The Rogue's Conquest (Townsend series)

by Maxton, Lily

  A second chance? Her heart lifted on a pulse of hope.

  “Did he say anything about Lady Sarah?”

  “No,” Robert said. “But I happened to see Lady Sarah yesterday, and she wanted me to pass along a message to you. She said before she’d even had a chance to speak to MacGregor about a topic you and she had discussed, he apologized ‘for everything,’ and rushed out of the ball he was attending. She hasn’t heard from him since.” Robert paused, and then added, “I don’t know why everyone seems to think I’m your message runner.”

  Eleanor’s hope, poised so precariously, took flight. Her heart didn’t just lift, it soared.

  James hadn’t proposed to Sarah. He hadn’t even tried.

  And now, he was fighting Thomas Clark. Despite his father’s disdain. Despite all the things he’d thought he wanted. All because of what she’d said.

  This fight was for her.

  She smiled, her first true smile in days, and shook her head, and then she laughed, pressing her fingers to her lips in an attempt to stem the awkward tide of her happiness. But happiness as deep and rich as what she felt in that moment couldn’t be contained so easily, and it bubbled forth like a spring.

  Good Lord, she was a mess.

  Robert cocked his head. “Is it what you wanted?”

  Yes, somehow, it was exactly what she’d wanted. She set the paper down and tried to keep the stupid smile from her face. “We will, of course, be going to the fight,” she said primly.

  “For the record, I think it’s a bad idea.” Robert did not sound surprised, but he didn’t sound enthused, either.

  “I know it’s frowned upon for women to attend these events. George and I can go in disguise,” she said, as though it was obvious.

  Now her brother looked alarmed. “You’re not going to resurrect Cecil, are you?”

  “No, I think hooded cloaks will suffice this time.”

  Robert shook his head. “I don’t know why I let you embark on these wild schemes.”

  “Come now, I can’t possibly do anything more scandalous than what I’ve already done.”

  “Anything is possible,” he said darkly.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The days after Eleanor learned of the fight passed agonizingly slowly, but according to Robert, anticipation was steadily building. It was not often that impromptu matches occurred between London’s champion and one of Edinburgh’s own. Bets were placed. Ballads were composed. The city was tense and poised, waiting.

  Eleanor felt like the city—restless, waiting. She barely slept the night before the fight.

  And then the morning dawned, cold and gray. Snowflakes drifted as gently as goose down. They caught in Eleanor’s hair and eyelashes before she drew her hood around her face.

  Robert muttered something about locking them in their rooms for the next twenty years. Robert, fortunately for his sisters, was too softhearted to ever really contemplate such a thing, no matter how many inappropriate things they did, or how much he grumbled about them.

  The fight was in a secluded place, as most prizefights were. They took a carriage to the outskirts of town, and then walked toward a small clearing near a wooded lot. A large crowd had already gathered around a makeshift ring—two ropes stretched along wooden posts—trampling the frosted grass under uncaring boots.

  The three siblings worked their way through the throng, and Eleanor’s heart squeezed when she saw James standing by the corner of the ring, his breath fogging with each measured one that he released.

  As though he could sense her gaze, he looked up, and then, though everything in her wanted to barrel toward him, she paced across the grass with even, measured clips, because she was not a barrel-er.

  Different emotions flitted across his face—longing, worry, desire—none of them winning out completely, and then he was striding toward her, too.

  “Eleanor,” he said, when they met halfway. They stopped just short of touching.

  “James.” She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d walked away from her, and she suddenly realized that a lack of desire to marry Sarah didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to jump into marriage with Eleanor straightaway. Her throat constricted.

  “You came.” He sounded in awe of the fact.

  “You asked me to,” she said, more breathlessly than she’d intended. She ruthlessly smoothed her voice. “You didn’t ask Sarah to marry you, then.”

  “No.”

  “But it was everything you’ve been working toward. You’ve centered your life around the desire to win the hand of Lady Sarah. Or not Lady Sarah, specifically, but a woman who epitomizes what she represents.”

  He smiled slightly. “You make me sound like a cur.”

  “Well, you are, in a way.”

  He laughed, but when he responded, he sounded as serious as she’d ever heard him. “It didn’t seem important.” At her heavy stare, he elaborated. “I was at the ball and I was ready to ask her and I was so sure it was what I wanted, and suddenly, I was thinking of you, and it didn’t seem that important anymore.

  “My whole life,” he continued, “my whole life I’ve spent looking ahead. Thinking about how to get ahead. Planning how to achieve my goals, because if I didn’t have plans, what did I have? And then you come along, with your cabinets of insects and your pert tongue, and I thought I would use you. I saw how you would fit into my plans. And then you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Fit,” he exclaimed. “You simply came along and blew everything to pieces without even meaning to. You are gunpowder, Eleanor Townsend.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. “It’s not a very romantic metaphor, is it?” She was pleased with it, all the same.

  “I’m not very good with romance,” he admitted. “But it’s the truth.” Finally, he touched her, his hands wrapping softly around her elbows. “And this is true, too…Eleanor, I—”

  Her heart raced. “Stop.”

  He huffed and stared down at her. “Why?”

  Because she wanted James to have something extra to strive for. Because she’d seen the Duke of Sheffield in the crowd, and she hoped James could wipe the smirk from his face. She had never been a violent sort of person, but she very much wanted James to beat Thomas Clark into the ground.

  “Whatever you’re going to say, tell me after. After you’ve beat him. After you’ve won.”

  “Stubborn woman,” he said, but he didn’t press.

  Just then, she caught sight of a man who was about the same breadth as James, but an inch or two taller. He smiled at them, a razor-edged, glinting, war cry of a smile, and she saw that two of his teeth were missing. “Is that him?”

  “That’s him,” James said.

  “He’s…” Terrifying. Intimidating. “Large.”

  “Aye. I am, too.”

  He rested his chin on the top of her head. She could feel the tautness in him, though he tried to hide it.

  “I’ve been reading accounts of other fights.” She’d been trying to prepare herself, though she wasn’t certain that anything could really prepare her, especially when she’d read the accounts of fights that went on for rounds and rounds, hours and hours. Fights where men died.

  “I think there should be a limited number of rounds,” she suddenly said. “It seems ludicrous to not have a limit.”

  He laughed. “What if no one gave up and both men remained standing? There would be no victor.”

  “Judges could decide,” she said.

  “Too subjective.”

  “It would be safer, though.”

  “I’ve done this before,” he said softly. “I know my limits.”

  “Are you frightened?” she asked quietly.

  “Not for myself. It’s just…no other fight has meant this much. You make things…clearer, but sharper, too.”

  She hoped no one was watching, but it didn’t matter if they were. She lunged forward and pressed a hard kiss to his mouth. She savored that kiss, though it was all too brief and a
little awkward.

  And then she blurted it out anyway, even though she’d been planning to wait. It was like a box filled too full. It simply spilled out, uncontainable.

  “I love you,” she said as she backed away quickly.

  The feeling was as natural as breathing and saying it was, too. She loved him. She loved his arrogance, and his strength, and the fears he buried deep, and his humor, and his gaudy waistcoats—though she would never, ever admit that last part. He would be too smug about it.

  James looked dazed, and happy, and then annoyed. He glared at her. “You said—”

  “I know what I said.”

  She ducked into the crowd before he could respond.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  James stared after Eleanor as she disappeared into the mass of bodies, torn between the desire to laugh and the impulse to rush after her, kiss her, and whisper into her mouth what she’d refused to hear. She wasn’t just stubborn. She was impossible.

  “What in God’s name has put that stupid smile on your face?”

  James spun around, though he’d know that deep, cool voice anywhere. “Your Grace.”

  The Duke of Sheffield stood behind him—of course—looking like James was horse dung on his shoe—of course.

  A song drifted toward them, though it was more yelled than sung. James caught a few lines about haggis being shoved into a part of Thomas Clark’s anatomy where it probably shouldn’t go. The Duke of Sheffield heard it, too. His lips pursed at the corners.

  “These are your people. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  James lifted his shoulder carelessly. “Your people are here, too.”

  The duke ignored that. “Do you think you can possibly win?”

  “I do.”

  “Even if you do,” the duke said in a quiet voice, “this is all you’ll ever be. You were born in the dirt, and you’ll die in the dirt. Why did you think you could be anything else?”

  Once, this would have cut James to the quick. It still cut, it still hurt, but not as deeply. It was a flesh wound, not a mortal one.

  “Did you love my mother?” he asked, just as quietly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must have,” he said. “A long time ago, maybe, but you must have. Because she loved you, and I don’t think she would have fallen in love without encouragement.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “Do you ever look at your wife and picture a Highland lass? Do you ever hear her laugh and think of another woman? Do you lie next to her and hear someone else’s breathing? You must. She wouldn’t have loved you if you didn’t care about her in return. You must.” His brogue was seeping out at the edges, but for once, he didn’t ruthlessly contain it.

  He was the son of a Highlander. Denying that was the same as denying his mother’s love.

  The duke didn’t answer, but the paleness of his face, the harsh brackets around his mouth, told James that he wasn’t wrong.

  “She was beneath me,” he said. James could tell he believed this, fully.

  “You are a very pathetic man,” James returned. And this, he believed fully.

  His stomach might still lurch a bit when he saw the Duke of Sheffield. He still might admire his clothes and his power and his cool, cool confidence, but all of those things were starting to look a little empty, now that he knew what it was to feel whole. They looked like dressing to disguise a hollow heart.

  And James was starting to realize he’d rather have a full heart than all the extravagant dressings in the world.

  He wanted happiness.

  He wanted Eleanor.

  “Thomas Clark is going to tear you apart,” the duke said.

  James grinned. “He’s welcome to try. I’m resilient. I take after my mother.”

  With a disgusted noise, the duke left, and James warmed up for the fight.

  …

  Thomas Clark was one quick bastard. Almost as soon as the referee stepped out of the way, he darted forward and managed to hit James in the stomach. Luckily, James was quick, too. By the time the punch landed, he was already dancing away, and the force was indirect.

  He narrowed all of his focus onto his opponent. He blocked out the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Blocked out the knowledge that Eleanor was watching him. The world narrowed to him and Clark and their fists.

  They danced around each other for several minutes, eyeing each other’s weaknesses, measuring, testing.

  James feinted one way, then lunged another, and landed a hard blow against Clark’s jaw, but the motion brought him within Clark’s reach. The other man pressed him into a headlock and ripped out a chunk of his hair. James was starting to feel faint when he managed to jab Clark in the ribs with his elbow.

  He pushed away from him, putting some distance between them. His scalp burned unpleasantly.

  “Bastard,” he said for good measure. The other man hadn’t done anything that wasn’t allowed, but still, it hurt like the devil.

  Clark grinned.

  The next time Clark came for him, he didn’t back away fast enough. Clark’s knuckles smashed into his mouth, and he felt his lip cut against his teeth. He tasted iron.

  “First blood!” Clark shouted.

  This was met by the triumphant cries of people who’d bet against James on first blood, and the disappointed shouts of the people who’d bet for him. He wiped his bloody mouth. It didn’t matter. Plenty of boxers had won first blood and lost the fight.

  He couldn’t let an early misstep shake him.

  If he did that, he’d be done before he’d even started.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eleanor watched as James visibly shook himself and then clenched his teeth with new determination. She could feel Robert glancing at her to make sure she was all right, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the ring.

  It was horrible, yes. Every time Clark reached for James, her stomach dropped, and every time he actually managed to hit him, or grab onto him, it turned into a lead pit. She found herself whispering under her breath, pleading for his safety to whatever deities might be listening.

  But it was also strangely beautiful—oddly intimate—to see him like this. His body was slick with sweat, his muscles straining, red staining his mouth like wine.

  They were both very good, she could tell—graceful and quick and powerful in a way that only a pugilist could be. This was James in his element. This was an opponent who matched him, who possibly outmatched him. It was a grappling, grunting battle for dominance, a battle, not just between their bodies, but of their wills.

  It was a dance, in the same way that making love was a dance, but different, too. It was brutal and charged and dangerous. Sweat and blood. Violence and power.

  No, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  James was beautiful, even as he fell to his knees.

  The first round was over.

  A man, James’s second, yelled at him from beyond the ropes, urging him to stand up. And James, who was not a quitter, and who, hopefully, knew his limits, pushed to his feet.

  He grinned at Clark, mouth still bloody, spat, and stepped forward again. Eleanor’s heart surged.

  Eventually, James drew Clark’s blood, too, and both men were a mess, but neither of them capitulated. James threw Clark to the ground to end the second round, but the man, who was just as stubborn as his opponent, stood up again.

  The next few rounds were a blur, a flurry of fists and motion.

  Clark was worried. His jaunty smirks from the first round had disappeared. Eleanor assumed he’d thought this would be a quick victory and was shocked when it wasn’t. After he was thrown down, he fought harder, struck faster, like a cornered animal.

  James returned hit for hit. But he was tiring. They were both tiring.

  Eleanor’s hands were squeezed into fists of her own. For all she knew, she was drawing blood, too, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the man in front of her.

  She found herself shouting encouragement,
even when Robert tried to shush her. Unladylike, awful things like “Knock him down” and then, after a particularly dirty, below-the-belt hit that the referee didn’t catch, ”Hit him in the face!”

  Eleanor knew James heard her. His shoulders straightened. He seemed invigorated, like her voice had spilled new life into him.

  He pummeled Clark, diving in quick, hitting quick, backing away before the other man could touch him.

  He grinned sharply, a grin that felt like it was made for her, and her alone, and then he threw a punch that collided with Clark’s face—and, if she wasn’t mistaken, dislodged another tooth.

  Shortly after James’s fist collided with Clark’s face, Clark’s body collided with the ground. He spat out blood, nearly hitting James’s shoes, which might have been intentional, tried to push himself up, and then fell back with a weak groan.

  His second was snarling something at him, but he shook his head. “No,” Eleanor heard him gasp, “I’m finished.”

  There was a pause. A hush. A moment of searing triumph.

  And then the crowd erupted.

  Eleanor, who was not prone to wild displays but who couldn’t control her excitement, screamed more loudly than any of them, heart thrashing against her chest.

  She was still screaming when Robert grabbed her arm in one hand, and Georgina’s in another, and tugged them toward the carriage.

  “Wait,” she said, as Robert moved to hand them up. “What if he looks for us?” They shouldn’t be too difficult to spot if he came this way. Most of the spectators were still at the prize ring.

  Reluctantly, Robert acquiesced, leaning against the side of their carriage. “Bollocks, it’s cold,” he muttered, folding his arms.

  “Robert!” Georgina reprimanded.

  He scoffed. “I’m quite certain you just heard any number of worse things in less than an hour.”

  “That was strangely exhilarating,” Georgina mused, almost voicing Eleanor’s own thoughts. “Let’s not tell Theo we were here.”

  Eleanor laughed shakily.

  About five minutes later, a tall figure appeared, trudging toward them. James had cleaned himself off with a linen towel that hung around his neck, but he was still shirtless, and the gleam of victory was still bright in his eyes.