The Wild One by Danelle Harmon
Chapter 34
If Campbell hadn't nearly murdered his brother, Lucien swore he would've done so himself.
It had taken Gareth almost two hours to regain consciousness after he'd gone down that final time, and as a grim-faced Lucien had put his senseless sibling aboard Armageddon and brought him back to Swanthorpe with hundreds of cheering, reveling people following in their wake, he had thought for sure he'd soon be mourning a second brother.
Victory, exhaustion, and a concussion had made for a powerful sedative. But later that night — after the doctor had set his broken arm, and while Juliet was sitting on the bed holding wet compresses to his swollen face — Gareth finally opened his eyes, his dizzy return to consciousness greeted by blurred vision and bouts of severe nausea.
"Serves you right," Lucien growled. He took the cloth from Juliet and hurled it at his brother's bare chest. "Put this against your head, and it won't hurt so bad."
But Gareth, looking dazedly up at Juliet, wasn't paying him any attention. Instead, he was staring at his wife as though she was the dearest thing he had ever beheld, as though he had never expected to see her again. Which, Lucien reflected dryly, was not so unlikely a supposition. He had arrived at the dower house just after six to find his brother already gone to the fight — and his new sister-in-law packing her trunk and sobbing her eyes out.
Crying females did not amuse him. Soppy tales of prideful husbands did not faze him. And her angry protests did not deter him when, his patience exhausted, he plucked Charlotte from her arms and thrust her into the stunned Sir Hugh's, bodily threw Juliet over his shoulder and, striding back outside to where Armageddon waited, personally brought her to the fight himself — where her bristling defiance had turned to heartbroken misery as she'd seen Gareth taking a beating from the Butcher and realized just what her husband was doing for her.
Not for himself — but for her and Charlotte.
Now, as Lucien stood there watching their nauseating display of love and forgiveness, he felt compelled to vent his spleen.
"All right, that's enough of this damned sickly-sweet foolishness," he growled, stalking to the bed and glaring down at his brother. "You listen to me, and you listen well, Gareth. Your fighting days are over. And if I ever hear of you taking on a champion pugilist again —"
Gareth waved him off. "Give me some credit, would you? After all, I did beat the fellow."
Lucien tightened his jaw. So he had. He'd also won himself a lucrative estate, exposed Snelling for the murdering swindler he was, and won the hearts of the people of Abingdon with his courage against the Butcher.
Earlier, while waiting for Gareth to come to his senses, Juliet had told Lucien everything she knew. Her story had been confirmed by Fox, who had stopped by after having applied a certain amount of ... duress to Snelling to get a confession not only from him, but also from Woodford, Creedon, and even Angus "the Butcher" Campbell — who admitted that Snelling had promised him an additional two hundred pounds if he killed his opponent during the fight.
Enhanced by testimonies from the widowed Mrs. Fleming, the chemist in Oxford, and even a sober Bull O'Rourke, it was not hard to put together a frightening picture.
Snelling, it appeared, had assembled a stable of tough, seasoned fighters who were among the best in England and pitted them against each other every Friday night. When he'd seen Gareth fight Joe Lumford that evening at Mrs. Bottomley's, Snelling had come up with a scheme that would make him a staggering amount of money. As Gareth was an unknown newcomer, there was little reason for the vast crowds who came to watch the fights to think he could hold his own against the likes of Nails Fleming, Bull O'Rourke, or Angus "the Butcher" Campbell — much less beat them. And they had bet their money accordingly. With each fight, Snelling had matched Gareth against a man who was heavily favored to trounce him. Then, all Snelling had to do was put his money on Gareth, slip just enough laudanum to the favorite to subtly dull his reflexes, and take home a fortune.
Unfortunately, an innocent man had died because of it. But Nails's death would not go unavenged. The next trip Snelling made would be his last, for at this very moment, the brilliant Fox was pulling out all the stops to ensure that Snelling and his henchman would hang for Nails's murder.
And for plotting to kill my brother, Lucien thought, savagely.
Thank God for his trusty informer, who was not quite as brainless as he appeared. If Chilcot had not sent word to him, he would never have reached Abingdon in time.
Not that it would've mattered. As things turned out, his brother had done just fine without him.
Lucien was still scowling as he helped Juliet prop Gareth's shoulders up on the pillows to ease his throbbing head. Amazingly, she was not angry with him for dragging her to the fight in such a rough and undignified way — not that he cared one way or another whether she was or not. She had seen him cursing Snelling to eternal hell while the doctor had set Gareth's arm. She had seen him fretting, swearing, and pacing as he'd waited impatiently for his brother to come to. Oh, she saw right through him, had done so from the start, and knew him exactly for what he was: an overprotective older brother whose fear for the sibling he loved had switched to angry relief the moment Gareth had opened those guileless blue eyes of his.
Lucien grabbed up the candlestick beside the bed. "You ought to count yourself damned lucky that you're not dead," he growled, holding the candle over Gareth's face and leaning down to stare into his eyes.
Gareth swatted him away. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"The doctor told us to watch your pupils," Juliet explained. "If they're different sizes, it could mean you have brain damage."
Gareth only laughed.
"Nothing wrong with you," Lucien muttered, straightening up. He slammed the candlestick back on the nighttable so hard that it dented the wood.
"Yes, well, stay out of my face and there'll be nothing wrong with you, either," Gareth returned with mock threat, sighing happily as Juliet pulled the covers up over his arms. Lucien saw another of those nauseatingly sweet, sickeningly tender gazes pass between them. Faintly disgusted, he rolled his eyes and turned away.
Leave it to the Wild One to stumble into a killer's scheme and emerge with one of the finest estates in Berkshire. He was lucky he wasn't dead.
But by God, I am proud of him.
Proud, yes. But furious. And what still had him particularly incensed was the fact that Gareth had known what Snelling was doing, but hadn't summoned him until it was nearly too late. Then Snelling's man had intercepted his message. Christ. Had Snelling found out any earlier that Gareth had been on to him, Gareth — like Charles — might be lying in a grave with a bullet in him. Lucien cursed between his teeth, even as he silently admired his brother for his courage and cleverness.
"Luce?"
Lucien, hiding that admiration beneath a black scowl, turned and stared down at him.
"You still haven't told me how you got Crusader back."
"Fox saw him at Tattersall's and promptly bought him back for you. Now, go to sleep. Get some rest. I want you to heal up so I can beat the living daylights out of you, myself."
"I dare you to try it," Gareth whispered, with a weak grin. "I'm a champion now, you know."
Lucien stared down at him. And then he shook his head, no longer able to prevent a little smile from touching his severe and unforgiving mouth. "So you are," he said softly. "So you are."
Gareth raised one eyebrow in surprise.
Lucien added, "Believe it or not, you've fulfilled my expectations and become the man I always thought you could be." His smile deepened. "You've grown up, little brother. I'm proud of you."
And with that he turned on his heel and left the couple staring after him in stunned shock.
If Campbell hadn't nearly murdered his brother, Lucien swore he would've done so himself.
It had taken Gareth almost two hours to regain consciousness after he'd gone down that final time, and as a grim-faced Lucien had put his senseless sibling aboard Armageddon and brought him back to Swanthorpe with hundreds of cheering, reveling people following in their wake, he had thought for sure he'd soon be mourning a second brother.
Victory, exhaustion, and a concussion had made for a powerful sedative. But later that night — after the doctor had set his broken arm, and while Juliet was sitting on the bed holding wet compresses to his swollen face — Gareth finally opened his eyes, his dizzy return to consciousness greeted by blurred vision and bouts of severe nausea.
"Serves you right," Lucien growled. He took the cloth from Juliet and hurled it at his brother's bare chest. "Put this against your head, and it won't hurt so bad."
But Gareth, looking dazedly up at Juliet, wasn't paying him any attention. Instead, he was staring at his wife as though she was the dearest thing he had ever beheld, as though he had never expected to see her again. Which, Lucien reflected dryly, was not so unlikely a supposition. He had arrived at the dower house just after six to find his brother already gone to the fight — and his new sister-in-law packing her trunk and sobbing her eyes out.
Crying females did not amuse him. Soppy tales of prideful husbands did not faze him. And her angry protests did not deter him when, his patience exhausted, he plucked Charlotte from her arms and thrust her into the stunned Sir Hugh's, bodily threw Juliet over his shoulder and, striding back outside to where Armageddon waited, personally brought her to the fight himself — where her bristling defiance had turned to heartbroken misery as she'd seen Gareth taking a beating from the Butcher and realized just what her husband was doing for her.
Not for himself — but for her and Charlotte.
Now, as Lucien stood there watching their nauseating display of love and forgiveness, he felt compelled to vent his spleen.
"All right, that's enough of this damned sickly-sweet foolishness," he growled, stalking to the bed and glaring down at his brother. "You listen to me, and you listen well, Gareth. Your fighting days are over. And if I ever hear of you taking on a champion pugilist again —"
Gareth waved him off. "Give me some credit, would you? After all, I did beat the fellow."
Lucien tightened his jaw. So he had. He'd also won himself a lucrative estate, exposed Snelling for the murdering swindler he was, and won the hearts of the people of Abingdon with his courage against the Butcher.
Earlier, while waiting for Gareth to come to his senses, Juliet had told Lucien everything she knew. Her story had been confirmed by Fox, who had stopped by after having applied a certain amount of ... duress to Snelling to get a confession not only from him, but also from Woodford, Creedon, and even Angus "the Butcher" Campbell — who admitted that Snelling had promised him an additional two hundred pounds if he killed his opponent during the fight.
Enhanced by testimonies from the widowed Mrs. Fleming, the chemist in Oxford, and even a sober Bull O'Rourke, it was not hard to put together a frightening picture.
Snelling, it appeared, had assembled a stable of tough, seasoned fighters who were among the best in England and pitted them against each other every Friday night. When he'd seen Gareth fight Joe Lumford that evening at Mrs. Bottomley's, Snelling had come up with a scheme that would make him a staggering amount of money. As Gareth was an unknown newcomer, there was little reason for the vast crowds who came to watch the fights to think he could hold his own against the likes of Nails Fleming, Bull O'Rourke, or Angus "the Butcher" Campbell — much less beat them. And they had bet their money accordingly. With each fight, Snelling had matched Gareth against a man who was heavily favored to trounce him. Then, all Snelling had to do was put his money on Gareth, slip just enough laudanum to the favorite to subtly dull his reflexes, and take home a fortune.
Unfortunately, an innocent man had died because of it. But Nails's death would not go unavenged. The next trip Snelling made would be his last, for at this very moment, the brilliant Fox was pulling out all the stops to ensure that Snelling and his henchman would hang for Nails's murder.
And for plotting to kill my brother, Lucien thought, savagely.
Thank God for his trusty informer, who was not quite as brainless as he appeared. If Chilcot had not sent word to him, he would never have reached Abingdon in time.
Not that it would've mattered. As things turned out, his brother had done just fine without him.
Lucien was still scowling as he helped Juliet prop Gareth's shoulders up on the pillows to ease his throbbing head. Amazingly, she was not angry with him for dragging her to the fight in such a rough and undignified way — not that he cared one way or another whether she was or not. She had seen him cursing Snelling to eternal hell while the doctor had set Gareth's arm. She had seen him fretting, swearing, and pacing as he'd waited impatiently for his brother to come to. Oh, she saw right through him, had done so from the start, and knew him exactly for what he was: an overprotective older brother whose fear for the sibling he loved had switched to angry relief the moment Gareth had opened those guileless blue eyes of his.
Lucien grabbed up the candlestick beside the bed. "You ought to count yourself damned lucky that you're not dead," he growled, holding the candle over Gareth's face and leaning down to stare into his eyes.
Gareth swatted him away. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"The doctor told us to watch your pupils," Juliet explained. "If they're different sizes, it could mean you have brain damage."
Gareth only laughed.
"Nothing wrong with you," Lucien muttered, straightening up. He slammed the candlestick back on the nighttable so hard that it dented the wood.
"Yes, well, stay out of my face and there'll be nothing wrong with you, either," Gareth returned with mock threat, sighing happily as Juliet pulled the covers up over his arms. Lucien saw another of those nauseatingly sweet, sickeningly tender gazes pass between them. Faintly disgusted, he rolled his eyes and turned away.
Leave it to the Wild One to stumble into a killer's scheme and emerge with one of the finest estates in Berkshire. He was lucky he wasn't dead.
But by God, I am proud of him.
Proud, yes. But furious. And what still had him particularly incensed was the fact that Gareth had known what Snelling was doing, but hadn't summoned him until it was nearly too late. Then Snelling's man had intercepted his message. Christ. Had Snelling found out any earlier that Gareth had been on to him, Gareth — like Charles — might be lying in a grave with a bullet in him. Lucien cursed between his teeth, even as he silently admired his brother for his courage and cleverness.
"Luce?"
Lucien, hiding that admiration beneath a black scowl, turned and stared down at him.
"You still haven't told me how you got Crusader back."
"Fox saw him at Tattersall's and promptly bought him back for you. Now, go to sleep. Get some rest. I want you to heal up so I can beat the living daylights out of you, myself."
"I dare you to try it," Gareth whispered, with a weak grin. "I'm a champion now, you know."
Lucien stared down at him. And then he shook his head, no longer able to prevent a little smile from touching his severe and unforgiving mouth. "So you are," he said softly. "So you are."
Gareth raised one eyebrow in surprise.
Lucien added, "Believe it or not, you've fulfilled my expectations and become the man I always thought you could be." His smile deepened. "You've grown up, little brother. I'm proud of you."
And with that he turned on his heel and left the couple staring after him in stunned shock.