Strangers at Dawn (35 page)

He got no farther. Simon took hold of his arm and dragged him away. “If we don’t get there
SOOD,
we’ll be
disqualified. We’re last on. Can’t you hear them? The crowd is getting restless.”

When he came out of the crush of men, Max saw that a platform had been built so that the spectators could have a good view of the ring.

“This is my brother-in-law,” said Simon to the man who was evidently in charge.

Max’s name was duly marked off, and after shaking hands with Simon, and wishing him luck (a convention of the sport), Max disrobed till he was down to trousers and boots. He’d hoped for a chance to limber up, but there was no time, he was told, and he was hustled into the ring.

Then all became clear to him.

“Lord Maxwell, sir,” said his opponent with an evil grin. “Wot is you doin’ here? I thought you’d learned your lesson in Reading.”

Mighty Jack Cleaver, all seven feet of him, stared down, a long way down, into Max’s stricken face. Max thought of Simon, and rage rolled through him like a torrential river. He knew he could outbox Jack Cleaver with one had tied behind his back. What he could not do was make an impression on the man. Those muscles were made of iron. But all Jack had to do was bide his time and get in one iron-fisted punch, and it was match over.

Simon had set him up.

If he had any sense, Max told himself, he would say it was all a ghastly mistake and beat a hasty retreat. It was probably what Simon expected him to do. But Simon had vastly mistaken his character. It was now a matter of honor.

He searched the crowd for Simon and found him with Martin, in the front row, right next to the ring. Martin was clutching a towel, and Simon held up a bottle of water and jiggled it.

The scoundrels were his seconds.

Martin looked worried, as well he might, but Simon was laughing his head off. Max ground his teeth together.

The referee entered the ring at that moment. Cheers all round from the crowd. Max and Mighty Jack shook hands, then took up their positions. At a word from the referee, the fight began.

Martin closed his eyes. “Tell me when it’s all over,” he told Simon.

“Good God!” said Simon. “Max just hit the champion right in the solar plexus and he didn’t even flinch.”

“Who, Max?”

“No. Mighty Jack. You have to give it to Max, he-!
Martin, did you see that? Did you see that?
Max landed a punch … oh no.”

Martin opened his eyes. Max was flat on his face. He shook his head once, twice, then dragged himself to his knees and finally tottered to his feet. The crowd went wild.

They went at it again. Mighty Jack moved around the ring like a great oak that had uprooted itself. Max was obviously the better boxer, but compared to the champion, he was a mere sapling.

“What a sport!” said Simon, whistling in admiration at one point.

Then Mighty Jack landed a punch, and Max spun like a top and his momentum carried him into his own corner. He got to his feet, but it was the end of round one.

Martin and Simon scrambled into the ring. Max’s nose was bleeding, and he was breathing hard and fast. Simon poured water down his throat while Martin used the towel to stop the bleeding.

Simon said, “All right, Max, you’ve proved your point. No one is going to think the less of you if you concede defeat now.”

“Concede defeat?
Concede defeat? Never!”
said Max through gritted teeth. “I’ll go till I drop.”

Now Simon was beginning to look worried, and that pleased Max. He closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle.

Martin said, “You have a powerful right hook, Max. Why don’t you hit Mighty Jack on the jaw?”

Max opened one eye and glared up at Martin. “Because,” he said, “my arm doesn’t reach that far.”

The second round was no better than the first. Simon and Martin were no longer worried; they were scared to death. Max was puffing like a broken-down bellows. He was staggering, and blood was running from his nose and mouth. But he adamantly refused to give up.

When he came out for the third round, the crowd fell silent. His knees were buckling, but he kept his fists up. Everyone knew Mighty Jack had only to deliver the coup de grace and it would be all over for Max.

Max knew it too. He dodged and weaved to evade those iron fists, but he was winded and couldn’t get a punch in. But Mighty Jack did, and down Max went again. It looked as though the referee would stop the fight, and the crowd began to boo. Max pulled himself to his feet.

Someone in the crowd shouted, “We’re with you, yer lordship! We’re with you!” and the crowd yelled its support.

Mighty Jack was momentarily distracted. Max lashed out and caught the champion a blow to the throat. The champion stepped back, shook his head, and swatted Max as though he were a pesky fly. And Max went down again.

Simon clutched Martin’s arm. “It’s all over. It’s got to be all over this time. Why doesn’t the referee stop it? Stay down, Max.
Stay down!”

Before his horrified eyes, Max got up on one knee, then the other, and pulled himself to his feet.

“End of round three,” cried the timekeeper, and the crowd cheered, and cheered and cheered.

“He’s won!” screamed Simon. “Max has won!”

Both brothers embraced violently, then, with a roar, they jumped up on the platform and ran to Max.

Max stood there in a daze. He didn’t know what was going on. He’d only gone three rounds, and he knew this was the end for him. He couldn’t hold up his head, never mind his fists.

Mighty Jack was pumping his hand and telling him what a fine fellow he was. Simon and Martin were bellowing in his ear that he was the only man in Stoneleigh who had managed to go the three rounds with Mighty Jack. He’d won a sovereign, it seemed. Someone was holding his arm up, and the spectators were cheering madly. None of it made sense to Max.

“This calls for a celebration,” cried Simon.

He stripped off his coat and threw it over Max’s shoulders.

Max, the victor, had to be carried from the ring by his seconds. Mighty Jack strolled after them.

The fight had lasted
all
of five minutes.

S
ARA WAS WAITING FOR THEM AT THE TOP OF
the stairs. Her arms were folded across her breasts and her brows were down. Everyone was in bed, and she was in her nightclothes. Max had an arm looped around each of her brothers’ necks, and he was definitely the worse for wear. His cheek was swollen and there was a cut on his lip. They were carrying on like mischievous schoolboys.

And she could smell the drink on them.

Their snickering stopped when they caught sight of her. She didn’t say a word, not one word, but marched to her bedroom and held it open for them. They had to edge their way sideways to get Max through the door.

“I won a sovereign, Sara,” he said. “Don’t ask me why. It’s for you. Simon, give her the sovereign.”

Simon gave Sara the sovereign, which she deposited on the table without a thank-you, and without even looking at it.

“I suppose,” said Max, “it’s like bringing coals to Newcastle. I mean, what can a rich wife do with a sovereign?”

Simon snickered.

Martin said, “Now, Sara, there’s no need to look like that. We were celebrating. In the King’s Head. All of Stoneleigh was there. And we hardly had anything to drink. Tell her, Max.”

“We hardly had anything to drink,” said Max.

Martin grinned from ear to ear. “Max is a hero in Stoneleigh, Sara. Max, tell her.”

“I’m a hero,” said Max. “Ouch! Careful, Martin. That hurt!”

Sara pointed to the bed, and her brothers reverently eased Max down on it, but he wouldn’t lie down.

“Is she often like this?” Max asked. “You know, silent and pouting?”

Simon laughed. “No. She usually lectures. But we’re only her brothers. I suppose she has to watch her step with you.”

“I am not pouting,” said Sara, stung into replying. “What I am is … what I am is …”

“Yes?” said Max, squinting up at her.

Lips pressed together, she reached for him to help him disrobe, but her touch was not gentle, and Max groaned.

Simon pulled her away. “Careful, Sara. Max has taken a beating that would kill most men.” He couldn’t keep is excitement down as the memory came back to him. “You should have seen him! Against Mighty Jack Cleaver, no less! What a pounding he took. Martin and I were scared to death because Max wouldn’t stay down. Don’t you understand, Sara? Max won the contest! He was the only man in Stoneleigh who managed to go three rounds with the champion.”

Sara looked as though she would burst into tears. “Oh, Max,” she said. “What have these wicked boys done to you? Is this Simon’s doing?” She went down on her knees beside Max and looked into his battered face. “I know you thought you were going to box with Simon.”

At these words, Simon went scarlet.

Max said, “It wasn’t Simon’s fault. Can we talk about this later? I need help getting undressed. I want to soak in a warm bath, then I want a large glass of brandy to take my mind off my aches and pains.” He looked at Sara. “Sara, help me.”

“Oh, Max.” She sniffed and reached for one booted foot, but when she saw his knuckles, she gasped. They were scraped raw. “Max, Max,” she said softly. Eyes brimming, she brought his hands to her cheeks and looked up at him.

He gave her the smile that always made her melt with yearning.

Simon nudged Martin with his elbow. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

Martin nodded. “Too much sugar for my taste.”

They tiptoed to the door. Martin slipped away, but Simon turned back. “Max-” He paused and cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you would … that is … when you’re on your feet again, of course, well, I’d consider it a great favor if you would take me out on Arrogance.”

“I’d like nothing better,” said Max quietly,

When the door closed, Sara said, “What was that all about?”

“I think your brother just apologized to me.”

Sara started on his boots. “I didn’t hear him say ‘I’m sorry’!”

“Oh, well, men have a different way of apologizing from females.” He saw that she’d removed one boot. “You did that as though you were born in a stable.”

“I have two younger brothers,” she said, as though that explained everything.

It did to Max. “Whom you love very much.”

“Well, of course. I adore them. But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to their faults.”

Max’s laugh turned into a moan, and Sara was instantly contrite. “Was I too rough?”

“No, no. I’ll be all right, but a glass of brandy would help.”

She removed his other boot and left him to go to his room for the brandy. When she returned, he was propped up in bed with his back against the pillows. His face was several shades whiter than when she’d left.

“I’m going to send for the doctor,” she said quickly.

“No.” He took the glass from her and sipped carefully, then said, “He won’t thank you for calling him out when there’s nothing wrong with me, nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Trust me, Sara. I’ve been in enough fights to know that I’m not hurt in any way that counts.” He gave her a huge grin. “Last time, I only went two rounds with Mighty Jack. I must be getting better.”

His little speech made her both cross and teary. She didn’t like to see him like this, all battered and cut up. But it was his own fault. No one could force him to fight against his will. And he was practically telling her that he would do it again.

Not if she had anything to do with it. But now was not the time to argue the point with him, not when he looked so weak and helpless. All she said was, “I’ll ring for Arthur to draw you a bath.”

“Good idea.”

When she came back to the bed, he held out his glass. He’d hardly touched the brandy. She took it from him and set it on the table.

He closed his eyes. “Drew Primrose was at the King’s Head,” he said. “He told me that you hadn’t given him the marriage contract you made me sign. Does this mean you’re having second thoughts?”

She took a moment to think about it. “Perhaps,” she hedged.

“I’m glad, because that contract would only be the ruin of your family. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought,
and I have my own ideas about what’s best for them. Would you like to hear what I think?”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ve only known them for a few weeks, Max.”

“And that means I can see them more clearly than you.”

She doubted it, but she was interested in what he had to say. “All right. Go on.”

He needed no further encouragement. “Let’s start with your brothers,” he said. “They’re just like all young men their age. They’ll give us many sleepless nights before they settle down. But let’s wait until they know what they want to do with their lives before we decide how to help them.” He yawned. “And while we’re at it, let’s enrol Martin in a different college at Oxford. Right now, he’s too much in Simon’s shadow. They’ll still see each other, but Martin will make his own circle of friends. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet. We’ll consult him, of course, but I think he’ll listen to me now.” Another grin. “That’s my reward for being pounded by Mighty Jack.”

He touched her cheek with his fingers and they came away wet. “Now, what have I said?” he asked, bewildered.

“I
don’t know.” She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I don’t know why I’m turning into a watering pot.”

“If I’d had to look after this family for as many years as you, all on my own, I wouldn’t be a watering pot, I’d be a raving lunatic.”

He was rewarded with a watery chuckle.

His hand tangled in her hair. “You’re not alone now,” he said seriously. “I’m here. I’m your husband. Don’t shut me out. Don’t ever shut me out.”

The cold hand of reality touched her heart, and she bent her head so that he couldn’t read her expression. His fingers moved gently from her hair to her cheek, then he tipped up her chin so that she couldn’t evade his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“I was thinking of Constance,” she said.

“Ah, Constance. She has the right idea, you know. A Season in London would be just the thing, not for Lucy, but for her. She’s lonely, Sara, and she’s a menace, not only to herself but to every man in Stoneleigh.”