Thornbrook Park (2 page)

“American rules,” he growled, and stalked off to his corner of the ring. Bare knuckles, his preference.

“Queensbury,” Jameson countered, and Tom stayed center ring for some minutes arguing Marcus's case.

In the end, Tom returned to Marcus's corner and handed him his gloves. “Queensbury rules.”

Marcus answered between gritted teeth, “Queensbury it is.”

The time for argument had passed. He was desperate to hit something, fists gloved or no.

As soon as the bell sounded, he rushed in for Harris's head, missed him, and received a sharp body blow in return, leaving an angry mark above his ribs. He danced around, much lighter on his feet than Harris, and managed to herd him into a corner against the ropes, where he rained punches into Harris's steel-like chest and iron abdomen before landing one square to his jaw.

Unflinching, Harris returned a sound jab to the side of Marcus's head. Marcus reeled but managed to stay on his feet. His ears rang. Fortunately, so did the bell for the end of the first round.

“What's the matter with you?” Tom sponged him down and handed him a towel. “The object is to tire him out, remember? He's capable of beating you to a pulp.”

Marcus grunted. His body, coated in a fine sheen of perspiration, glistened under the gas lamps. The bell rang for the start of the second round. This time, he managed to duck and weave, avoiding all blows until the bell rang again. What he didn't do was land any hits of his own, which added to his frustration. It didn't matter if he got pummeled. He needed to hit, and hit hard.

The third round delivered the satisfaction he craved. The half-minute break hadn't allowed his opponent sufficient time to catch his breath, and Harris's huge, hairy chest rose and fell while he blew air through wide nostrils like a spent old workhorse ready to be put out to pasture. Marcus didn't intend to let him recover. He sprang at him with unimpaired energy, punching, weaving, ducking, and punching again—left, right, left, left, jaw, nose, ribs, jaw, jaw. The giant staggered back and looked as if he would fall. The black had begun to fade from Marcus's mind, and his instincts of survival came back to him.

He landed one last dig to Harris's chin, and Harris recoiled and spun in a slow circle. It was all but over. Marcus's gaze swept the mob to gauge the reactions of all who had bet against him. And that's when he saw him, shaggy brown hair over soulful brown eyes wide with wonder, the very image of his buddy Cooper who had died in his arms during the war.

“Coop?” he said, but he knew it wasn't Coop. It was Cooper's son, Brandon. Brandon, fourteen years old and in need of guidance and approval, who now looked up to Marcus like the father he'd lost. Brandon, Anna, Emily, and Finn. And Prudence Cooper, widow of Lieutenant William Cooper, the best friend and best man Marcus Thorne had ever known.

“Coop!” Marcus said it again, not to Brandon, but a summons to his dead friend, as if William Cooper could come flying out of heaven to deliver his errant son safely home. The pub was no place for a boy, especially not during a boxing match, and Marcus was powerless to defend him, should something go amiss. The Coopers were Marcus's responsibility now. He'd promised his friend as Cooper lay dying, his gut ripped open from one of the box bombs they'd been sent to dismantle. “I'll look after them, Coop. Find your peace.”

The last of Marcus's rage melted away, replaced by a growing sense of urgency to see the boy from the pub and home to safety. And in those few seconds of inattention, Marcus lost sight of the glove speeding toward his face until it was too late. The slam struck with such force that Marcus staggered and lost his balance, followed swiftly by his awareness. The black returned, but this time with the deadly silence of nothingness instead of a roaring rage.

When he woke, his friend Coop stood over him. Marcus recognized him through a gauzy haze.

“Coop, brother,” he said, “I'm sorry I've let you down.”

“You can't win every match, hey?” A higher voice than Coop's velvet baritone answered him. “But well done!”

Marcus's vision cleared. He hadn't died and met up with his departed friend after all.

“Brandon Cooper.” Marcus found his best paternal voice. “What are you doing in a pub late at night? Your mother must be sick with worry.”

“She thinks I'm at the millinery. I had a feeling you would come tonight. I didn't want to miss it.”

“At the millinery?” Marcus shook his head to clear it and managed to sit up. The crowd was leaving, the match over in a mere three humiliating rounds. The few who remained were collecting their winnings from wagers placed against him, insult added to injury. “Whatever would you be doing at the millinery?”

“Trimming bonnets. I've taken up some work to help Mum.”

“And your mum approved?” What had Prudence been thinking? He would have to speak with her. Their lot must be harder than she had let on. How had he not realized? How could he have been so lax in his duty to his friend? He would have to be more attentive. Brandon was at a tender age, too eager to grow up but not ready to face heavy issues. Left on his own, he could easily turn to unhealthy habits, fall prey to bad advice.

“I didn't give her much say in the matter. I am the man of the house now.”

Marcus sighed. “Man? You're not a man until your whiskers come in. Now come on, no more talk of the millinery. I've got to dress and get you home.”

“I have whiskers.” Brandon stroked his soft, young chin. “And we're not leaving until I collect my winnings.” He offered a hand to help Marcus to his feet.

“Your winnings? You wagered against me?”

Brandon had the decency to blush, at least. “Did you get a look at your opponent? Smithy Harris is enormous.”

“I'm fast on my feet.”

“Not fast enough.” Brandon chuckled, his lip curling up at the corner like his father's used to do. His brown hair, in need of a trim, nearly hid his eyes but couldn't block the golden spark of mischief shining from them.

At least someone had made money for the Coopers tonight. Marcus watched Brandon run off to collect his winnings and bid good night to Tom.

After arriving at Averford House, Eve settled into the bath that the maid, Lettie, had drawn for her. Mr. Sutton, the butler, had welcomed Eve, shown her to a room, informed her that he was having supper prepared, and then left her in Lettie's capable hands. At Eve's request, the supper was being sent up. She eased back into the hot water and savored the release of tension from every muscle.

Captain Thorne hadn't been at home to greet her, which was just as well. It was late and she didn't feel up to being social. Tomorrow morning, after a good night's rest, perhaps she would make his acquaintance at breakfast before she left to catch the train.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” The maid knocked at the door and peeked in. “Your supper's arrived. It's not fancy fare as you might be accustomed to, just a simple stew. Cook wasn't prepared for guests so late in the evening. Should I keep it covered for now?”

“Covered, yes.” Eve wasn't ready to get out. She closed her eyes and inhaled the steam fragrant with lavender. “Stew sounds delightful. I'll be out shortly.”

“Shortly” turned out to be nearly half an hour later and her stew was cold, with pasty potatoes, but Eve was famished enough to enjoy every tasteless bite of it. Clean, dry, and with a full stomach, she wanted nothing more than her bed. She settled in and fell right to sleep.

Sometime later, a noise awakened her, a crashing sound followed by some cursing and scrambling.

“Blast it, lemme go, Sutton,” a big, deep voice said. “I'm perflecty well.”

“Sir, if you please, sir. I only want to open the door for you. There. Now—” Another boom. “Oh, not again.”

What the devil was going on? Eve got out of bed, reached for her wrapper, and peeked out her door.

A man was sprawled in the middle of the corridor, Sutton leaning over him.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Kendal.” Sutton, in slippers and a robe over his nightclothes, stood and delivered a curt bow. “I have everything under control. Please go back to bed.”

“Captain Thorne, I presume?” Eve stepped out. Sutton's eyes went round with alarm. “Do not worry, Mr. Sutton, I've seen plenty of snozzled men in my time, officers serving with my husband in India. I'm not at all shocked. Let me help you.”

Sutton looked positively mortified. He paused, as if considering which was worse: allowing a female guest to help him remove the Earl of Averford's intoxicated brother from the entryway, or being incapable of doing it himself. Captain Thorne was six feet of solid muscle, by the look of him. The man had removed his jacket and undone his shirt nearly to the waist of his trousers, exposing a taut, rippled abdomen and the solid planes of his chest rising and falling with each breath. Eve's gaze lingered on that chest.

“Just give me a hand getting him to bed, then,” Sutton said, clearly against his better judgment, snapping Eve to attention. “The others are all asleep and I hate to disturb them.” Eve suspected that what he would actually hate was for another member of the staff to witness his inability to handle the situation on his own. Though it was highly improper, Eve was already awake and might as well assist him.

“His face is bruised,” she noticed, leaning over Thorne. “Did he run into the doorjamb?”

“No. I believe he was fighting.”

“Fighting?”

“In the ring. Since his return from the war, he has taken to occasional participation in prizefights.”

“A prizefighter?” Eve, unfazed at his state of inebriation, expressed some surprise now. “I've never met a prizefighter. Fascinating.”

Thorne, apparently more aware than they knew, cracked one eye open, propped himself up on an elbow, and offered a hand. “Catpin Marcus Thorne, at your service.”

“Oh, indeed.” Eve couldn't stifle her laugh at his attempt at a proper introduction. Still, she took his hand. “Mrs. Eve Kendal, at
your
service,
Captain
. Shall we try to stand up? Come on, then.”

She leaned in to wedge herself under his arm in an attempt to lend him some leverage to push up from the floor. Sutton came around to the other side of him, and they got Captain Thorne back on his feet and headed toward his own room. Once they got him settled on the bed, Eve took a longer look at him.

He didn't have the bloated appearance of a habitual drinker, she noted. His jaw was defined, practically chiseled, and dotted with golden stubble. She took note of shrapnel scars marking his solid chest. He'd seen some action in his time.

“Fetch him some bread and broth, Sutton,” Eve commanded, taking charge. “Something to absorb the alcohol and help him recover more quickly. I'll stay with him until you get back.”

Sutton appeared equally unhappy to leave a woman unattended with an inebriated man who was not her husband, but short of bodily removing her, there was little he could do. “If…you think it best,” Sutton said reluctantly, leaving the room with a skeptical tilt to his bushy eyebrows.

Almost as soon as Sutton left them, Thorne fell asleep sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard, head lolled back, and snoring loudly. She took a seat next to him and tried to make him more comfortable, reaching for a pillow to slide under his head and shoulders.

As soon as she touched him, he startled. Both eyes, clear and brown as the whiskey that likely accounted for his state, shot open. The area around his left eye was swollen and bruised, preventing him from opening it all the way and lending an air of danger to his appearance. She really hadn't considered what kind of man Captain Thorne might be before sending Sutton away.

“There, love,” he said, as he curled an arm around her waist and urged her up against him. “Not tonight. I'm in my cups.”

“Ha.” Unable to shake free of his hold, she plucked at his thick fingers one at a time until he stretched his hand, allowing for her release. She scrambled off the bed. When he reached to pull her back, he found the pillow she held out to take her place. He pulled it to him in a tight embrace, like a child with a stuffed bear.

Sutton returned with a tray.

“Set it on the table, Mr. Sutton. We may not need it after all.”

Sutton did as instructed, then came to stand at Eve's side by the bed. They hovered over their charge. “Shall I attempt to undress him?”

Eve sighed. “No, Mr. Sutton. I think it's best to leave him alone to sleep it off.”

“Do you think it safe to leave him, then? Or should I sit with him?”

“I doubt he will be aware of anyone's presence in his room tonight,” Eve said. “I believe it's safe to go back to bed. No doubt he will need you in the morning. Leave his door open, perhaps? I'm right across the hall, should he require anything.”

“Oh, but ma'am—”

She took the butler's arm. “I'm aware that it's not exactly proper, but I'm a widow, Mr. Sutton. Men hold little mystery for me. Besides, he's fully clothed. Mostly clothed. I can handle any little emergencies that may come up without compromising myself, I believe. Please, go on and get some rest.”

Sutton hesitated, but the bags under his eyes spoke for his exhaustion. “All right. But do ring the bell if you have need of me. I can be back in an instant.”

“Yes. If I need you, I will ring for you at once.”

Seemingly reassured, Sutton bid Eve good night and escorted her back to her door before ambling off down the hall. No sooner had Eve gotten back into bed than she heard Captain Thorne call out, a strident wail. She darted from her room to his side. He thrashed in his bed, occasionally groaning, seemingly in the grips of a nightmare.

She placed a cool hand on his warm brow. “There, Captain Thorne. It's only a dream.”

He stirred, opened his eyes, and grabbed her hand, his eyes finding her but seeming to look right through her.

“Please,” he said, barely a whisper.

Just the one word. He gripped her hand, but he might have been gripping her heart. In that one second, she felt for him so completely.
Please
. She had no idea what he wanted, but he looked so terribly lost and overwhelmed that she couldn't bear to leave him.

“Yes,” Eve answered. “I'm here. It's all right now.”

He exhaled sharply, as if he'd been holding his breath, and suddenly seemed to relax again. He released his grip, closed his eyes, and eased into the mattress, falling back asleep. But what if the nightmare returned? She took the risk of removing his shoes, one at a time. That done, she spread a blanket over him, moved the chair from his desk over to his bedside, and sat watching over him as he slept on.

Occasionally, he shifted fitfully, but the nightmare didn't return. Sitting by his bed, stroking his hair to soothe his fidgeting, gave Eve a sense of satisfaction she hadn't felt in some time. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the situation. How long had it been since she had touched a man in a meaningful way? Or it was how deeply she felt needed, as if Marcus Thorne wouldn't make it through the night without her.

Of course he would. A grown man, he had probably been deep in his cups more than once. But to be the one sitting by his bed, drawing up the covers when he shivered, stroking his brow when he seemed to be on the verge of another nightmare, allowed her to feel she was providing a very necessary comfort. She stayed by his bed until the very last second she could manage, when her own eyes started to close, and only then did she reluctantly leave him to slip away back to her room.

***

His head throbbed as if he'd fallen on the track and a train was rolling over him,
chug-a-chug, chug-chug
. But he wasn't on a train, he knew before opening his eyes, or under a train, thank the gods, not that he had a precise memory of where he was or how he'd arrived. His last memory was of stopping at a tavern after escorting young Brandon back home, his head and his pride aching from his fall to Smithy Harris.

When he became brave enough to crack open one eye, he saw that he was in his own room at Averford House, viewing the pale green walls, his childhood watercolors of various plants and flowers still hanging over his desk, and the forest-green spread draped over him on the bed. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes, some of them anyway. His memory returned in bits and pieces as he began to recollect his misadventures: Sutton helping him up the stairs, falling down in the hallway, and a pair of eyes, the startling blue of a gas-lamp flame, burning through his haze. Those eyes were extraordinary. If only he could recall more of the woman around them.

There had been a woman, he knew more certainly, sitting up. She'd sat on the chair at the side of his bed. The chair remained, but no woman was in sight. It hadn't been Lettie, Sylvie, Cook, or any of the other maids at Averford House, the ones with names he never recalled.

A new set of clothes was neatly arranged on the valet stand. Paulson, the footman acting as his valet while Marcus made his home at Averford House, must have been in to check on him. He started to get up when Sutton entered the room bearing a tray.

“Ah, Captain Thorne. How are you this morning, sir?”

“Recovering, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir, I imagine so.” He set the tray down on the table next to the desk.

“The darnedest thing, Sutton. Last night, I seem to remember a woman tending me. Blue eyes. Startling blue. What was her name?”

“Her name, sir?” Sutton fidgeted as if uncomfortable. “A woman, you say?”

“Soft creatures, like men, but with longer hair, notable differences in the, er, chest area…”

“Yes, sir, I am familiar with women.” If Sutton felt any inclination to smile, he held it back well. “But there was no woman here. Unless one of the maids checked on you when I was not aware?”

“Not one of the maids. This one was unfamiliar to me, fair hair, bright blue eyes? Unless we've hired a new maid whom I've yet to meet.”

“Perhaps you dreamed her. You were quite out of sorts, though I hate to point it out.” Sutton cleared his throat and went to fetch the tray. “Sit up now. I suggest you eat something.”

He set the tray down in front of Marcus.

“Sutton, you remembered,” Marcus declared after a look at the tray's contents. Black coffee, strong, not tea. Dry toast. Runny eggs. Marcus's favorite hangover breakfast, which had also been his father's. “I daresay I'll be feeling better soon.”

“I'm counting on it, sir.”

“You're sure there wasn't a woman?”

“How are your eggs, sir?” Sutton did not wait for an answer. “A good breakfast might help to clear your mind. I have duties to attend. Shall I send Paulson up?”

“Not right away. I'll call for him when I'm ready.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sutton turned on his heel and left before Marcus could ask about the woman again. Dreamed her? Possibly. He'd had a vivid nightmare that he was back in the field, bombs exploding everywhere, nothing he could do to stop them. There was no time. The panic nearly overwhelmed him, and then two blue eyes, like beacons, appeared to lead him through the smoke and ash. By Jove, perhaps Sutton told the truth. He'd dreamed up an angel, right when he needed one most.

In that case, he wished his subconscious had brought her forth a little sooner, perhaps in time to warn him of Smithy Harris's left hook. He rubbed the side of his face. That was going to hurt for at least a week, and the bruising would last even longer, a suitable reminder to keep his wits about him at all times.