The Wild One

by Danelle Harmon

  ~~~~

  "What do you mean, you won't fight the Butcher tonight?" Panicking, Snelling waved Lord Gareth into Swanthorpe's lavishly appointed parlor, impatiently gesturing for a servant to bring a decanter of wine and two glasses. "Everyone in town's talking about this fight! People are coming from three counties to see it! You can't back out on me now, it'll be a damned mob scene!"

  The young fighter was adamant. "Forget it, Snelling. I am not doing it."

  Snelling's heart was pounding, then racing, as he tried frantically to think of a way to salvage this emergency situation. Calm down! he told himself, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his breeches. Find out what the problem is and then do what you have to do to get him back on course. "Now, you sit right there and tell me what's wrong," he soothed, using the parental tone that had often worked with other nervy young fighters. But he knew he'd taken the wrong approach the moment he saw the sudden coolness in Lord Gareth's pale eyes; the lad might be confused, possibly even scared, but he was certainly not a boy.

  Bloody hell, does he know? He can't know, only Woodford and I know, he's just got a case of nerves, that's all it is!

  He began sweating as he thought of how much money he'd wagered on the Scot and nearly keened with terror. I'll lose everything I own if he doesn't meet the Butcher tonight!

  "I've had a bellyful, that's what's wrong," Lord Gareth said simply. "What more explanation do you need?"

  That cool blue gaze bored into his.

  Snelling began to fidget. The perspiration was already beading on his brow, and he was thankful when the servant arrived with the wine. His hand shaking, he poured two glasses, setting one in front of Lord Gareth — who, he noted, looked at it the way he might a poisonous adder and declined to touch it. Did he know? Did he?

  "Ah, so that's it, you've lost your courage, then!" Snelling said. He wiped his brow and managed to find his politician's smile somewhere down in the abyss into which it had fallen. "Happens to the best of them, you know. And you are the best, Gareth, probably the best in all England. Knew it the first time I saw you fight." He gulped his wine. "Now, I know you might be a little nervous but that's understandable, after all, the Butcher's got a reputation to strike fear into the heart of anyone; but damn, that shouldn't scare you, there's not a man in England who can hit like you. Why, look at the two worthies you've already defeated! Three, if you count Joe Lumford back in London! You're a natural, lad. A damned natural. You'll take the Butcher down by the third round. I'll lay money on it!"

  Lord Gareth only stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his eyes bleak.

  "I know, I know, it's because of what happened to Nails, isn't it? Now, Gareth, that was an accident. You can't be blaming yourself for what happened —"

  "I don't." The pale blue eyes looked at him directly, almost accusingly. "I just don't want to fight the Butcher tonight. In fact, I don't want to fight anyone. I am through, Snelling. I've lost my stomach for it."

  "But" —

  Lord Gareth stood up. "I am taking my family and going home."

  A torrent of raw, uncontrollable rage blew through Snelling, nearly blinding him. His hands trembled with the effort it took to remain calm, and he knew, wildly, that if he'd had a gun, he would've pulled it out and shot this arrogant young rake dead in his tracks. But he had no gun. He had only the terrifying knowledge of how much money he'd put on the Butcher tonight — and how much he would lose if Lord Gareth did not fight.

  "You can't leave me like this!" he all but shouted. "Damn you, de Montforte, we had an agreement!"

  "And I have a wife and daughter. I don't want them ending up like Nails's family if something should happen to me. I don't want my wife mourning me, nor my little girl growing up without a papa." He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. "Goodbye, Snelling."

  Snelling shot to his feet and raced around the table. "My, oh, my," he said, flinging all caution to the wind, "I never thought that you, of all people, would turn out to be such a lily-livered coward. You, a de Montforte!"

  Lord Gareth paused, and Snelling was reminded of how very tall and formidable this young man actually was. How powerfully muscled he was beneath that loose shirt — and how very foolish he himself was for provoking him so. He caught his breath, fearing he was going to be the next person to feel Lord Gareth's fist — but no, the Wild One had himself tightly under control, no longer the impulsive hotspur he'd been that night at Mrs. Bottomley's. "I would call you out for such a remark," the younger man said evenly, with a cool smile that only made the coming insult worse, "but I make it a practice to duel exclusively with gentlemen — not those who aspire to be. Good evening, Snelling."

  "Wait!" Snelling tossed back his wine and leaped over the sofa, desperate to reach the door before Lord Gareth did. Gasping, he flattened his back against it and gazed up at his fighter with panicked eyes. Lord Gareth merely stared right through him and kept coming, and for a moment Snelling thought he was simply going to pick him up and throw him out of the way. "Listen," he said, grinning broadly and spreading his hands in supplication. He knew he was begging, but he was desperate, unable to help himself. "I've put a lot of money and time into promoting this match between you two. I've given you a home, a livelihood, and a name for yourself. And this is how you think to repay me?"

  "I don't owe you a damned thing, Snelling. Now, stand aside."

  "But —"

  Lord Gareth simply reached around him, found the latch, and pushed the door open. Snelling stumbled, nearly fell. And now Lord Gareth was striding past him and down the hall, his footfalls echoing off the walls and high ceiling.

  "Wait!" Snelling cried, knowing he would give ten years of his life to possess that elegant, bred-in-the-bone grace; another ten for that cool, aristocratic arrogance —

  And everything he owned if only he could get the young rakehell to fight tonight.

  "Lord Gareth!"

  The tall figure was almost into the foyer now.

  "Lord Gareth! What will it take for me to get you to do this fight? A thousand pounds? Two thousand? Name your price, Gareth, and if you win, you shall have it!"

  His words reverberated through the hall.

  The young man paused at the threshold of the open door, looking out onto a hundred acres of wheat, rye and barley, and some of the most fertile ground in Berkshire. Above his head was Swanthorpe's gorgeous leaded fanlight; beneath that, the de Montforte coat of arms, forever enshrined in the stone.

  Lord Gareth's fair head tipped back as he, too, looked up and saw his family's arms above the door. He stood there for a moment, just gazing at that carving in the stone. And then, very slowly, he turned. His face was perfectly calm, his gaze almost triumphant.

  "Very well then, Snelling," he said. "I want Swanthorpe Manor."