Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

  And damn, if he wasn't hearing things on top of it all. He could have sworn ...

  "Paul, it's Charity! Behind you! Look at me!"

  He bolted upright. Staggered to his feet. Spinning around, he saw ... the blow to his stomach was worse than any Barnes had delivered.

  "What are you doing here?" he yelled.

  "I came to see you win!" his wife shouted back. She was struggling, held back by one of the guards hired to protect the ring.

  The sight of a man's hands on her sent a fresh sizzle through Paul's blood. He started forward, a growl in his throat. It took both Fogg and Stickley to restrain him.

  "Don't be daft!" the latter said. "You'll forfeit if you leave the ring now."

  "Paul, you have to win, do you hear me?" Charity's small face bobbed in the crowd. "Damn Garrity—I bet our future on it, all six thousand pounds! I need you to win, my love—I know you can do it!"

  Paul reeled as if he'd been punched. Everything she had ... she'd bet on him.

  Because she loves me.

  "Win and we'll be free, my darling!" Her cries were drowned out by the eager mob, who roared to see more bloodshed. "I believe in you, Apollo Fines!"

  She believes in me.

  "Fifteen seconds," Stickley warned.

  "Fix my eye," Paul said tersely. "Can't fight if I can't see."

  The bottleman produced a razor, wielded it with methodical precision. A tiny, swift cut released the blood from Paul's eyelid. Stickley applied clotting powder and gave him a shove toward the chalked line in the middle of the ring. He stumbled there with a second to spare.

  He had no more time to think. His waiting opponent loomed over him.

  "Ready for more of a pounding?" Barnes sneered, cracking his blood-splattered knuckles.

  Wearily, Paul eyed his adversary. The Goliath gleamed, a tower of sweat-covered muscles, bloodlust flaring in his eyes. In comparison, Paul hurt from head to toe, his strength sapped. But Charity’s voice, her spirit, recharged him. Energy buzzed through his throbbing muscles. A shot of clarity burned away the exhausted fog.

  She believes in me. I can't let her down. I have to win.

  He knew Barnes' weaknesses. The man was all brawn and no brains. He had powerful fists but lacked movement and speed. An overconfident brawler through and through. Paul flashed to his own training, all the mornings he'd risen before dawn to hit a bag, run the country hills. A true boxer always beats a brawler. All Paul had to do was use the other's strength to his own advantage.

  I can do this.

  "Yes, I'm ready," Paul said, gritting his teeth. "I'm ready to pound you into the ground."

  With a snarl, Barnes took the first swipe.

  Paul dodged, air whipping the place where his head had been a second earlier. With lightning speed, he went in low, his fist connecting with Barnes' midsection. It was like punching a boulder, and pain jolted through his arm. He ignored it, following through with alternating jabs, finding the chinks in the other's defenses. Ducking blows, he drove the other backward into the ropes. A right cross to the jaw finished the job, and with a stunned look, Barnes dropped to the ground.

  "Round to Fines!" one of the umpires shouted.

  Barnes was back on his feet within seconds. Swiping sweat from his eyes, he charged like an enraged bull. Paul sidestepped, and the other flew past him, bouncing off the ropes.

  "You bloody flea! I'm going to squash you!" Barnes roared.

  Paul replied with a beckoning gesture aimed at tempting the beast. Barnes came at him again, swinging fists that would have felled trees. Paul kept on the balls of his feet, executing defensive maneuvers that seemed to madden the other who swung harder, faster, sweat pouring down his face. Paul kept the dance going, and Barnes wasted more and more of his strength.

  Soon, Barnes' punches slowed, lost momentum. At this moment, Paul struck, delivering quick, pounding blows to the torso that knocked Barnes down again.

  Paul won this round and the next. They were neck-to-neck, eight rounds apiece.

  But Barnes would not stay down.

  Barnes came at him with a right hook. Paul's arm came up to block the blow, and the instant he realized his mistake—that he'd been taken by a feint—was an instant too late. Barnes' uppercut caught him squarely in the chin.

  Black lines waved across Paul's vision; he teetered on his feet.

  He swayed away from the incoming attack, the power behind that cross whooshing air against his face. He shook his head to clear it, blocked another attack. Barnes clinched him, aiming punishing blows to his kidneys.

  "The match is mine, you worthless git," the other shouted.

  Sudden fire blazed through Paul. With his last reserve of strength, he wrestled free of Barnes' hold, plowing his fist into the other's gut as he did so.

  "I. Am. Not. Worthless," he spat, bouncing on his feet.

  By now, the crowd was deafening; Paul blocked it out. His concentration opened the portals to another realm, one governed by clarity, stillness. Charity's scent, her touch flitted through him like a charge. The sweet science flowed through his being, and he gave himself over to its transcendence. His muscles hummed with power, his every movement directed by instinct. He floated, his feet barely touching the ground before he took flight again, dodging and twisting. His fists hit their mark with the deadly swiftness of a bee's sting.

  Two jabs to the face.

  He heard the cracking of bone.

  Right cross.

  Blood flew.

  Bob, block, hook him by the neck.

  Barnes weaved, unsteady on his feet, and Paul closed in, locking his arm around the bigger man's neck. He held Barnes in position as he rammed his fist into the other's face. Over and again, until the other sagged to his knees, no longer struggling.

  Paul released him.

  Gravity did the rest.

  Barnes slumped to the ground, moaning.

  Lungs burning, sweat pouring down his face, Paul waited for the count. Barnes' second crouched next to the fallen fighter, prodding to no avail.

  "Time's up. Jem Barnes is defeated!" one of the umpires shouted.

  The other umpire grabbed Paul's arm and held it up. "The winner of the match—and of the Fancy tournament—is Apollo Fines!"

  Pandemonium exploded.

  Paul noticed none of it.

  He shoved through the throng that surged forward to congratulate him. He hopped the rope, his gaze roving wildly.

  "Charity!" he shouted into the mob. "Charity—where are you?"

  "Here!"

  He spotted her waving at him, her small face a shining beacon in the crowd. He tore past bodies to get to her. The instant he gathered her in his arms, the world disappeared, and all he saw was the love in her eyes.

  "I won," he said hoarsely.

  "I knew you would," she said.

  His hand shook with the force of his emotions as he stroked her cheek. "A great hulking brawler like Barnes couldn't take me down. But you, my sweet nymph, you slay me with a look. With a smile. A touch." He thumbed away her tears. "Distance may separate us, but I'll always feel your power in me. I love you. More than anything."

  "And I love you, my Apollo," she whispered.

  "Before I kiss you," he said, "do you mind if I do something?"

  She smiled up at him. "Anything."

  With a swift tug, he removed her fake mustache. She yelped.

  "I'll kiss it better," he promised.

  He was a man who kept his vows.

  With the sweetest of sighs, his wife melted into his arms.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The next hour flew by.

  Charity watched on proudly as Paul accepted congratulations from members of the Fancy. They presented him with a handsome silver cup and an equally handsome purse of five thousand pounds—to be split with Lord Traymore, who grinned from ear to ear as he accepted slaps on the back from his friends.

  Afterward, Charity had her own transaction to complete. The none-too-pleased bookmaker marched h
er to his carriage and counted out her money. Her winnings plus her initial stake added up to seventy-eight thousand pounds.

  A fortune.

  Dazed, she didn't know what she found more fantastic: the fact that the bookmaker shoved the stack of banknotes at her ... or that her winnings scarcely made a dent in the pile of money she glimpsed in his trunk.

  Mrs. Stone, her retinue, and Paul were waiting for Charity outside by the ring—or what remained of it. The stakes had been pulled, the chalk wiped. The only evidence remaining of the match was four divots and dark splotches on the dusty ground.

  Charity shuddered at the stains. She looked up at her husband's smiling face: his left eye had swollen up again, an assortment of bruises decorating his cheeks and jaw. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she planted her face against his chest.

  "It's not as bad as it looks," he murmured into her hair.

  "That's good," she said, her voice muffled, "because it looks terrible. I brought some salve."

  "A barrel or two should cover it," he said, a smile in his voice.

  "You've both accomplished quite a bit today, and I daresay it's time to go home," Mrs. Stone remarked.

  Raising her head, Charity looked over at the actress, who'd switched back to feminine garb. The gold tassels on her walking dress à la militaire swayed and gleamed in the rays of the setting sun.

  "All's well that ends well," Mrs. Stone said. "Now that the excitement's over, I should be off. I'll leave you two lovebirds to celebrate."

  Charity exhaled. "Before you go, there's something I wish to say."

  "Indeed?" The other's timbre was neutral; the only thing that betrayed unease was a slight stiffening of her shoulders. "I think you made yourself quite clear earlier. You needn't worry, my dear. I know today changes nothing between us."

  "I can never forget the past," Charity said.

  "I understand. It was foolish of me to expect otherwise."

  "What you did to me—and to Father—was abhorrent."

  "Without a doubt, I have sinned against you. Against Uriah?" Mrs. Stone shrugged. "We'll have to agree to disagree."

  Charity swallowed. "I don't think of you as my mother."

  "Why would you?" Mrs. Stone's mouth twisted. "I haven't been one, have I?"

  "But mayhap ..."—Charity released a breath and the words rushed out with it—"mayhap one day we could grow to be friends."

  Marietta Stone blinked. Then her eyes shut, and when she opened them, a single tear trickled down her cheek. "I should like that above all things," she whispered.

  "Ah, Mr. Fines." A sinister voice dispelled the tender moment. "Just who I was looking for."

  Charity spun to see Garrity approaching. His cadre of cutthroats followed in his wake.

  Paul pushed her and Mrs. Stone behind him. Mrs. Stone's footmen joined him, forming a wall against the oncoming threat. But there was no doubting Garrity's advantage: he had at least a dozen men to their four.

  "This business concerns Mr. Fines only," Garrity said. "The rest of you are free to leave."

  Charity peered from behind Paul's shoulder. "I'm not leaving my husband."

  "And I'm not leaving my daughter," Mrs. Stone said.

  "How touching," Garrity said with contempt.

  "I think so," came a new voice.

  Relief spread through Charity at the arrival of Mr. Hunt and his footmen.

  "Bloody ripper of a fight, Fines." He cuffed Paul on the arm, a grin on his scarred face.

  Paul winced, rubbing his limb. "Christ, watch it, will you?"

  "Harteford sends his congratulations, too," Mr. Hunt said. "He'll be right along. Broken axel."

  "Fines, this is between you and me," Garrity said between his teeth.

  "Fines is family. What involves my family involves me," Mr. Hunt said.

  "You failed to keep your end of the bargain, Fines," Garrity snarled. "That's twice now you've ruined my plans. Today you will render payment—in one fashion or another."

  Alarm shot through Charity at the menacing words, at the way the men all tensed, some of them reaching to their pockets for weapons.

  Quickly, she called out, "How much do we owe you?"

  "What are you doing? Stay back," Paul hissed.

  "How much?" she repeated.

  Garrity pinned her with an icy gaze. "Your father owed me thirty thousand pounds. I bet another five thousand that your husband would lose the match."

  "Thirty-five thousand and we're free and clear?"

  "You've exhausted my patience. I'm collecting on my debt now." Garrity signaled his men, who advanced with eager menace.

  Paul and the others readied to meet them.

  "Wait!" Charity withdrew a sheaf of banknotes from her jacket, waved it like a flag. "I have your money here!"

  Garrity held up a hand; his men fell back.

  "Bring it here," he said.

  "Charity," Paul grated out.

  "Let me go. I know what I'm doing, my love." She gave him a reassuring smile; emotions warred on his face before he slowly lowered his arm.

  She slipped by and went to face Garrity. Counting out the money, she handed it over.

  He, of course, recounted it. "There's forty thousand here," he said curtly.

  "The extra is for your trouble. I wish to wipe the slate clean between us."

  His mouth curled. "You think money will accomplish this?"

  "My father should not have bartered with my future when it wasn't his to decide. You should not have sent your brutes to collect." Her gaze steady, she said, "So, yes, I would say that we are even. Please take this money: after all, it is what you wanted."

  His gaze roved over her. After a moment, he pocketed the sum.

  He leaned toward her and said softly, "Not everything I wanted."

  Charity blinked.

  With a curt bow, he left, his men following behind him.

  The next instant, Paul seized her into his arms.

  "What did Garrity say to you?" he demanded.

  "Nothing of import." Peering up at his beautiful, battered, and scowling face, she risked a smile. "Can we please go home now? I'm feeling a bit peaked."

  "My wife goes to a boxing match dressed like a lad, wagers her future, confronts a cutthroat—and now she's peaked," Paul muttered.

  But in the next instant, he swept her up and strode toward their carriage.

  Laughter rang behind them.

  Blushing, she protested, "Put me down. Your injuries—you must ache all over."

  "In one place, especially." His kiss brimmed with laughter and love, the sweetness of their future. Against her lips, he murmured, "But I can depend on you to ease me, can't I, my steadfast darling?"

  "Yes," she said.

  She spent the ride home demonstrating that she was indeed capable of that ... and more.

  EPILOGUE

  The main problem with house parties, Paul decided, was that they deprived one of sleep. With doors opening and closing all night long as various guests sought out their sport for the evening, a fellow could scarcely get in a wink. And that wasn't accounting for the female company present in his own bed. Between the pair of them, he hadn't gotten much rest at all.

  Then again, he thought, his lips curving, the lack of sleep had been worth it.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of his daughter's downy blond head, tucked securely in the crook of his right arm. Miss Prudence Anna Fines' rosebud mouth puckered in reflex, but she did not awaken … thank God.

  Despite her angelic appearance, the four-month-old imp was more than capable of raising hell and had proved that again last night. At wit's end, the beleaguered nurse had come knocking on the door, bearing the inconsolable infant. The instant Pru had nestled into her papa's arms, however, she'd calmed instantly, cooing and batting her impossibly long eyelashes at him.

  In this way, Pru took after her mama.

  Smiling, Paul turned his head to the other side, his chest swelling even further. Charity lay sleeping within the cove
of his other arm. Her short, silky curls tumbled over his shoulder, and her bosom rose and fell in deep, even movements. As always, the sight of his wife released quiet joy, a bone-deep contentment within him.

  Thanks to her, the past year had been the happiest of his life.

  After winning the title, he'd retired from prizefighting. Since Charity had bet all her savings on him and won, they'd found themselves rich, even after paying off Garrity. Thus, they'd had the luxury of making decisions based on their hearts' desires and what they most wanted from their future together.

  They'd bought a house, close to his mama's.

  They'd made a precious child.

  Paul had opened up his boxing club, and Charity had decided to close Sparkler's.

  When she'd first told him of her plans to sell the shop, Paul had been stunned.

  "Are you certain, sweeting?" he'd said. "I thought that keeping the shop and preserving your father's legacy was what you wanted."

  "So did I, at first. Now I realize that it isn't the shop itself that I want, but a home. And the true legacy that I want to pass on is love." Her hand resting on her burgeoned belly, she'd smiled at him. "Now that I have both those things, I don't need the shop."

  She'd given Mr. Jameson a generous pension and closed the doors of Sparkler's for good. Since then, Paul had witnessed his wife blossom even more. Liberated from the cares that had weighed her down since she was a little girl, she took to life with a renewed vigor. She'd always been efficient; now she was free to be efficient doing the things she truly wished to do.

  Their home was a masterpiece of comfort and organization. Her beautiful embroidery added graceful touches to every room. And she'd even found the time to start a new business.

  The belt she'd designed for him to wear during the championship fight had become all the rage amongst the ton. Every fashionable buck in London wanted one. Charity had teamed up with Madame Rousseau, and even with the latter's team of seamstresses, they could barely keep up with the demand.