The Fighter and the Fallen Woman

by Pamela Cayne

  Mr. Adams’s smile faltered and Lady watched him tally lost money if King snapped or went too far and hurt himself. He thrust Lady at Shade without even glancing her way and raced into the ring. He grabbed King and pulled him off Brutus, then raised his arm and announced, “The finest brawler to ever walk London’s streets, I give you King!”

  As soon as he heralded his winner, Lady entered the ring to stand beside Mr. Adams. He liked it when he could exhibit her at the same time other men came over to congratulate him. And she couldn’t stand being under Shade’s protection. He was like his namesake—no light, no warmth.

  After King retreated to the fighters’ area to clean up and the last of the toadies slunk away, Mr. Adams led Lady back to their spot at the edge of the ring so they could watch the next fight. She settled in beside him.

  “Pet, why don’t you go take care of King? Show him some tender womanly care.” Mr. Adams lit up a new cigar. Lady looked at him, but he was watching the fighters being introduced. Mr. Adams never had her do anything that didn’t involve fucking or looking good on his arm. If he had any inkling how much the kiss—or King, for that matter—affected her, she could be in serious trouble.

  The referee called the start of the new fight and Mr. Adams looked at her with a relaxed smile. “Don’t you worry, pet, I know you’re not a nurse, but Mrs. Henderson told me you had some skill with healing when the girls were sick, so I thought you could keep an eye on King for me. Make certain he gets fixed up if he needs to, call a doctor if you think it best, but just keep an eye on him and make certain he gets anything he needs. I want him in top fighting shape, and if there’s anybody I can trust taking care of him and telling me how he really is, it’s you. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Lady?”

  “Why of course, Mr. Adams.” She ran one finger down the line of his jaw. This was the Mr. Adams she’d been trying to get back from King and Mr. Collins—pleased, comfortable, affable. It made it more difficult to determine why she was uneasy about his request. Perhaps because the information he was basing his decision on came from her former madam, still Mr. Adams’s business partner at his brothel. Mrs. Henderson hadn’t liked Lady since Mr. Adams started to pay her special attention, and she could see the madam trying to set her up for a harsh fall.

  “That’s my girl. And when King wins this tournament for me, plus an extra ten thousand from that fool American, I’m going to cover your body in emeralds and fuck them off.” He bit the curve of her breast, then pushed her toward the fighters’ area with the arm he had around her waist. Lady managed to relax a little and threw a naughty wink over her shoulder. Mr. Adams was sending her over to protect his investment, nothing more. If he truly suspected anything, he would have taken immediate action. He honestly wanted her to nurse King back to full health and keep him there throughout the tournament.

  She walked through the crowd, then stopped when she saw King. He sat on a low stool with his legs spread out in front of him, his arms crossed at the wrist over his stomach. His dark hair, not much longer than his two-day beard, combined with his hard build to give him a menacing look, like a man who’d just fought his way out of Bedlam. She’d been so relieved about Mr. Adams’s reasoning for throwing them together that she hadn’t thought of what nursing King would mean. Being close to him. Touching more than his hand. Her face up close to his as she looked at the injuries to his eyes, his nose, his jaw. Dear God, how was she going to make it through this tournament without discovering what kind of luck a second kiss would bring? And a third and more after that?

  She entered the fighters’ area, grabbed a small gray towel from a pile and dunked it into a bucket of tepid water. Squeezing it out, she told herself it was the strain of twisting the towel making her hands shake. Since coming under Mr. Adams’s care, she hadn’t had to do any cleaning. That’s all it was.

  Lady reached King, and seeing his eyes were closed, took the moment to study him further. His head rested against the brick wall behind him, and his expression was calm, as though he was sleeping. She could see a mark on his left cheek and the swelling underneath his already bruised eye from one of the driving blows Brutus had delivered. The knuckles on both hands were raw and bloody, and there was a red blemish on his stomach from another blow.

  She knelt down, wrapping her dress around her legs so it wouldn’t drag on the floor, and braced herself to touch him again. She pressed the towel to King’s knuckles. When he didn’t move, she glanced up at him, but his eyes were still closed. She dabbed harder, yet still no reaction. He couldn’t be asleep, so he was ignoring her for some reason. She hadn’t forgotten that it was King who’d grabbed her hand like he was drowning when they’d kissed. He felt something all right, he just wasn’t showing it. She grabbed his wrist and scrubbed at the drying blood on his hand.

  “I’m sure you’re cracking good at what you do, Lady, but as nurses go, I think Brutus would be more gentle,” King said.

  “I guess I was curious if you felt anything.” She dropped his hand back onto his stomach with the lack of gentleness he was accusing her of.

  “Do you?” he asked, then finally opened his eyes. Hundreds of men had looked at Lady, men who thought they were intelligent, witty, and possessed secrets mere mortals could not comprehend. But, opposed to the hundreds of men and their self-serving looks, King’s eyes showed pity.

  Lady met his eyes for one heartbeat more before returning her attention to his care. As she blotted at the blood on his knuckles, she studied his large, rough hands. His left had more scrapes than his right. The top joint of the pinkie on his right hand was a little crooked, and his nails were unusually clear of grime. She lifted his right hand and turned it over to tend to the underside. She made one pass with the damp towel over his wrist and palm and stopped when she saw a round, waxy scar the size of a shilling in the middle of his hand. She touched it gently and felt the raised texture of an old burn.

  “I heard a story of why he calls you King.” Lady couldn’t look up from the scar on King’s palm, nor could she stop running her finger over it.

  “Yeah?” King’s hand remained passive in her light grasp.

  “He said when he gave you that and you didn’t scream, he knew you could make him a king.” She didn’t have to say who told her the story and King didn’t have to ask. She glanced up at King before lowering her gaze back to his scar. “Is it true?” she asked. Mr. Adams claimed to have done it, and it certainly sounded like something he would do, but it wouldn’t be the first time Lady had discovered more fable to his story than truth.

  “Yes.”

  Lady didn’t release him, couldn’t. Holding his hand, but the back of it rather than the palm, let her retain some measure of control, no matter how fragile the illusion. Unless he moved, King couldn’t touch her, so she could explore her secret desire to learn the feel of him. Part of her was screaming a warning, telling her to stop looking at him so much, touching him this softly, but the other part of her was like the drunk with the brandy. Just one more drink.

  “And I heard why he calls you Lady,” he said softly.

  “Because he thinks I’ll make him a gentleman?” She met his eyes and laughed, trying to keep the mockery out of her voice. Careful not to touch any other part of him, she set his hand back atop the other and stood up. She walked around his legs and stopped at his left hip, then gathered up her skirts again and started to sink to her knees.

  “Wait,” King said and Lady froze halfway down and jerked her head up to look at him. He walked to an empty stool several steps away. As he leaned down to grab it, Lady wondered if he was doing what she thought he was doing, and slowly straightened up. He dropped it at her side and sat back down the way he had been before. “Now you won’t get your frock dirty.”

  “Thank you,” Lady said automatically, unable to take her eyes off him. He’d certainly shown her kindness before, though nothing as ordinary as getting a c
hair for her. Perhaps he was reacting to the kiss, after all.

  “I’m guessing Mr. Adams sent you over here,” King said, breaking into her flustered thoughts. “But I’m not sure why. I’ve been in fights before and he’s never sent somebody over to nurse my wounds.”

  Lady lowered herself to the stool and took King’s left hand. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at her, but the look was nothing more than curious. Lady relaxed. She could deal with that.

  “Mr. Adams likes to take care of his investments. You know that. Especially with so many wagers made on you. I’m here to make certain you get the care you need so you’re in top fighting form.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw Mr. Adams studying the fight. He would be watching for Jonathan’s weaknesses, already planning a strategy to win that bet.

  “You mean he likes to take care of his property.”

  Lady returned her attention to King’s bruised and bloody knuckles. “So is this the biggest tournament you’ve ever been in?” she asked. Light drawing room conversation in a dark and dirty warehouse.

  “I think it’s the biggest tournament ever, or at least that I’ve heard of, so I’d have to answer yes.” There was a trace of good humor to his tone, and she was relieved he let her change the conversation. “I met a fighter from Australia, here with his handler from America.”

  “Mr. Collins?” Lady wondered if there were more men from across the ocean here. An ocean away sounded like a nice place to be.

  “That’s right. The one talking to you and Mr. Adams earlier.”

  She glanced over her shoulder again, this time at Jonathan. He seemed to be having fun in his fight. She looked back to King, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “You should be watching the fight. You’ll probably face Jonathan at some point, you know.”

  “It’s only the first round. And judging by the way Mr. Adams is studying him, I won’t have to. He’ll tell me how to fight and I will.”

  The way King watched her was unnerving Lady. She was finally starting to understand him—his scars, his name, his shackles—the same burdens Lady carried as one of Mr. Adams’s investments, but she didn’t like that he could possibly see into her as deeply.

  Holding the towel loosely, she turned his hand palm up and looked at it. With the right, the burn was all she could see, but with this one she saw a webbing of lines that a gypsy could probably read like a book. Lady trailed one finger over those lines, wishing she could read them, as well. The way his hand flinched made her wonder if he was hurt, some tiny bone of his fist broken against Brutus’s head, but she couldn’t stop touching him. She let her finger lightly run up to an old scar at his wrist and wondered if he ever lay awake at night and felt like his soul was bruised too.

  “What if you want to choose?” she asked, not daring to fall into his eyes again. That way she couldn’t do anything foolish like tell him to run, get away, before it was too late. Take her with him. “Since you’re the fighter, it seems like you should be telling him how you’ll fight.”

  King rolled his wrist and grabbed the towel in his hand, using it to pull her closer as he leaned forward, stopping them inches from each other but not speaking until Lady met his eyes. They looked haunted, but that tempered strength so unique to him was there too. “You know as well as I do, Lady—with Mr. Adams, we never get to choose,” he said in a low voice. “Or are you telling me that cruel little bastard lets you tell him how to fuck?”

  Chapter Three

  Hannibal Adams, born George Leslie Tuttle, watched the fight with only half of his attention. With the other half he watched Lady tend to King, and with the third half he watched the people around him. All of those halves were the key to his success—he gave more effort than the people around him. That was how he got to be one of the wealthiest and most powerful businessmen of East London and that was why he’d renamed himself. George Tuttle wasn’t powerful. He didn’t command respect. Hannibal Adams was. Hannibal Adams did. Hannibal for the man who took what he wanted, conquering the Alps, and Adam for the first man, the perfect man, the man without whom there would be no other men.

  Yes, Hannibal Adams was a man to be reckoned with.

  Just then, King stood up so abruptly it drew all of Hannibal’s halves into a whole. He watched as King stalked off, rubbing his hands over his face and head again and again.

  “Well, well, well,” Hannibal said to himself. “It looks like King still has his blood up. I know how to take care of that.” Without even looking to see if the other man was watching, he beckoned Shade over with one hand. He took one deep, sweet puff of his cigar and by the exhale Shade was at his side.

  “Shade, go to the Red Door. Tell Mrs. Henderson to send one of the girls to see to our King tonight. Tell her to make the girl...active.” Hannibal smiled. He knew how to take care of his property. He grabbed Shade’s arm before he could walk away. “But not too active. I want King to burn off some energy, not be drained of it.”

  He returned his attention to the activities of the room. Lady hadn’t moved from her perch, and he took advantage of the view, from the slope of her neck to the lush fruits of her bottom. His cock stirred and he smiled, thinking of later tonight when he’d be fucking that lush bottom. As though she could feel his gaze, she looked over her shoulder and met his eyes. She had taken his grin for a command and rose to come to his side. Oh, yes, things were going delightfully well in Hannibal Adams’s world.

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  Hannibal turned his head only as far as necessary to see the American standing beside him. Bloody hell, did the man think they were long-lost brothers? He stuck his cigar between his teeth and turned back to the fight. “Worried about what?”

  “About how you’re pushing such a beautiful creature toward such a manly one,” Mr. Collins said and waved a prissy hand toward Lady. “And given her profession and all...”

  “When you tell a dog to sit, it sits,” Hannibal said, getting irritated with the American again. Give him a crooked harbormaster any day. They took their bribe and shut their mouth. “That is, if you’ve trained your dog well. And let me assure you, Collins,” he said, then bared his teeth in a wide smile, “I’ve got my dogs trained very well. They wouldn’t dare do anything they weren’t told to do. The bitch before Lady is now in a cheap grave because she was disloyal, and everybody who works for me knows I’ve got plenty more lots where that one is.”

  “It’s amazing what you can do with a whip and a meaty bone.” Collins laughed.

  “Well, I see I’m right in time for the sparkling conversation,” Lady said as she slid into Hannibal’s side, her arm draping over his shoulder. She sounded a little sharper than usual, and where that might usually irritate Hannibal, it didn’t tonight. She could flay Collins alive with the sharp side of her tongue if she wanted and he’d just stand back and laugh.

  “Lady, whenever you’re around everything appears more sparkling,” Collins said. He plucked her hand from her side and gently kissed the back, his eyes on hers the entire time.

  Hannibal saw this. Did he need to direct somebody one way or another? He was used to it with Lady, her angel’s face and duchess’s manner causing men to court her as such, but he wasn’t sure with Collins. He decided to wait it out, but would watch the American a little more carefully. Cheap graves accommodated Yank mongrels as well as British mutts.

  Collins released her hand and straightened, facing the fight as he did so. “I was set to tell Mr. Adams how Jonathan is strategizing the fight.”

  “And how is that?” Lady asked.

  “My way.” The American’s tone was as flat as his facial expression. Hannibal took a puff of his cigar and blew the smoke into the Yank’s face.

  “Jonathan,” Collins called. The fighter stopped in the middle of the bout and looked at his handler, earning a blow to the stomach for his change in attention. It did
n’t affect him more than a slight push would have. Collins simply nodded and Jonathan turned his attention back to his opponent. With a right-left-right combination of punches to the face, he dropped the man to the ground in less than five seconds.

  As the referee declared Jonathan the victor and the fallen man was dragged out of the arena, Hannibal wondered if either of his men could be that perfect a fighting machine. King seemed too independent, but Shade might be trained in time. If he could get even one of them half as ruthless, he would be unstoppable. He slid his hand down to Lady’s delicious ass and squeezed. Maybe he would still fuck her here. At least in the carriage. He was too hot and too hard now to wait much longer.

  “Now, Mr. Adams, I hate to go on when you obviously have other, more pressing matters to attend to, but I’d like to raise the stakes,” Collins said in that poncy way of his.

  He looked at Collins and raised his eyebrow.

  “In addition to the ten thousand pounds, I offer Jonathan against your King. Winner takes both fighters. Are you interested?”

  Hannibal felt a leap of excitement, but forced himself to hold it down. “Why should I get all weak in the knees for your boy, there? He’s not much taller than I am.”

  “Height does not a fighter make, Mr. Adams. You can ask the three stockmen Jonathan faced in an outback bar. Oh, wait a minute—you can’t. They’re dead.”

  He studied Collins and tried to read truth or lies in his face while he considered the wager. At worst, he lost the blunt and King. But at best—oh, at bloody best—he could be the new owner of that little knife of a fighting machine. It was too good a chance to pass up.

  “You’ve got yourself a bet.” Hannibal stuck his cigar in his mouth and offered his hand. As Collins shook on the bet, Hannibal almost grunted with satisfaction. Things were lining up even better now. Feeling a little more charitable with his adversary, he reached into his pocket for a card case. “Do you fancy some companionship while you’re here?” He watched as the American’s eyes flickered to Lady and knew now that this fish could be landed any time.