The Marriage Ring

by Cathy Maxwell

  “If he is so good, why is he here?”

  Richard knew the answer. “To make money and to stay ready for his fight with Cribb. It will take a few weeks before things can be arranged. A fight like the one he’ll have with Cribb for the title will need time to run the odds up. What’s the man to do in the meantime? He charges each challenger two pounds for a round.”

  Grace made a disbelieving noise. “Why would any man pay to fight?”

  “To say he did,” Richard answered. “Or test his skill or his mettle. Who knows? There might be one of them who could win the big purse.”

  “I just don’t understand why, if this McGowan is so important, he would be in a fight all the way up here.”

  “He’s a Scot. These are his people. Besides, up here it will be harder for him to be observed by the London crowd and the wagers will be higher against him. He’ll make a fortune if he beats Cribb.” He looked again at the paper. “I’m going take this chap on.”

  “What? No.”

  “Grace, I can do it. I’m handy with my fists. I have size. I’ve studied the sport. I can stay with him for three minutes.”

  She shook her head and started walking. “What you are is light-headed from hunger and lack of sleep. Come, we’ll find something to eat and then you will thank me for being sensible.”

  “I’m going to fight, Grace.”

  The resolve in his voice made her halt. She turned. “I don’t want you to.”

  “You believe I will fail.”

  “And have your face pounded in for your trouble,” she admitted. She walked back to him. “It’s not that I don’t think you are brave or strong—”

  “You believe I will bungle it, the way I have everything else that has happened to us on this trip.”

  Grace placed her hands on his arms. “That’s not true. I think nothing of the sort.”

  “Then it is what I think. Look at the facts, Grace. If I’d listened to you in the first place, I wouldn’t have been so foolish as to leave Dawson by the coach. I’d have been more suspicious and I wouldn’t have gone walking up to the town elders in Rachlan Mill.”

  “You make me want to give you a shake the way you gave me one last night,” she said, her eyes alive with fury. “Do not feel sorry for yourself for what has happened. I won’t let you. You’ve been everything honorable and good.”

  “That’s why I must fight, and I will win, Grace. I promise I will. Fighting isn’t only about strength and experience. It’s also about cunning.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Richard, this McGowan has been winning at his fights. He knows cunning.”

  “I’ve trained as a lawyer, Grace. We have a cunning that is all our own. Three minutes. If I stay on my feet against him, we’ll have enough money to not only ride to Inverness in style but have a good night’s sleep and a bath before we go.”

  And he would vindicate himself, he could have added…but there was more to his request. Richard wanted this fight. He’d trained for it. His boxing master, Richmond, had told him he had talent. Here was the chance to test himself.

  “I can beat him. Grace. I will.”

  She wasn’t convinced. Worry etched every line of her face.

  “Believe in me, Grace. I believe in you. Now, I need you to believe in me.” He knew he was throwing it all on the line.

  “You are determined to fight, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for his answer, but worried: “Why couldn’t you have been attracted to a different sport?”

  “Because with my big hulking size, I wouldn’t have been so good at it,” Richard said. “You don’t think I didn’t try fencing? I stumbled over my own feet and almost stabbed myself in the chest. I was a laughingstock. But my fists…Grace, I understand this. And I’m not afraid to take a blow.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is simple. One man against another for three simple minutes.”

  “This isn’t going to be the type of fighting you are accustomed to,” she warned.

  “How would you know?”

  “Because wherever there are men, there are fights. This is bare-knuckle fighting, Richard, and they are fighting for money, not sport. There will be no rules. I’ve never had the stomach to watch one, but I’ve seen the shape of the men who have come back from them and I thought them a right silly group of fools.”

  “We could be in Inverness by tomorrow night. Think of your father.”

  “I think of you.”

  The implication of her words shot straight to his heart. He stared wanting to believe there were deeper feelings behind them.

  He waited, expecting her to retract her statement.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, she rose up and kissed him on the lips.

  Richard dared not move. Dared not breathe. The words I love you, Grace roiled in his mind, but he lacked the courage to speak them aloud. If only she would give him one more sign, then he’d declare himself—

  Her lips left his. She brushed his whiskered jaw with the back of her fingers. “Don’t be noble.”

  Noble? Was that all she thought he was being? And what was the kiss? A way to bring him in line? To save him from harm?

  Everything masculine inside him revolted.

  “I’m no Galahad searching for some holy grail that he’ll never find,” he said, stepping away from her. “I can do this, Grace. I will.”

  He turned and began moving toward the nearest clump of men. They would know where McGowan was.

  Grace was stunned by Richard’s anger.

  What had she said wrong?

  Why were men, especially this one, so insistent upon proving themselves?

  She knew the answer. He wanted her to believe in him. Richard Lynsted had pride, and Grace understood pride. Why else had she done so many foolish things in her life?

  She wanted to save him from himself. But that wasn’t what he was asking her to do. All he wanted was for her to believe in him.

  Such a simple request, and yet it called for all her courage. If she put her faith in another, what if that person failed her? Or turned on her? She’d had that happen, too.

  Life had taught her there was only one person she could trust, and that was herself.

  And Richard.

  Not once had he failed her. Events hadn’t always unfolded as he’d thought they would, but he hadn’t left her and he would never betray her.

  Nor would he marry her, that devil inside of her whispered, searching as it always did for what was wrong with each man she’d met, belittling him until she packed her bags and left. Except this time was different. This time, Grace had the wisdom to respond with maturity.

  The truth was, with her past, few men would offer her marriage no matter how many times she repented.

  Furthermore, Richard wasn’t asking for heart and soul. He just wanted her to place a little faith in him.

  She could do that. She could do more than that. This man had slipped past years of her distrust and disappointment, and she loved him enough to follow him into the fires of hell if need be. Soon they might have to part because she would never measure up to his ideal, but for right now, they were together and she realized that was enough for her.

  Awe filled her at exactly how unselfish love was. She’d not imagined she could ever be so. She’d always expected tit for tat. Now, she would support him because what was important to her man was important to her—even in something so foolish and potentially dangerous.

  He’d started walking away from the group of men, moving with a sense of purpose. He’d found his fight—and she’d not let him go alone.

  Grace lifted her skirts and began running after him. When she caught up to him, she slipped her hand in his.

  He looked down at her, his expression still grim. That was all right. Grace had a purpose. She’d stand beside him no matter what.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard led Grace to a field at the edge of Lanark where a crowd of men were gathering. Apparently Richard
wasn’t the only one interested in the purse.

  Boxing was not outlawed in Scotland the way it was in England. Although even there, as long as the fights were held away from populated areas such as the one they’d stumbled upon their first night on the road, authorities did very little to interfere with the matches. Still, even though the sport was legal, Grace thought there was an unsavory air about it.

  The fight was man against man until one of them went down and could not rise for thirty seconds. There were few rules. Grace thought of them more like codes of conduct. Hitting an opponent below the belt was considered unsporting and, if a fighter did need a break, he could drop to one knee to start a thirty-second count while he gathered his wits up again.

  The men lining up to form a queue were of all shapes and sizes—burly men with arms the size of cannons, whipcord-thin lads who were as hard as leather, old men wanting to prove their strength and validate their youth, and young men wishing to prove their mettle. More than a few were almost as tall and strong-looking as Richard.

  A good number of women waited with their men. Some were hard-looking or carefree. The majority appeared anxious.

  Grace took a step closer to Richard, knowing what category she fit into.

  He’d been quietly looking around, taking in his competition. He hadn’t said a word to her since she’d joined him.

  As she studied the other men present, she realized that Richard had become the best-looking man she’d ever seen. He was masculine and strong, but he also had character.

  His hand still held hers. He might be angry but he had not forgotten her. She clasped her fingers around his, not wanting to let him go.

  On one side of the field was a brightly painted covered wagon much like a gypsy caravan. It had a green bed and a yellow hood with a howling wolf painted on the side.

  The calico-curtained door at the back was flipped aside and a bantam rooster of a man climbed down. He wore a dandy’s yellow pantaloons, bright blue jacket, a cherry-striped vest and red shoes with pointed toes. Tight brown curls of hair stuck out this way and that from under the man’s blue wide-brimmed hat. It sported a huge pheasant feather that sliced the air with the movement of his head as he boomed out, “Here now, I’m the McGowan’s manager. Do what I say.” Grace was surprised he was English. “Contestants line up. Right over there. McGowan wants a look at you.”

  The crowd of men moved to comply.

  Grace didn’t want to leave Richard even after he let go of her hand. She stepped back with the other women. The day was growing warm. Spring was in the air. Grace took off her cape and folded it over her arm.

  McGowan’s manager began marching back and forth in front of the line of men, holding his hat out for their two guineas. Two of the men didn’t have the funds and had to move to join the onlookers. One tried to argue his way into a bout, but the manager nodded to a barrel-shaped man with a hard jaw to escort the man out of the queue.

  The woman next to Grace, a young thing who was very heavy with child, made a soft cry of alarm. The man being ordered out of the line was hers. She hurried to join him with the onlookers. The young couple put their heads together and clasped hands. Grace couldn’t help but pity them. They probably had more need of the prize purse than she and Richard.

  She glanced over to him to see if he’d noticed the couple. He hadn’t. He was listening to McGowan’s manager go over the rules.

  “We start the bouts at three. That’s an hour from now and as you can see the crowd is already forming. If your knee hits the ground and you are there for a count of thirty, you’re out.”

  “Who does the counting?” one of the contenders asked.

  “I do,” the manager said. “So if you are going to knock out the McGowan, you’d best do it good and right so I can’t cheat on the count.”

  A nervous laugh met his comment. The manager puffed up his chest. “I’m not teasing you, lads. Fighting is a dirty, grim business. If you want out of your bout, you go to your knees for thirty—that is if McGowan hasn’t knocked you out.”

  “What if I stay in for the three minutes?” Richard asked.

  The manager smiled, the expression not particularly nice. “Then you receive twenty-five pounds. But you have to stand and take your blows like a man. I warn you, I run a clean fight. Even the vicar of St. Nicholas Church will be here and he’ll vouch for me. I’ve seen some who think they can run around like a chicken without its head for three minutes and win the twenty-five. We’ll have none of that. Oscar will see that you face your opponent, and I should warn you now, McGowan will not be pleased with you. He’s not a friendly man when he isn’t pleased.”

  Three more men stepped out of the queue. There were now twenty men, Richard being one of them, ready to face the McGowan.

  One of the men in line asked, “Will there be time in the day for him to fight all of us?”

  “We shall see, won’t we?” the manager said as if that was the least of his concerns. “Any other questions?” There were none. “Very well, stand tall. McGowan will want a look at you. He’s the one who decides the order of the fight.” He went over to the caravan and gave the side a knock. “They are ready for you, Mr. McGowan.”

  Everyone’s eyes turned to the calico curtain.

  There was a dramatic pause, and then the curtain opened for a man to climb out. He had to bend over to fit through the door, and once his feet hit the ground, he unfolded, and unfolded, and unfolded his body.

  The McGowan was as tall as Richard and he looked more like a crofter than a fighter. There was little humane intelligence to his face. His nose and eyes appeared scrunched together and his thick lips curved into an expression of disdain. He wore his shirt hem out over his homespun breeches and on his feet were heavy wool socks and worn, sturdy shoes. His hair flowed past his shoulders, a dirty yellow mess that made Grace itch to look at it.

  Heedless of his audience, McGowan stretched his arms in a yawn. His big gaping hole of a mouth held very few teeth. He scratched his belly with a groan of satisfaction and then dropped his arms to his side—and his hands almost reached his knees.

  Grace shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She’d never seen such long arms in her life.

  Or a nose as flat. He’d taken a hit or two there and it wasn’t a pretty sight. It was barely recognizable as a nose.

  Another occupant of the tent climbed out. This person was a blowzy bawd with impossibly red hair. She scrambled out of the tent, her blouse gaping loose and exposing almost every inch of her impressively large, soft breasts.

  She took a moment to hike her blouse up and tie it at the neck. Her feet were bare. She reached back into the wagon for her shoes and socks.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, giving McGowan a cheeky bump with her hip as she passed him, clearly enjoying the attention her appearance was receiving.

  McGowan grabbed her around the waist, drew her close to him so her feet were off the ground, and was about to bury his whiskered face in her neck to give her a gobble of a kiss—when his gaze fell on Grace. His piggy eyes homed right in on her.

  He dropped the bawd. She wasn’t ready for his release and didn’t catch herself. Her bottom hit the ground and caused her to give a surprised wheeze.

  McGowan began walking toward Grace. “I want this one.” He had a voice as gruff as the rest of him.

  Grace took a step back. McGowan’s manager raced forward. He caught the fighter’s shirt tail and tried to drag him back, receiving a shove in the face for his trouble.

  But Richard was already there to protect her. He stepped into McGowan’s path. “She’s mine,” he said.

  McGowan pulled back so that he could give Richard a good look up and down. “I want her.”

  Richard tapped the fighter’s forehead with three fingers as if to wake him up. “You can’t have her.”

  “I think I can,” McGowan replied, looking past Richard’s shoulder to where Grace stood, horrified at the turn of events and at being the center of attent
ion.

  “You are wrong,” Richard answered, taking a step over to block the fighter’s view of Grace.

  McGowan took another look at Richard. He reached for the collar of his jacket and rubbed it between his fingers. “Good coat,” he said.

  Richard didn’t answer.

  “Good boots,” McGowan continued. “No farmer. No Scotsman.” He turned to his manager. “I fight him for the girl,” he said, pointing at Grace with a jerk of his thumb.

  “The girl?” the manager echoed.

  “Aye, the girl. I want the girl. Fight him for the girl. Do it.” McGowan retreated to the corner of the wagon, where he dipped a ladle into a rain bucket and drank deeply, his piggy gaze on Grace.

  His manager puffed his cheeks and released his breath. “Very well.” He looked to Richard. “He fights you for your woman.”

  “No,” Richard said as if he thought the man simple-minded. “She’s not a prize. She’s not a part of this.”

  “You’ll be the last fight of the day,” the manager offered. “Everyone will be here.”

  “I’m not fighting. My woman is not a prize.” He turned to Grace. “Come along, let’s go.”

  The manager held his hand up to stave off Richard’s departure. “You want a bigger purse,” he said. “We can manage that. A fight between the two of you will be something to see. I’ll double the prize if you win.”

  “I’ll not risk my woman,” Richard said. He held out a hand to Grace but before she could go forward, McGowan placed himself between them.

  The swiftness of his approach alarmed Grace. He moved fast for a man of his size.

  “I fight you for the woman,” he said. “You win, you keep her and the purse. But you won’t win—you are not a fighter.”

  The other contestants and onlookers had created a circle around them. Grace could see anger at the boast build inside Richard, especially in front of this crowd.

  “I would win, but my lady is not a part of this,” Richard said.

  McGowan’s thick lips curved into a cocksure smile. “His ladee,” he mocked, looking around at those gathered around them. “Such a fancy man. Makes me want him to eat dust.” He held his hands up as if shaking in terror and earned a good laugh for his silliness.