To Seduce a Scoundrel (21 page)

A chant of “Sevrin, Sevrin,” drew his attention to the opposite side of the square. A group of men—
his
men from the Black Horse, led by Saxton—were moving en masse to join him.

Two men stepped to the other side of the ring. It was obvious which was Nolan—a massive-shouldered, ham-fisted bloke with a long nose and ginger hair. He pulled his shirt over his head. A nasty scar ran down his left arm. Nolan flexed his bicep and cast a glance at Ambrose as if to say, “I’m not afraid to get hurt.”

Ambrose didn’t bother stifling his answering smirk. He removed his own shirt and rotated his left shoulder where a round, puckered scar made its permanent home. Nolan registered the blemish and gave a slight nod.

Hopkins walked through a gap in the fencing around the square. Nolan’s second did the same, and they met in the middle. They exchanged a few words and then nodded. Each returned to their fighter.

“Now we choose an umpire,” Hopkins said.

Right
. Saxton came up beside him. “Good thing I showed up.”

“What the devil are you—and all of them,” Ambrose jerked his head toward the Benfield box, “doing here?”

Saxton shrugged. “Couldn’t keep them from coming. Several of them are great supporters of the sport.”

Like Allred. God, if he somehow recognized Philippa. If any of them did… Ambrose could only hope they assumed she was merely Jagger’s masked paramour.

“You ready?” Saxton asked.

“More than.” All of his rage at Jagger would be directed at Nolan.

Hopkins went back into the square. Nolan had chosen his umpire, a squat, older fellow who now stood on their platform. Nolan’s second entered the square, and Ambrose and Nolan followed. The room hushed.

A boy came into the square and drew the scratch—a square yard etched in chalk. Hopkins led Ambrose to one side and Nolan went to the other. The seconds nodded at each other, and with a final clap on Ambrose’s shoulder, Hopkins exited the square.

A bell sounded. Memories of previous fights assailed Ambrose. The cheers of the crowd, the tension between him and his opponent, the hunger to win.

Nolan’s shoulders twitched then he raised his hands in a defensive posture. He held his fists high. Ambrose wondered if that meant he’d be able to get to the man’s gut. Only one way to know.

He moved forward. The floor felt strange because he was wearing boots , but he couldn’t remove them now. Disregarding the sensation, he delivered a quick jab to Nolan’s middle. His opponent dropped his arms, but it was too late. Ambrose’s fist connected with Nolan’s flesh, eliciting a grunt from the Irishman.

Ambrose picked up a faint feminine shriek. He glanced up at Philippa, but was instantly sorry as Nolan came at him with both fists in a quick one-two punch. One caught Ambrose in the ear with a deafening pop, and the other grazed off his left shoulder as he danced out of the way.

Ambrose shook his head.
Concentrate
.

They circled each other a few times, gauging one another’s position and movements. Ambrose studied Nolan’s features, looking for anything that would reveal his next strike. Nolan came forward and jabbed with both fists again. Ambrose brought his hands up and defended the attack, then launched his own assault, catching Nolan’s side beneath his left arm.

They continued like this for several minutes. Sweat trickled down Ambrose’s face, his neck, his torso. His feet were unbearably hot in stockings and boots, and Ambrose regretted keeping them on.

It was time to get this bout going and bring it to a hopefully rapid end. He rushed at his opponent and volleyed him with punches to the face and gut. However, it wasn’t that simple. Nolan was better than anyone Ambrose had fought. He deflected most of Ambrose’s blows and landed a few of his own. Pain sliced Ambrose’s cheekbone from Nolan’s well-directed and powerful right hook. Nolan drew his hand back for another strike, but Ambrose spun about and Nolan’s fist landed at the base of his neck.

The bell on Ambrose’s side rang. “No rabbit punches!” Saxton yelled.

Nolan held up his hands and backed to the side of the square. “I didn’t mean to. He moves fast is all.” He grinned, revealing a gap in the upper right of his mouth.

The bell rang once more, and the fight resumed. Evenly matched, they traded blows for several minutes—or maybe it was an hour. Ambrose lost track of time, of place, of everything but the pulse of his blood and the analysis of his opponent and where to strike next.

It was wearying. Sweat ran into his eyes. Blood trickled from his lip, and his battered knuckles ached. He recognized the same in Nolan and dug deep for an attack. He danced forward and landed his fist against Nolan’s chin. Nolan staggered backward and Ambrose followed, sending another punch to the side of his opponent’s head. Then another to his cheek. Then another and another, to his side and middle.

Nolan slumped and then dropped to his knees. The bell sounded. He was down. His second rushed into the square. Ambrose backed up to the scratch and waited.
Thirty seconds. Stay down thirty seconds and it will be over
. His mind counted as the umpires did the same.

Three, four
.

Ambrose looked up at Philippa. She sat at the edge of her chair, one hand raised part way to her mouth.

Seven, eight
.

Nolan’s second bent down and spoke to him softly, words Ambrose couldn’t hear. Nolan shook his head, sending droplets of sweat and blood splattering to the floor. He already sported a bruise on his cheek, a bloodied nose and lip, and his knuckles looked every bit as destroyed as Ambrose’s felt. But he refused to look at his wounds or indulge his pain. Not yet.

Twelve, thirteen
.

More whispering from his second. Another head shake from Nolan. The second rubbed Nolan’s shoulders, dabbed at his sweat-covered neck and face.

Eighteen, nineteen
.

Hopkins came into the square and gave Ambrose a towel. He swiped it over his face and chest, the back of his neck. He thrust the sweat-sopped cloth back at Hopkins.

Twenty-three, twenty-four
.

Nolan leaned forward and laid his palms on the floor. Ambrose’s blood surged with imminent victory.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight
.

Nolan sprang to his feet. His second shoved him toward the scratch, getting him to the line just before Ambrose would’ve been declared the winner.

He wrenched his mind back from the brink of victory and refocused. Nolan shook his arms out and then pounced. He did what Ambrose had just done—fists flying with a precision that should have been dulled at this point in the fight, especially after going down as he did. But had he really gone down, or had he just taken a respite?

Ambrose deflected, but he was tired. A blow caught him beneath the chin, snapping his head back. Then a series of punches landed against his middle, where he still wasn’t completely healed from his trip to Jagger’s. He managed a glancing blow off Nolan’s head, but the answer from his opponent was punishing. Damn, but his right hook was merciless.

Bright light flashed as Nolan’s knuckles pummeled Ambrose’s eye. Another hit to the side of his head and another to his mouth. He bit his tongue and blood gushed. He coughed against the bitter taste and then he slipped. Down he went, his knees hitting the wood.

He pitched forward and couldn’t quite catch himself. The rough-hewn planks of the wood floor scraped his cheek. The hardness welcomed him as pain enveloped his mind. The cacophony faded around him. He closed his eyes and found peace.

Chapter Thirteen

PHILIPPA screamed and jumped to her feet. She rushed to the edge of the balcony and gripped the rough wooden railing. Jagger came to her side while people stared up at her from below.

“Sit down,” Jagger whispered close to her ear. “You don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to yourself.” No, she didn’t, particularly when Swan had stolen her shawl as some sort of trophy.

She looked down at Ambrose’s body lying halfway over the scratch into the center of the square. Nolan stood over him, a grin splitting his battered face.

Ambrose’s second kneeled beside him, and Saxton stood nearby. Philippa curled her fingers around the railing and wished she could go down and pull Ambrose to his feet. When Nolan had collapsed she’d learned that a fighter had half a minute to get himself back up to the scratch or his opponent would be declared the victor. They were already at fifteen seconds, and Ambrose hadn’t stirred.

And while waiting for the fight to begin, Jagger had made it very clear that Ambrose had to win. He’d made a bargain with Jagger for her reputation and losing would nullify the deal. If Ambrose lost, Jagger would remove her mask. Her gaze moved to where several of Benfield’s partygoers—including Allred—were seated. Several of them—again, including Allred—had already looked in her direction. What did they see?

“Get up!” her mind screamed.

She leaned further over the side, and Jagger clasped her arm and drew her back. “Can’t have you falling over.” He kept his hand around her bicep. His grip was firm and as the seconds ticked by, his fingers bit deeper into her arm.

Twenty-three already
!

“Drag him up!” someone yelled. Philippa’s gaze roved the crowd, and she spotted a man near the square cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard above the throng. “Drag him, Hopkins!”

Hopkins must be his second. The large man pulled Ambrose to his feet, but he was limp. They were already at the scratch, but Ambrose’s head lolled back. Hopkins grabbed the hair at Ambrose’s nape and tugged.

Ambrose’s eyes fluttered.

Twenty-nine
.

His shoulders squared.

Thirty
!

Ambrose’s eyes opened, and he lifted his head.

Nolan’s umpire tried to call the fight for Nolan, but Saxton surged forward, his glare positively glacial. “He was up to the scratch.”

“No, thirty seconds had passed.”

“It was precisely
at
thirty seconds.”

The crowd yelled their own opinions, drowning out the debate between the umpires. Jagger squeezed her arm, and she turned her head sharply.

“You’re hurting me.”

He released her with a murmured, “Sorry,” his gaze never leaving the spectacle below.

While the umpires argued, Hopkins mopped Ambrose’s face and neck. Philippa willed him to look up so she could affirm he was all right, but he didn’t.

Saxton towered over the other umpire, but the shorter man stood on his toes and waved his hands. Finally, the other umpire nodded and stepped back. Both umpires spoke to the principals and their seconds. Then everyone left the square but Ambrose and Nolan.

The bell rang.

Philippa sagged with relief for the briefest second, but then her body coiled with tension once more as she watched Nolan strike out.

Ambrose tried to answer, but his movements were sluggish compared to his opponent. Over the next few minutes, he managed to maintain a defensive posture and mostly protect himself, but he wasn’t causing any damage. The fight had already lasted forty minutes, how much longer could they go before fatigue and injuries completely claimed them?

Ambrose danced backward and sat down in the corner. The bell chimed, and again the umpires came out and started counting. Philippa stared in disbelief as he pulled his boots and stockings from his feet and tossed them at Hopkins. He jumped back up and was leaping toward the scratch before the count reached twelve.

The umpires retreated from the square, and the bell sounded once more—Philippa prayed for the last time until it signaled the fight was over.

Ambrose launched forward as if the loss of his footwear had somehow restored the strength and energy sapped from him over the course of the bout. Nolan jerked back, but Ambrose followed. He dropped his defenses and simply attacked. He drove Nolan back with blow after blow. A sickening crunch came after a particularly brutal strike to Nolan’s nose, and blood flowed over his mouth and chin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut. Ambrose continued on, and Philippa bit her lip to keep from calling for him to stop.

She watched, transfixed, as he viciously attacked the other man, causing horrific damage to his face, not to mention the series of jabs to the man’s ribs. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, as if the fight were somehow hurting her too.

Nolan tried to protect himself, but his hands fumbled ineffectually between him and Ambrose. Then he simply sagged and fell back against the railing. Philippa held her breath, waiting to see if he might pitch over into the spectators, but he slid down and then slumped forward.

Ambrose took a step back, his chest heaving. He wiped his hand beneath his nose and then flexed his fingers. The umpires rushed forward and began the count. Philippa prayed the man wouldn’t get up. And she prayed he was all right. How could men watch this for enjoyment? How could men
do
this for sport? She felt sick.

She watched, motionless, as the seconds counted by. It seemed several minutes before they reached thirty, but when they got to that number, Nolan was still on the floor. Saxton raised Ambrose’s arm, and cheers filled the hall. Philippa held her hands to her ears.