The Bareknuckle Groom: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Bush, Holly

  She awoke from vivid and uncomfortable dreams of him when Mrs. Howell touched her shoulder. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, miss, but Mr. Vermeal is downstairs with another gentlemen. I told them you weren’t feeling well, but he said he would come up to your rooms himself to see what his daughter might need.”

  Lucinda sat up slowly. “Thank you, Mrs. Howell. Tell Mr. Vermeal I’ll be there in a few moments and have Giselle come to my room.”

  A few minutes later, her butler was opening the doors to the front parlor. Her father stood from the chair he’d been seated in, and Carlton Young turned from his place in front of the fireplace and hurried to her, his hands outstretched. She glanced at them and then up at his face until he dropped them.

  “Miss Vermeal, it is so wonderful to see you. I have thought of our conversations many times.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Young. Papa, I’m not feeling well. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Your housekeeper informed us you’d just returned from a party of some sort. Where were you?” her father asked rather tersely. “Did you at least have a maid with you?”

  “Aunt Louisa accompanied me.”

  “May I say you are looking particularly beautiful?” Young said wistfully.

  Lucinda ignored him and looked at her father. “I’m really not feeling very well, Papa, and would like to lay down.”

  At that moment the door opened, and a young maid came in carrying a coffee tray. Mrs. Howell followed. “I didn’t order refreshments, Mrs. Howell.”

  “But I did,” her father said. “Will you pour, Lucinda?”

  She turned to her housekeeper. “Would you please bring me a cup of tea with some willow bark stirred in?”

  “Yes, miss. Right away,” she said and motioned to the young maid to leave the room.

  Lucinda resigned herself to a conversation, although she intended to keep it short, regardless of what her father might think. She poured coffee for both men and did not wait long for Mrs. Howell to bring her tea. She sipped the steaming liquid and tried to relax her shoulders, knowing that her headache was as much a chance event as it was a tense response to seeing James Thompson.

  “Your father has plans to show me and my family some of the city tomorrow. I’m hoping you’ll join us. Or perhaps we can plan an outing to dinner or the theater.”

  “Of course she’ll accompany us!” her father said.

  “Thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Young, but I . . .” Lucinda trailed off when she heard Brandleford speaking louder than usual and a man replying. She jumped from her chair and stared at the door.

  “Miss Vermeal,” James Thompson said as he entered the room. “I wanted to make sure that you’d gotten home safely and that you were feeling better.” He looked at her father and Young. “Am I interrupting something, gentlemen?”

  “You most certainly are! What do you think you’re doing, barging into my daughter’s home this way? Get out!”

  “Papa, please. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Thompson?”

  “I’ve met your father on a few memorable occasions but haven’t been introduced to this young pup.” James looked across the room. “Perhaps an introduction, Miss Vermeal.”

  “Mr. James Thompson, Mr. Carlton Young. Mr. Young, Mr. Thompson.”

  Carlton Young walked across the room swiftly and pumped James’s hand.

  “The fighter? James Thompson, the fighter?”

  “I am,” James said.

  “Lucinda,” her father seethed, “have your butler bring your two largest servants to this room immediately and have this man removed.”

  James looked at her father, unsmiling. “If you think a pair of burly servants will do the trick, Mr. Vermeal, then please do try. It should be entertaining, but it might be dangerous for some of the more delicate pieces of furniture in this room.”

  “Are you threatening me, Thompson? Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “You’re Miss Vermeal’s father. And this is Carlton Young,” James said and glanced at Lucinda. “Miss Vermeal’s suitor.”

  “I do not have any suitors, Mr. Thompson. Allow Brandleford to see you out,” she said, now noticing that the butler was still standing in the doorway.

  “Will you ever fight again?” Young asked. “I’ve read every article I can find about your fight with Jackson.”

  “The rematch will be on the twenty-fourth.”

  “It’s scheduled already! I didn’t know if it would ever happen. I think we will still be here in town. I’ll have to talk my father into accompanying me,” Young said.

  “I’ll send you two tickets,” James said with a wry smile.

  “That would be capital! Just capital!” Young said with a boyish smile and a punch in the air.

  The conversation was making her nauseous in addition to having a pounding head. She could not get the picture of him, bruised and bleeding, fighting his sisters and aunt on the night of the last match, out of her head, yet she could not bear to think about it.

  “My concern is Miss Vermeal’s health,” James said and turned to her, pinning her with his eyes. “Are you feeling better?”

  She was breathless suddenly and could feel a flush climbing her neck. She could not allow him any advantage. “I am going to lie down. Good day, Papa, Mr. Young, Mr. Thompson,” she whispered and hurried through the door. She heard shouting behind her and forced herself to continue on to her rooms, to safety, to peace.

  * * *

  Dinner that evening was its usual loud affair, James thought as he ate the carved turkey on his plate. Kirsty and Payden were arguing, and Muireall was describing MacAvoy’s wedding to Aunt Murdoch as she’d been feeling poorly with chills and a stuffed head and had not attended.

  “Miss Vermeal was running from you as if a pack of wild dogs were at her heals today,” Kirsty said as she waved her fork at him. “What have you done?”

  He shrugged as if it was no concern of his when all the while he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Or that Young boy sniffing around her. “I really don’t know. I went to her new house last week, and she told me to leave and never come back.”

  “Girls are stupid,” Payden said.

  “What did you say to her, James?” Kirsty asked.

  “We were talking about different things, everyday matters, you know,” James said, unwilling to share his declaration that he had plans for the two of them with his chatty family. He would never hear the end of it.

  “I’m interested to hear your plans, boy,” Aunt Murdoch said. “Have you even been looking for a job?”

  “I’ve got some savings.”

  “I’m sure you do. But you’re a man, and you need a worthwhile profession. Otherwise, your pride would suffer, although pride is not something you’re in short supply of,” Aunt Murdoch continued with a laugh and then a cough.

  “True enough,” he said. “And anyway, I can’t work a job while I’m training. MacAvoy’s got me working out six or seven hours a day.”

  Kirsty’s silverware dropped to her plate. “What did you say?”

  “About what? Your fork handle is in your gravy.”

  “Is the fight scheduled, then?” Payden asked, leaning across the table.

  “What are you training for, James?” Muireall asked, staring at him in her most prim fashion, her lips pursed and her fingers tight around her glass.

  “The rematch. It’s scheduled for the twenty-fourth.”

  Aunt Murdoch was shaking her head. “I’ll not do it, boy. I’ll not patch you up this time.”

  “I’ll never speak to you again! Do you hear me? Never, ever!” Kirsty said with tears in her eyes as she ran out of the room.

  “What’s gotten into her?” he asked.

  “Payden, please go help Mrs. McClintok with the dishes and the cleaning up,” Muireall said.

  Aunt Murdoch stood and got her cane from where it was leaning against the sideboard. She shook her head. “I won’t do it, James,” she said as she left.

&nb
sp; “What has gotten into everyone?” he asked. “It’s not like you didn’t know this day would come. I was never going to let a draw hang over my record.”

  “I am so angry with you right now I can barely speak,” Muireall whispered hoarsely. “No wonder Miss Vermeal has nothing to say to you.”

  “Do you think she’s upset about me fighting?”

  “You’re a fool, James. She cares deeply about you, as do all of us. We watched you struggle to breathe, be stitched up, with Payden and Robbie seeing to your most personal needs for weeks.”

  James flushed. “There’s no need to bring—”

  “There is every need. Will you commit her or myself or Kirsty to caring for you for the rest of your life? Will you have us feeding you and wiping your bottom and relying on Payden to lead the family before he is ready?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, anger building in his gut. “You’re saying I’ll lose this match? That Jackson will pummel me until I’m a blabbering idiot?”

  She shook her head. “Do not make this a matter of competition. This is your life. We held it in our hands and in our prayers not that long ago. Don’t ask us to do it again.”

  Muireall stood, and he watched her slowly climb the stairs in the hallway. They were angry he was going to fight again? What did they expect him to do? This was what he did! Who he was! What alternative was there anyway? Be a mason or a cemetery worker or a mill flunky? But he knew what he could do. He could take up the offer that Alexander had presented him. He could stay out of the ring and make a good living—more than a good living, he suspected.

  Chapter 15

  Lucinda sat straight up in her bed. The handle on the balcony door in her dark room was jiggling. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she stood up, groping on her nightstand for something to defend herself with. The clock on the mantel softly chimed midnight when she opened her mouth to scream, but only a choked cry emerged. She hurried to the fireplace, reaching for a poker, her gown swaying in a cool breeze around her legs as the door slowly opened.

  “Help,” she whispered and raised the iron rod above her head. The figure coming through the door was in darkness.

  “Jesus, Lucinda. Put that thing down,” James said as he closed the door behind him.

  “James?” she asked in a shaking cry. She held a hand to her breast and began to cry in earnest. “What on earth are you doing here? You’ve frightened me!”

  “I’m sorry I scared you, but I have to talk to you, and you won’t stand still long enough for us to have a conversation.”

  Lucinda shrugged into the robe over the back of the chair near the fireplace and sat on the edge of her bed, dabbing her eyes with a hankie and trying to slow her breathing. It was then she realized that James Thompson, a man, was in her bedchamber in the middle of the night and that she was in her gown and night rail.

  “You must leave immediately,” she said.

  He knelt before her, on his haunches, his hands hanging loosely over his knees. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. You must go.”

  “Why won’t you speak to me, Lucinda? What have I done? I’ll make it right.”

  Fear had quickly been replaced with anger. “You can’t make it right, you foolish man. I am done with you. Don’t embarrass yourself, and me as well, by begging. It is unseemly.”

  Her figure in the moonlight shining through the window as he’d opened her door was ethereal with her filmy white gown swirling around her long, thin legs. He stood slowly, staring down at the volumes of pale blond hair curling over her shoulders and down her back in waves. What was he doing here? What could he have been thinking? What if a man climbed up a rain spout to Kirsty’s or Muireall’s room? What would he have to say then? But then, this wasn’t either of his sisters.

  “Please leave,” she whispered.

  Why was he here? And perhaps she was right that he was embarrassing himself. He turned on his heel and walked to the balcony door. “Lock this again when I leave.”

  “Why?” she asked. “It didn’t stop you.”

  “Because. Because I want you safe.”

  She stood and hurried to him, shaking her finger in his face and hissing her words. “And don’t you think I’m entitled to the same wants?”

  He shook his head and grabbed her finger, holding it tight. “Entitled to the same what?”

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Knowledge that you are safe too,” she whispered.

  “Don’t cry, love. I can’t take it when you cry,” he said and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I don’t want to cry. But I am worried that is all I’ll ever do if you don’t stay away from me.”

  He pulled her tight against him, kissing the top of her head and wiping her cheeks with his palms. He murmured soothing words in her ear until she quieted and took a long, deep breath. She gazed up at him, her lashes glistening in the moonlight, her lips parted. There was nothing between her skin and his hands but a froth of silk and lace at her back and waist. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers.

  He ran his tongue around the edge of his lips until she relaxed in his arms, her breasts tight against his chest and her legs between his. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, wanting to thrust his hips as well, but the moment wasn’t about sex, although he thought of climbing over her with regularity. And if this moment with his hands on the bottom of this beautiful women and his tongue in her mouth was not about sex . . . then what was it about?

  Lucinda chose that moment to lift her slender arms, the silk sleeves falling back to her shoulders, to wrap her hands around his neck. She moved her hips against his cock, which was already at full attention. She moaned at the contact and ran her finger around his ear.

  He wanted her. He wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.

  “Lucinda,” he whispered and pulled her hands from around his neck, gathering them in his. “We’re in some dangerous territory here. I think I should go.”

  “I think you should too, but not before you lie down on that bed with me. You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You’ll live to regret it.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m just a run-down fighter, and I don’t want to be the cause of anyone’s regrets. Most of all yours.”

  “A woman’s virginity, her body, is her own. It’s not a man’s to take. It’s hers to give,” she said, meeting his eyes in that calm and precise way that she had. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, running her tongue over the chip in his tooth and making him growl with need.

  “I can pleasure you without taking your virginity,” he whispered.

  She took his hand and led him to the bed. She shrugged off her robe and bent to grab the hem of her gown, pulling it over her head and leaving her fully naked in front of him.

  “I want it all,” she said. “And I want it with you.”

  He pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his shoes, all without taking his eyes from her body. She was slender, with full breasts, pink-tipped and puckered, curving hips, and a thatch of pale blond hair between her legs. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with a body that would tempt a priest, and it was all bared for him. He felt gifted. He knew she was a virgin, and he was certain she did not do this lightly. He hopped around on one foot to pull off his stockings, and she looked at him with a raised brow.

  He slowly unbuttoned his pants, his cock springing free, and pushed them down his legs. She was staring at him, at his crotch, and taking shallow breaths. She reached out a hand and touched him there, and he closed his eyes and moaned. She glanced up at him and sat down on the bed, inching back and stretching out until she was reclined, one knee bent, her hands at her sides.

  James lay down beside her, kissed her open-mouthed, and palmed her breast, his member laying heavily on her thigh.

  His body was everything Lucinda had anticipated. She’d seen his broad shoulders, deep chest, and large muscular arms
when she’d watched him box and knew he was beautiful and masculine with a scattering of dark hair across his chest narrowing down to his stomach. But the rest of him made her breathless and damp between her legs.

  “Do you understand what . . . ?” he asked while running a finger down her side and over her hip.

  She nodded. “Aunt Louisa told me in very plain language when I was eighteen. She didn’t want me to be a victim because I didn’t understand a man’s intent.”

  He leaned close to her, propped on his elbow, and hitched a smile on one side of his mouth. “And what is my intent?”

  “Your intent is to take this,” she whispered and wrapped her fingers around him, causing him to close his eyes and pant a breath. “And put it inside me. And then rock back and forth on your knees, moving it in and out, and in and out, until you spill your seed in my body.”

  “Jesus, Lucinda. You can’t talk like that and expect me to hold back,” he breathed in her ear.

  She laid her hands on his cheeks. “Don’t hold back, James.”

  He climbed over her, resting his weight on his forearms, kissing her and rubbing his chest against her nipples. She wanted this. She knew there would be heartache, whether she never saw him again after tonight, or God forbid, she was with child, or if he died in that boxing ring, but she would never regret it and had realized as much in a blinding moment of clarity when he’d turned to leave her—this may be the only time in her life she would be able to make love to someone because she had been fooling herself to think she didn’t love him desperately. She did. No rational thought or wisdom lessened love and the heartache that sometimes came with it. Hearts made decisions without the benefit of the mind.