The Wild One (36 page)

"You'll be the new English champion if you
continue on as you did tonight," Snelling gushed, laughing in
Gareth's face. 'Sdeath, what he wouldn't give to send his fist
crashing into
that
obnoxious visage; at least it would give
him some real satisfaction, which he hadn't got from this evening's
match, ending as it had before it even seemed to begin. "Nobody's
ever taken O'Rourke down,
ever
— let alone as quickly as you
did! Bloody hell, I thought that crowd was going to go crazy for
wanting their money back."

"Aye, you were something," grunted Woodford,
a solid, bandy-legged farmer who also fought occasionally, for
Snelling. "Thirty-five seconds into the third round and
bang
, that was it for ol' Bull!"

Gareth frowned and shook his head, trying to
clear it of champagne. Instead, the movement dizzied him and he
stumbled, nearly bringing both other men down with him. "I don't
understand what all the fuss is over your man Bull," he mused,
recovering his balance. "I'd go to hit him, and he was so slow
about blocking my blows, it was like fighting a man whose hand was
tied behind his back."

"Oh, the big ones are like that," Snelling
explained. "All that brawn and heavy muscle, you know — takes time
to get it moving, eh, Woodford?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Just didn't seem right," Gareth persisted.
"'Sdeath, I almost felt bad every time I hit the fellow..."

"Now, don't you start thinking that way,
I'll not have you going all soft on me! You're going to be
great
, Gareth. You're going to be famous, I can tell you
that right now —"

"Bloody hell," Gareth swore, thinking of
what Lucien's reaction would be when
he
heard about all
this...

"You're going to be drawing crowds all the
way from London, I tell you!"

"Look, I don't
want
to be famous, I
just want to make enough money to support my family —"

"You keep fighting, my boy, and you'll make
enough money to put diamonds around your wife's neck and a tiara
atop her head!"

"Aye, he's not as big and beefy as some, but
he sure can hit," Woodford added. "I'd like to see him against
Lumford in a staged match."

"
I'd
like to see him against Nails
Fleming!"

"No, we've got to pit him against the
Butcher. Now,
that'll
be a good fight..."

Their prattle dissolved into a confusing
jumble of words around him that Gareth didn't even try to keep up
with. He cursed himself for drinking so much champagne. He felt
sick and unfocused and unsteady. Hard to believe there'd ever been
a time he'd
enjoyed
this feeling. Something was not right
about tonight, like an ugly stench seeping from a shallow grave,
and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something that had to
do with the glazed look in Bull's eyes, his sluggish punches and
slow reaction time... Gareth shook his head, cursing beneath his
breath. It would be nice if his brain was on dry land, instead of
floating in a sea of champagne bubbles.

He wanted, needed, to
think
.

"Look," he muttered, "you can plan all you
want, Snelling, but you'll not get any more fights out of me until
I see my share from tonight."

"Back at the house, my boy, back at the
house! You just be patient, now —"

"Patience has nothing to do with it. And
while we're on the subject, I want the window in our bedroom
replaced. There's a cold draft coming in, and we have a baby to
think of."

Snelling clapped Gareth expansively across
the back. "Now listen here, my good fellow, I don't want you
worrying yourself about windows; I want you to start training for
next week's match against —"

Gareth lurched to a stop and swung around to
face his employer. "I will tell you once, Snelling, and only once.
I want the window fixed.
By tomorrow afternoon. Is that
understood?"

Snelling's smile froze; he removed his hand
from Gareth's back, his eyes narrowing, his lips thinning, and an
ugly look coming over his face. He opened his mouth to retort;
then, thinking better of it, he relaxed, breaking out a huge,
beaming grin that didn't fool Gareth in the least. Snelling didn't
like him, but Gareth didn't give a damn; the feeling was
mutual.

"For you, my lord, anything," Snelling said
tightly. "You want the window fixed, I'll fix it. You want your
earnings now, you'll have them. Just ready yourself for next week's
match, that's all I ask."

And then the trio continued walking, all
three men very silent now.

Sod you, you bastard
, Gareth
thought.

The lights of Swanthorpe Manor blazed
through the trees up ahead. Just looking at the big house, Gareth
felt the customary stab of longing.
That
was where his
Juliet and little Charlotte deserved to be, not in a tiny dower
house with shabby curtains, damp rising up the walls, and, yes, a
cracked window that had made the room so cold the night before that
they'd brought Charlotte into bed with them. And as Snelling led
him inside, and Gareth stood in Snelling's richly appointed parlor
in a strange reversal of roles while his employer counted out his
earnings, the longing only intensified until it felt like something
was gnawing at the chambers of his heart.

I want this house. I want this estate. I
want it so badly I can taste it.

And why not? A de Montforte had built it. A
de Montforte had always lived here, cared for it, loved it. Now it
belonged to a man who was not, and would never be, its rightful
owner, and the house seemed to strain toward Gareth like a faithful
dog whose leash was suddenly held by a stranger.

If it were mine, I would clear this room of
all these foolish statues, paint the walls happy colors like sunny
yellow and heather pink and sky blue, put a thick rug on the floor,
and make it my Charlie-girl's. This could be her very own play
area. This could be where she'd learn to take her first steps,
tumble with the puppies I would get for her, have her first tea
party. Oh, if only this house were ours...

"Here you are, Gareth," said Snelling,
dropping a heavy leather pouch into his outstretched hand. "It's
all there. Count it if you want."

Gareth didn't bother. If it wasn't all
there, he knew where to find Snelling. He pocketed the pouch, and
through the hazy blur of champagne that still fogged his head it
occurred to him that Snelling was no longer preceding his name with
his title. That bothered him. He wasn't a snob; he was simply not
comfortable with Snelling's over-the-top attempt at easy friendship
with him. It annoyed him, put his hackles up, set his teeth on
edge. He considered making an issue over it but decided he'd
irritated Snelling enough these last few minutes. He'd let it
go.

For now.

Moments later he was walking unsteadily
across the lawn, heading for the dower house. It was dark, save for
a glow in a downstairs window.

She's waiting up for me, bless her.

He gulped several deep breaths of night air
to clear his head, mounted the steps and pushed open the door.

"Juliet?"

It took him a moment to find her in the
shadowy gloom. She was sitting in a chair by the cold hearth, still
and silent. At the sound of his voice, she turned her head in a
manner that suggested the effort had cost her all the energy she
had.

"So, you survived after all," she said
woodenly.

He flinched. "You ... know about it,
then."

"I was
there
."

Oh, hell.
He gulped and grinned,
trying to take the heat off himself. "I was pretty good, don't you
think?"

"Good? I wouldn't know. I left as soon as I
saw who it was that Bull O'Rourke was fighting."

"Why?"

"Why do you
think
? Because I didn't
want to see you hurt, that's why."

"Now, Juliet. Do you have so little faith in
me that you think I cannot hold my own in a simple boxing
match?"

"A simple boxing match? Gareth, the man was
built like a ... like a medieval fortress!"

"So was that bloke at Mrs. Bottomley's, but
I took care of him easily enough."

"
Gareth
." She turned her level stare
upon him, and he saw the hurt in her eyes, the betrayal, the
sorrow. "Your abilities are not the issue here — and you know
it."

A bucket of ice water thrown over his head
wouldn't have sobered him faster. A guilty heat spread over his
cheeks, and he kicked at a knothole in the wooden floorboards,
staring at his foot and trying to figure out what to say, what to
do, how to make amends. When he looked up, she was still gazing at
him. Waiting.

"I am sorry, Juliet."

She looked away, blinking, as though his
quiet apology had brought tears to her eyes.

"I should have told you," he added lamely.
"I was wrong."

"Yes, Gareth, you should have told me. Why
didn't you?"

Sighing, he crossed the room and sank to his
knees on the floor beside her chair. Her hand rested on the chair's
arm, and he picked it up, kissed it, and laid it gently against his
heart. "Because I knew you'd be worried. And ... well, you have
enough to worry about, dearest. That's why I didn't tell you."

"I thought you were going to teach fencing,
do an occasional swordplay exhibit at a country fair or
something..."

"That's what I thought, too. But when I came
here last week to arrange things with Snelling, he asked me if I'd
like to do some boxing instead, since I was so handy against
Lumford back at the brothel." He shrugged. "I was desperate,
Juliet. We were hard up, had no place to go, and it seemed like the
only thing to do." He squeezed her unresponsive hand and pressed
her palm to his cheek, his eyes imploring as he gazed up at her.
"Please forgive me, Juliet. I only wanted to take care of you and
Charlotte. That's all I want."

She shook her head, sadly, and smoothed the
tumbled-down hair off his brow. "How are you going to care for us,
Gareth, if you get hurt? Killed?"

"I could get hurt or killed falling off my
horse."

"You no longer have a horse to fall off
of."

"Juliet, please. I need your support, your
encouragement — not your condemnation. Don't you understand how
important this is to me?" He held her knuckles against his mouth
and gently kissed each finger. "For the first time in my life, I've
actually
earned
money instead of having it handed to me.
I
earned it, Juliet — with my own two hands. Me: lazy,
useless, good-for-nothing Gareth, actually earning money —"

"Stop it!" she cried angrily, her eyes
suddenly wet with unshed tears. "You're not useless, were never
useless."

"Yes, I was, but I shan't be any longer."
Still kneeling beside her, he eagerly fished in his pocket, found
the money pouch, and placed it triumphantly in her palm. "Here,
open it up. Have a look. Wait until you see how much Snelling paid
me just for tonight's scuffle."

She shook her head and handed it back
without even opening it. "Oh, Gareth..."

"Oh, Juliet," he mimicked, making a face at
her.

She looked away, in no mood for his attempt
at humor.

He bowed his head, feeling suddenly deflated
and confused. Hurt.

The silence was nearly unbearable.

"You're not useless." she finally said,
reaching down to tousle his hair. Then, with a forced little smile,
she added, "But I still want to strangle you."

"I know."

"You ever keep anything from me again,
Gareth, and I just might."

"I'll not keep anything from you ever again.
I swear it."

Another long moment of silence passed, heavy
and awkward.

Finally she spoke. "Are you hurt?" she asked
in a small voice.

"No."

Her eyes told him she didn't believe him.
"Good at ducking punches, then, I suppose ... ?"

"My dear Juliet, any fellow who ducks or
shifts to avoid an honest punch is cowardly and unmanly. I never
duck
."

"So what
do
you do then?"

"Why, block them with my arm." He made a
fist and raised his arm to demonstrate. "Like this."

"I see." She paused. "Does ... your arm
hurt, then?"

He laughed, relief breaking over him at her
unspoken — and, he thought ruefully, undeserved — forgiveness. "Oh,
it hurts. But here —" he stretched his arm out toward her — "if you
kiss it, I'm sure it will feel immediately better."

She gave a watery smile and touched her lips
to his forearm. Then she turned slightly in her chair and, watching
him in the meager light, laid the flat of her hand against his
cheekbones, his jaw, his temples. He knew she was feeling for
swelling, looking for injury, and he saw her shoulders settle with
relief when her search turned up nothing out of the ordinary.

She was quiet for a moment. "Gareth ... when
I got home this evening, I was ... very upset. I have something to
confess to you, as well. Something I know you're not going to
like."

"And what is that, my love?"

She faced him squarely. "I sent a message to
Lucien."

He caught her hand, which rested against his
temple. "You
what
?"

"I sent a message to Lucien, asking him to
come here immediately."

For a moment he stared at her, unable to
believe what he was hearing, what she had done.

"Juliet — how
could
you?"

"I'm sorry, Gareth. I was sick with worry
about you, and I acted rashly. I regret it now."

He swore beneath his breath and lunged to
his feet, driving his fist against his brow as he stalked across
the room. "I suppose you thought Lucien could just ride in here,
make everything better, and then take us home?"

She gave an embarrassed little shrug.
"Something like that."