternoon, just as it weighed on her now as the two
of them made their way down Thames Street, Becky tossing a few
crumbs of bread to the ducks that paddled in the Mill Stream's
current.

Yer love for 'im is so obvious.

She considered their marriage. He was
fun-loving and larkish. She was serious and pragmatic. He was
reckless and impulsive and loved to put on a show. She was cautious
and reserved and did not welcome undue attention. He was an
aristocrat who'd never done a day's work in his life. She was a
provincial who balked at the very thought of idle hands. What on
earth did they really have in common?

Nothing.

Everything.

After Charles had died, she had thought the
sun would never shine on her life again. But it had. By bringing
Gareth — a man who, she now realized, fit all her crooked edges
like two pieces of wood joined together in perfect dovetail; a man
who could make her laugh like Charles had never done, a man who
might make her happier than Charles could ever have dreamed.
Charles, with his dignified polish, would have been shocked if
called upon to behave as Gareth was wont to do. Charles had been
too serious, too full of inhibiting maturity — and the two of them
probably would, in time, have become bored with each other.

She gazed over the bridge, over Abingdon's
rooftops, and up at the high, orange-tinted clouds. One thing was
sure about the Wild One: she would
never
become bored with
him. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a million years.

Purple parts!
she thought, with a
little laugh.

"What's so funny, eh?" Becky asked as they
joined the traffic heading up Bridge Street. Around them buildings
rose, the sun's last rays slanting off the tiled roof of a coaching
inn on their right, shadowing the warm brick and stone structures
on their left.

"Oh, nothing ... I was just thinking about
something my husband did, that's all."

"Think of 'im a lot, don't ye?"

"Oh, go on with you!" Juliet said, laughing.
Becky laughed, too, chattering on about her own man, Jack, and
pointing out various townsfolk that she knew. The street climbed
and curved, and there, dominating the Market Place, was the County
Hall, a tall, open structure of golden stone, its stone flooring a
few steps higher than street level and creating a sort of open-air
theater for the crowds that surrounded it. Someone had erected a
ring of rope in the center of this open arena where several people,
including Snelling, were milling about.

"So, does Snelling makes his living
promoting fights?" Juliet asked.

"'E doesn't need foights to make a livin'.
Swanthorpe brings in all the blunt 'e could ever know what to do
with, it does. No, 'e does this because 'e loikes 'ob-nobbing with
'is betters. That's all it is. Foights attract important people —
nobs, statesmen, that sort. Snellin', 'e ain't no better than the
rest of us, but by rubbin' elbows with 'is betters, wearin' fancy
clothes, and apin' manners 'e's got no business apin', it allows
'im to pretend to be somethink 'e's not."

"You don't like Snelling, then."

"Nobody 'ereabouts does. Wouldn't trust 'im
as far as Oi could throw 'im, Oi wouldn't. Oh, look! There's Bull
O'Rourke!" Becky stood on tip-toe and tried to point over a hundred
heads. "Can ye see 'im, Juliet?"

Juliet craned her neck until she could just
see the ring that had been set up for the fight. It wasn't hard to
identify Bull O'Rourke. She had never seen an uglier man in her
life. His nose was broken, his lips were huge, his brow looked like
a ledge of granite, his hair was a shorn orange rug. But his
shoulders were what commanded the eye, for they dominated his body
as surely as his lips did his face.

"My goodness, I do pity the man who has to
fight him," Juliet murmured, shuddering. "You weren't joking when
you said he had hands the size of buckets!"

"Knows 'ow to use 'em, too," Becky said.
"Bones crack loike plaster beneath Bull's fists, they do!"

"Indeed," added a well-dressed man in the
crowd who'd been breathing down Juliet's neck in his eagerness to
see the stage. "I was here last summer when he took on Savage Sean.
You remember that match, eh Jem?"

"How could I forget?" answered a neighboring
gentleman, crushed like a kipper between the first man and the
surrounding crowd. "Called himself the Pride of Ireland, but Bull
felled him like an ax to a tree. Blinded him in the third round, if
I remember right."

"Second."

"Aye, you're correct, second. 'Twas the end
of
that
match, I daresay."

"
And
of Savage Sean's fighting
days!"

"Anyone know who'll be taking Bull's
punishment tonight?"

"Don't know. Some newcomer, I hear. Supposed
to be good."

"How good?"

"Snelling's put it about that he beat Joe
Lumford."

"Psaw! Lumford's the London champion; he's
never been beat. Snelling's making up stories to make the betting
hotter, that's all. This newcomer? Bull'll cut him to ribbons in
less than five minutes."

"Ha, I'll up you a guinea that he'll do it
in three!"

Guffaws broke out all around, and for some
strange reason she couldn't fathom, Juliet felt suddenly
uneasy.

Then Snelling was raising his hands and
calling for quiet, strutting before the crowd with the easy
confidence of a seasoned actor as Bull's second — for pugilism was
not unlike dueling in that respect — joined the prize-fighter.
Snelling handed the second a large flask, and, laughing, the man
passed it on to Bull, who promptly tipped it to his lips and
guzzled heartily before tossing the vessel out into the audience.
There was a mad scramble as some fifty people tried to catch it,
and several men went down, fists flying as they fought each other
for the prize.

A small roar went up as Snelling, turning to
the shadows, called for Bull's opponent to come out on the
stage.

"And now, may I introduce to you, tonight's
challenger ... all the way from the Lambourn Downs, it's
the
Wild One
!"

The blood drained from Juliet's face.

No. It couldn't be.

But it was —

Gareth.

For a moment she couldn't move, couldn't
breathe, could only stand there trying to absorb what she was
seeing as the crowds jostled her to and fro in their haste for a
better look at O'Rourke's challenger. Shocked into numbness, she
watched her husband walk once across the stage and then back again,
grinning confidently, as though telling this scornful crowd he'd
soon put to rest their jeers.

"Who the hell is he?" complained the
gentleman just behind Juliet in obvious disappointment.

"Don't know, never heard of him. But I'll
tell you this: Bull's going to put him to sleep by the end of the
first round, I'll bet you a crown on it!"

"If he lasts that long!"

"Dear God," Juliet murmured, the nightmare
becoming reality as the two pugilists began stripping off their
shirts and sizing each other up from across the ring. She could not
watch any more. Could not stand there and see Gareth hurt and
humiliated and possibly — probably, by the look of Bull — killed.
Was this his so-called "work?"
Was this how he planned to
support them?

Feeling sick, feeling betrayed, she spun on
her heel and tried to shove her way back through the milling
masses, earning curses, lecherous leers, and a few nasty pinches on
her bottom in her haste to escape.

Becky was right behind her. "Juliet! Oi
swear, Oi didn't know!"

"He deliberately misled me!"

"What are ye talking about?"

"He let me believe that Snelling had hired
him to do mock-fights with swords, not real fights with
fists
!"

Becky stared at her blankly.

"He's going to get himself killed! Oh,
forgive me, Becky, I cannot stay and witness this, I just can't,
it'll be the end of me!"

"Juliet!
Juliet
!"

And then Becky's voice was drowned beneath
the sudden frenzied roar of the crowd as the first blows were
exchanged. Blindly pushing people aside in her haste to get away,
their cheers and yells ringing in her head, Juliet fought to reach
open road and once there, ran for all she was worth.

She charged down Bridge Street, through the
meadows and fields that bordered the river, and over the footbridge
that spanned the Mill Stream. She raced past Swanthorpe Manor, tore
across the lawns, and flew into the dower house. It was shadowy
inside, empty and eerily quiet. She could hear the crazed roaring
of the crowd a mile away, and, with a little sob, she collapsed
into a corner, clapping her hands over her ears to block it out
even as her eyes frantically sought out ink pot, pen and paper:

Your Grace,

You must forgive my shaky hand, but as I pen
these words, your brother, who has taken a position as a pugilist
for Jonathan Snelling, is engaged in a boxing match which has drawn
the better half of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Please come quickly,
Your Grace. We are at Swanthorpe Manor, which, as you know, is in
Abingdon-on-Thames.

Godspeed,

Juliet de Montforte

She ran back out the door and up the steps
of the manor house, where she persuaded a footman, just coming off
duty, to deliver the note. Ten minutes later, it was on its way
south toward Ravenscombe — and the only man Juliet knew who could
put a swift end to this lunacy in which Gareth had embroiled
them.

Chapter 28

Gareth's head was reeling as, supported by
Snelling on one side, and Woodford, his second, on the other, he
stumbled home through the darkened fields.

He was not hurt. He was not even exhausted.
He was drunk on victory — and nearly half a bottle of celebratory
champagne. Indeed, aside from some bruising high on his left side,
where O'Rourke had caught him a real thumper before he could block
the blow, he was unmarked. Sore and a little tender in a few
places, but unmarked. It was a blessing, really. Unless Juliet had
heard about the fight from someone at Swanthorpe, she'd have no
reason to suspect he had been up to anything out of the
ordinary...