Chapter 30
By the time Gareth showed up at the barn to begin his morning's training, his head had long since ceased to ache.
This morning, his sparring partner was Dickie Noring, a likeable, up-and-coming young lad whom Snelling had recruited during a trip to Bristol. Dickie had worked in and around ships for most of his eighteen years and was more of a brawler than a boxer. But he was strong, keeping Gareth on his toes as the two circled each other and traded punches. Gareth was enjoying himself, taking pleasure in his own fitness and strength. But try as he might, he could not keep his mind on what he was doing. Lucien's dawn visit kept replaying itself through his mind:
You're treating me like a child again, Lucien. I dislike it.
Yes, I suppose I am ... but, God help me, you were a damn sight easier to handle when you were acting like one.
"Guard your face better than that, Dickie!" Snelling called out as Gareth's fist glanced off the other man's cheekbone.
"I'm trying, sir, but 'e's too quick for me!"
"Then you'll have to be quicker, won't you?"
Dickie lashed out with renewed vigor. Gareth neatly blocked and deflected the blow, getting in a good punch to Dickie's jaw.
"Son of a bitch! Blimey, ye're damn good for a nob ... where'd ye learn to fight like that, anyhow?"
"I have brothers," Gareth answered, grinning as he blocked another hit. He didn't bother mentioning that the village lads with whom he'd grown up had also taught him all they knew, and that he and the Den members often practiced their pugilistic skills simply for fun and exercise, and that he'd been thrown out of inns and alehouses because of his penchant for using his fists — because in his mind he wasn't watching Dickie. He was seeing Lucien sitting there beside him on the steps, treating him with wary respect and talking to him as an adult. He was seeing Lucien swallowing his pride to offer a half-baked apology — and then that strange look on his face, almost of admiration, as he'd prepared to leave. What had it taken his brother to ask, instead of demand, that he return to Blackheath? How much had it cost him to back down — probably against his better judgment — and let Gareth make his own decisions, right or wrong?
He's giving me the chance to prove myself. I will not let him down.
"All right, that's it for today," Snelling declared. "For you, anyhow, Dickie. Gareth? You're going to be up against Nails Fleming on Friday night. It's a big match, and I'm putting lots of blunt into promoting it, so make sure you train especially hard this week. If you do well against Nails, then we're going to pit you against the Butcher."
"The Butcher?" Gareth asked, grinning. "Is that his ring name or his trade?"
"Both. And believe you me, the name's well earned. I've just bought his contract, so he'll be coming in next week to fight for me."
"The Butcher's coming 'ere?!?" asked Dickie, in something like awe.
"He is, indeed. He's the best Scotland has to offer. And the way our Gareth is looking, I predict he'll soon be the best England has to offer. Oh, what a fight that will be: Scotland versus England, the Butcher against the Wild One!"
"Hell, I'm game," Gareth crowed happily, feinting toward Dickie. "Bring the mon on!"
Everyone laughed at his clowning attempt at a Scottish accent.
"Don't look so damned eager," Snelling said. "You have to fight your way through Nails first."
Nails, who also worked for Snelling, was sitting nearby on a bale of hay, thoughtfully watching Gareth. Gareth had seen him in practice against others in Snelling's stable; he was quick and energetic and as lean as a spike of iron — hence his name. He had a shaggy cap of coffee-colored hair, a receding chin, several missing teeth, and fists that were disproportionately large for the rest of his body. He looked at Gareth and grinned.
"Why don't I fight him now?" Gareth asked, amiably slapping Dickie across the back as the two ended their practice session. He was pulsing with energy, more determined than ever to prove himself.
"I don't want you fighting him now; it'll spoil all the suspense of Friday's match," Snelling said.
"We'll just do a little sparring," Gareth countered dismissively. "What do you say, Nails? Care to give it a go?"
"Beats sittin' 'ere watchin' you 'ave all the fun!"
"All right, all right," Snelling muttered, waving Nails toward Gareth. "Get in there, then. But don't kill each other, that's all I ask. Save it for Friday night."
Grinning, Nails stripped off his shirt, put up his fists, and waded through the hay to meet Gareth. He got in the first hit, neatly getting under Gareth's guard and catching him a glancing blow off the chin. Gareth managed to block the next, but Nails was quicker than a mosquito. He was clever, seasoned, and strong, and Gareth, concentrating so hard on what he was doing that he promptly forgot all about Lucien, knew he was going to have his hands full on Friday night.
Thank God.
Another easy conquest like Bull O'Rourke and he would die of boredom.
The Wild One Page 63
