Lady Meets Her Match (17 page)

She clapped a hand over her mouth. Yet she stared, finding peculiar interest in the queue of the other fighter. A black silk ribbon wrapped around the length of his hair, resting in the furrow of his spine.

A
black
silk
brawler?

The wide V of his back was a near-perfect triangle turned upside down, an archaic display of strength. His muscles moved under skin sheening with a fine layer of sweat. Beneath her skin, embers struck, tingling everywhere. She pushed back one side of her hood, hungry for a better look.

The bare-knuckle fighter facing her wore his hair cropped short, the sweat beading all over his head. Blood trickled down his chin. His broad bull's head tipped low, ready to ram his opponent.

She craned her neck for a better view of the ancient battle for dominance, one man against another. Behind her, Nate gripped both her arms, keeping her in place.

Did he think she'd rush into the ring?

“Wait,” was all he said, drawing out the word. “Wait.”

Nate spoke in the same way an announcer primed runners about to start a race. For what did she need to wait?

Thundering voices outside the ring rose to a fevered pitch. Inside the ring, the Herculean pair moved in a slow dance. She recognized the profile moving toward her, the large, proud nose. Sweat dampened the sides of his face, trickling down the square jaw.

Cyrus
Ryland
.

The buzz in her head drowned out the crowd's rumble. His fists curled in giant knots, blocking most of his face. He wasn't breathing as hard as the other man. Primordial power shot from hard, pewter eyes. Cyrus kept moving, studying his adversary behind the screen of his own knuckles.

She recognized that look: he worked some strategy each time he balanced on the balls of his feet. He was searching for something, an opening through which to act.

The battle danced around the ring, and Cyrus faced her, his glare locked on to his rival. Even she could tell the crowd was little more than shapes on the periphery for him. Fists moved. His nostrils flared. The colossal beast was about to attack.

Then Nate planted a hand high on her back and pushed. “Now.”

In seconds, everything spiraled faster than a child's spin toy—the same seconds one took to let go and fall from a tree in want of hearty ground.

Nate nudged her too hard. She lost her footing.

Her arms reached wildly for something solid but grasped air. The top half of her body leaned over the heavy rope. She planted one foot forward to stave a fall. Behind her, a hand yanked the hood off her head.

Her light blond hair swung forward, a white flag.

She grabbed the barrier rope holding her up at the waist. Painful, itchy hemp scratched her palms. Claire gaped into the ring, too shocked to move. She heard her sharp gasp of breath.

Cyrus craned his head at her, his neck tendons standing out in strained relief. His eyes went saucer wide.

“Claire!” he shouted, rock-sized fists going slack.

The storm of noise around them changed. Some yelled at her. Some yelled into the ring. The rampage didn't fully register. They all could have been wailing in some foreign tongue.

One name she heard:
Stretford
Bruiser
.

Cyrus.

She blinked at him, openmouthed and enthralled.

Masculine hair smudged Cyrus's wide chest, a chest fashioned with muscles like plates of armor. Two brown, male nipples buttoned those muscles into place. She gawked worse than a wanton at what he freely displayed.

The Titan come down to Earth glared. At her. The small, slanted line between his brows was deep above his flaring nostrils. His mouth opened as though to issue a decree, but this time no sound came.

The other brawler swung wide, slamming a hard fist into Cyrus's face. His head snapped sideways, loose as a rag doll, eyes going wide, then drooping shut. Powerful legs buckled at the knees. The black silk brawler teetered a second.

Then, Cyrus Ryland, the Stretford Bruiser, fell to the ground with a mighty thud.

Besides, you are a woman: you must never speak what you think; your words must contradict your thoughts, but your actions may contradict your words.

William Congreve,
Love for Love

Sawdust bit his back, tiny stings to his hot skin the same as when he had laid down in a field as a boy and red ants nipped him. The pain was minor compared to his throbbing cheek, where a cut stung deep. Blood trickled from the spot where he'd been hit hardest, but the murky world behind his eyelids promised to spare him further agony with heavy sleep.

Because he was felled. By a woman.

His chest moved with steady breaths, a chest on which a small hand tenderly stroked the flesh over his heart.

Claire.

“Mr. Ryland. Are you awake?” her voice called to him. “It's Miss Mayhew.”

Another heave of his chest brought robust, life-giving air, as sweet as the feminine thumb stroking his breastbone.

“Of course it's you.” His lids opened halfway with sluggish fortitude, a lazy smile forming. “The Swede wouldn't dare caress my chest.”

Her hand stiffened over his heart. “I'm
not
caressing your chest, Mr. Ryland. Someone needed to take care of you, and that oaf who hit you wouldn't do it…though he did bring a bucket of water.” Amusement touched her voice. “He wanted to douse you.”

“I'm sure he did.” Cyrus let his lids fall shut again. “And since your hand is on my bare chest, we can dispense with proprieties. Call me Cyrus.”

If he had to be flat on the ground, why not surrender to her hands on him? He could get used to her tending him. Hands and cloth moved with gentle touches, cleaning him. Near his head, water dribbled on water. A cool, damp cloth wiped the sweat from his forehead again. She leaned over him, and he smelled cinnamon on her clothes and skin, something far better than the rest of the crowd.

The crowd…

Cyrus raised his head, squinting as facts sunk in. His last fight, a lost fight. Men loitered around crates and barrels, a hum of noise on the perimeter. The ringmaster set to work coiling the ring's heavy rope with another man assisting him.

The Swede was nowhere to be seen, probably at the Fox Tail, raising a victory pint. Just as well. His opponent had seized a moment of weakness and took his shot when Cyrus let his defenses down. He would've done the same.

He shut his eyes and stole the luxury of quiet seconds, nursing his bruised pride at the loss. He was favored to win despite having more than a few years on the Swede, but once again, he'd been stunned—floored it would seem—by a particular woman, this time amidst a rough mob instead of his refined West End home.

“Do you take joy in leveling me, Miss Mayhew?”

She hadn't given him leave to call her Claire. Best he played this safe. The cool cloth brushed his forehead. Her tender care was a pleasure he would milk as long as possible, even if he had to stay flat on his back in sawdust.

“I don't know what you mean.” Her hair trailed over his chest, feathery and ticklish.

“First the masked ball and now this.” His voice rasped from the sharp aches claiming his limbs.

“You fell down at your sister's ball?” Concern notched her voice. “I'm sorry to hear that. Must've been awful.”

Of course she didn't fully grasp her effect on him. Yet.

Her officious cloth dripped cool water high on his chest, stroking his skin. Her breath fanned the side of his face and ear as though she scrutinized him. The cloth dabbed his cheekbone where the Swede had done his best.

“Sorry to touch the wound direct. I'm cleaning up the blood. Of course, you'll heal, but you may have a scar.” Another gentle tap of the cloth, and her prim voice hovered close to his ear. “Really, I fail to understand the appeal of these fights.”

“A test of skills, the chance for one man to bash another.” His tired hand batted the air. “All quite acceptable.”

In
some
social
circles, that is.

Sportive West End men practiced polite fisticuffs in their gentleman's clubs, mincing their way through a mockery of a fight. Real bare-knuckle bouts called for blood and sweat. A man could test his mettle, giving in to the explosive need to hit something hard.

He worked diligently to hide his youthful pastime from his Piccadilly acquaintances, trying to distance himself from his rough, Midlands roots. But the truth was he hadn't given much time to the sport for a long while. People and responsibilities pulled his attentions in too many directions.

And the one woman who didn't want his attentions knelt beside him, cleaning his bare chest.

In his warehouse, late at night.

If
ever
there
was
a
perfect
example
of
a
woman
in
need
of
protection, his protection…

Head aching, he opened his eyes and hoisted himself up on one elbow.

“You shouldn't be here in the first place. Billingsgate after dark isn't safe for a woman.” Cyrus scrubbed a hand over his face and scanned her glorious hair falling wildly everywhere. “How did you know about this?”

Watson never posted placards when he used Cyrus's warehouse. Everything was done by word of mouth.

Miss Mayhew's kerchief-dabbing hand dropped to her lap. She crouched in the dirt beside him, cloak and skirts pooling around her.

“Nate brought me. To place a bet.”

“Nate,” he repeated, wincing as he hitched one knee up to move off the ground. “I'll have a word with Mr. Fincher. He shouldn't have brought you here.” He brushed sawdust from his palms before offering her his hand.

“As to that,” she said as he hoisted her upright. “You don't have any say in the matter.”

Miss Mayhew shook her skirts. He frowned, taking great swipes at the mess clinging to his breeches, not liking the truth of what she said.

“Be reasonable. Even coming here in a hack”—he winced, turning his throbbing head for a view of his back—“can be a bad risk.” He tried to clean the sawdust from his shoulders.

“Let me do that.” Claire stepped behind him and wiped her damp kerchief in long strokes down his back. “As to taking a hack, you'll be interested to know, Nate and I walked.”

She peeked up at him around his arm, her pretty face impertinent among all that untamed hair. Her tone and bearing matched the prim coffee shop proprietress, but the view was pure brazen tavern maid at the end of her day.

His arms flexed. So, the East Ender gave him up. He wanted to thrash the lad for doing something so foolhardy as bringing Claire here. Too many bad things happened to women in this ward, even those who lived here and knew their way around.

Claire placed a hand high on his arm while her flimsy linen cleaned him. She made small, soft sweeps low, where his spine met his breeches. Her skirts brushed the backs of his exposed calves, something more intimate than their first dance. A wicked need to tease her struck, lightening his mood.

“I have a better idea for getting my back clean. It involves a copper tub, large enough for two.”

The swiping slowed. Her hand on his arm lifted, and the loss left his skin cool.

Perhaps he went too far.

Then her palm rested on his ribs, settling there with discovery. The heat of each curious finger splayed provocatively on his flesh in a lover's exploratory touch. A heady rush followed, sending a pleasant burn over his already-hot torso.

“Whatever your plans in that copper tub of yours, I'm sure it's not
safe
for a woman like me,” she said softly against his shoulder blade. “Though I'm sure you have some creative ideas.”

Cyrus looked over his shoulder, her blond head close to his back. “Careful, Miss Mayhew, or you'll admit out loud you want more to happen between us.”

“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Ryland?”

“That would be a skill I've not mastered.”

If he read her right, he was closing in on the hunt for the elusive proprietress. What did he need to do to finally snare her?

She moved around to face him, her hair brushing his bicep. Her pink mouth opened as though she'd give him a retort, but her jeweled gaze dropped to his navel, dawdling a long stretch on the indent surrounded by a whorl of brown hair. When she looked up, he met her hungry, fascinated stare with a silent challenge.

Go
ahead. Touch.

The light in her eyes wavered. She read his invitation, her slender nostrils flaring when she took a deeper breath of him. She fought their attraction hard, her fair face tilted up to his, fine boned and flushed.

The high tip of her nose and set of her pale pink mouth told him his shopgirl's defensive wall was well in place, but she was like a moth drawn to a candle lantern, bouncing against the glass. What was her self-imposed barrier?

The proper midtown woman stepped back, pulling her cloak about her. “You know, I've figured something else about you.”

“Yet another observation?” A light chill swept his exposed torso. “Pray tell.”

He grabbed his shirt off the barrel where his clothes draped. He slipped his arms inside the linen, steeling himself for the worst.

Miss Mayhew's heavy-lidded stare followed the twitch of his muscles. “You welcome a woman speaking her mind as long as she heeds your words…toes the mark you set.”

“Exactly.” He donned his waistcoat, securing a few buttons. “None have found fault with how I conduct matters. And for those women I've shared a”—he paused and slid an arm through his wool coat, searching for the right word—“connection with…they did not leave unsatisfied.”

Her mouth pinched when he finished the arrogant proclamation, and Miss Mayhew's jeweled gaze flickered elsewhere. Brashness worked for a freehold farmer climbing to his current place in life, but would do little to win the heart of one independent proprietress.

Her
heart?

He fixed one sleeve and then the other, his brows pressing in a firm line. Was her heart what he wanted?

A high-pitched, cheery whistle cut the air. Nate Fincher ambled into the ring with two coin bags in his grasp, both bursting at the seams. The lad quit his jaunty tune and bowed with a flourish, presenting one coin pouch to a delighted Miss Mayhew.

The hunt for a certain woman would have to wait.

Nate rose to his full height and set his candle lantern on a crate, whistling a high note when he saw Cyrus.

“The Swede got ye good, didn't he?”

“I have you to thank for this, don't I?” he asked, tipping his head at Miss Mayhew.

She cupped her wilted kerchief and the winnings with both hands, her mouth dropping beguilingly open. The lad's black forelock covered part of his smirking face.

“I didn't cry rope on ye. Ye said not to
say
a word to her, but you didn't say not to
show
her.” The East Ender tucked his bag inside his shabby coat, his grin cocksure. “Comin' here tonight was my idea. She didn't know about ye till she saw ye in the ring.”

Cyrus slid on his shoes, not bothering with his stockings. He wouldn't split hairs with Nate, because he figured out quickly what the lad was about with the hefty winnings. Miss Mayhew needed funds badly. The odds favored Cyrus over the Swede, and Nate must've bet against him.

The lad reckoned on surprising Cyrus with Miss Mayhew's ringside appearance. These fights had few rules. On one hand, he couldn't fault Mr. Fincher: the brazen plan worked.

“And you think it was a good idea to walk her here?”

The cocky grin slipped. “Did what I had to do. 'Sides, I figured ye'd take her home. Mr. Watson already had yer carriage fetched. It's out front.”

“And do you need a ride home?”

“Naw. Need to hide my winnings.” Nate tapped his chest, where his newfound wealth clinked. He slipped out the other side of the now rope-less ring, his lantern hanging from his fingertips. “Then I'm meeting the others at the Fox Tail.”

Walking backward, Nate dipped a parting bow, doffing his black wool cap at them both. “A pleasure doin' business with ye.”

“Wait,” Claire called to his retreating form. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

The youth sidled a barrel, his feet slowing. “Ye want me back?” His voice rose in a boyish pitch.

“Oh, Nate, of course.”

The lad's bruised face cracked in a wide, comical grin. “Bright and early then, miss.”

Young Mr. Fincher bowed again and waved a hearty farewell before slipping from sight with a bounce in his step. He didn't have to work again for a long time, but he wanted to…at least at the New Union Coffeehouse for Miss Mayhew.

A tender expression played on her features. A light shined in her eyes, brighter than any polished shilling bagged neatly in her hands. Mr. Fincher gave Miss Mayhew something she badly needed: better footing in this world. Her winnings did as much, saving her shop and her from financial ruin.

But there was more joy in the exchange with Nate, in the lad himself, than the silver.

Truth opened Cyrus's eyes, at once revealing and trouncing him in the gut.

He had this,
her
, all wrong. Some women wanted a man to bleed money, shower her with gifts. Others needed to be worshipped, wanting lavish words and time spent on them. Some simply wanted sexual pleasure, a diversion from their bored lives. Hadn't he met all kinds of women?

Miss Mayhew sought equal footing with a man, yes, but even more she wanted,
needed
, a man to give of himself. Silver and independence were nice, but his proprietress wanted much more.

She craved a man's willingness to trust her. A man needed to expose himself to her, all his defenseless parts.