The Wild One by Danelle Harmon

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...

  "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."

  "I'm not going back. You go, take Charlotte if you wish, but, by God and the devil, I am not going!"

  They faced each other from across the room, his eyes blazing with hurt, hers silently apologetic, neither moving. Then, with a sigh, she rose from the chair, her skirts rustling as she crossed the floor to where he stood, sidling close to him and laying her cheek against his heart. "Then I'm not going back either, Gareth." She put her arms around him and stared at the flickering candle. "If you want to stay here and prove something to yourself, to the world, I'll stand by you. If you want to fight for Snelling, I'll bite my tongue and pick up the pieces when you get hurt. I don't like what you're doing, I'm going to worry myself sick over it — but if this is what you must do, I won't leave you." She took a deep, shaky breath. "Just … don't get yourself killed."

  "Or you'll never forgive me."

  "Or I'll never forgive you."

  His anger faded as quickly as it come. He pulled her slight body against him and rested his cheek on the crown of her head, grateful for her reluctant support, yet already anticipating the repercussions of her actions. Lucien. Bloody hell. That was all he needed. But he really couldn't blame her for what she had done, couldn't be angry with her — especially after she'd not only forgiven him for misleading her about the fighting, but had just pledged to tough it out with him when she could so easily go back to Blackheath and Lucien's more-than-capable protection.

  "Juliet?"

  "Gareth?" she mimicked, in a hopeful little voice.

  They stared at each other, their lips twitching.

  "Ah, the devil," he muttered, laughing, and, bending his head, claimed the parted lips turned so eagerly up to his own.