The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  Planning stage complete.

  Slipping down the back stairs was tricky but not impossi­ble. The stable was harder, but all the hands were used to her odd behavior. She grabbed the youngest stableman and paid him a penny to distract everyone else. When she added that she was off to see Ben Brown about his poor hand, all was ac­complished. She managed her own tack and saddle, then rode off within minutes.

  Execution of plan complete.

  It wasn't until she arrived on the outskirts of the fight area that she realized there might be a problem. First of all, it was day. That made it a lot harder to disguise her identity in the full afternoon sunlight. Second, there were a lot of people at these fights. A lot of people. Carriages and horses crowed together for half a mile at least. And that was nothing compared to the area nearest the ring. The crush of people was quite daunting.

  But having begun on this mad course, she was determined to see it through. Her only hope of getting close to the action was to tether her horse and wander forward on foot. Within moments, she would be within spitting distance of dozens of people who would recognize her. A few minutes later, she would be shoulder to shoulder with some of them, even as­suming she did not try to venture up into the hastily con­structed stands—which hardly bode well for anonymity. On the other hand, everyone was looking at the raised platform. No one would expect to see a woman—much less Evie herself—wearing a young man's attire and attending a fight. People tended to see only what they expected. At least she prayed that was true.

  With one last pat for her poor abandoned horse—more for her own encouragement than his—she pulled her cap farther down over her face and began a casual walk forward into the crowd.

  Chapter Twelve

  It ended up being easier than she expected. Everyone was busy doing things—either discussing the fights with their friends, counting money, or pointing at a spot at the side of the ring. She didn't think they noticed her at all. They also didn't let her through as was normal, either.

  She hadn't realized that people just naturally gave her space when she walked—she being Miss Evelyn Stanton. But now she was nobody, and no one gave her the least bit of breathing room. She was hedged in on all sides, assaulted with smells that were better left in the stables or worse, and buffeted on all sides. It was unnerving, especially since she couldn't push her way through with her usual future-countess stare.

  Then she heard him. She wasn't sure why Christopher's voice would carry so distinctly to her ears. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was familiar, but she saw and heard his cultured tones and then, a moment later, spotted him about midway up the stands.

  He wore casual clothes, for him. Always neat, always per­fect, his dark pants and tight-fitting jacket silently proclaimed him better than much of the crowd. He sat next to another man—a Corinthian by the cut of his clothes and slightly bulldog-aggressive look to his face. There were others around the pair—young bucks, older men, all obviously moneyed.

  She recognized many of the men from her trips to Lon­don, and knew, in fact, that some of them actively despised one other; yet the entire group congregated together. They occupied the center section of the near stand, speaking in their cultured tones and relegating all the others to the periphery.

  She moved in the opposite direction. The last thing she needed was for one of them to recognize her, but that put her even more among the poor and dirty. She felt a little guilty for her thoughts. After all, not everyone had the luxury of a full staff that could draw bathwater whenever it was wanted. And she began to understand some of the choices Jie Ke had faced his first years at temple. What a decision: to live as an inden­tured servant on a trip across the world or in a temple with food and water and an entirely different way of life. Such a choice for a little boy to make! Assuming, of course, that everything Jie Ke had told her was true.

  And with that thought, she finally spotted him. His saffron robes shouldn't have been hard to see, but he was surrounded on all sides. Now that she pushed up on her toes, she could see a bit more. It looked like Zhi Min was there, too, as well as their servant boy.

  She tried to edge nearer, but couldn't get far. There ap­peared to be a furious amount of betting going on by the ring. And then a bell rang out. Someone leapt into the center ring—was that the butcher from the village a little ways north?—and said a bunch of words to much cheering and jeering, none of which Evelyn understood.

  What she saw instead was Jie Ke, stripping off his robe and his underrobe until all he wore was a kind of faded yellow di­aper. She had seen him so dressed before, on that first morn­ing when he and Zhi Min sparred. The crowd, of course, had never seen this, and the jeers quickly became deafening.

  Evelyn shook her head. Didn't they know? Couldn't they see that there was unimaginable power beneath that smooth skin? That he was lightning fast and amazingly flexible? Of course not. All these people saw was that he wore a faded yel­low diaper and bowed in the reverent way of a monk. Or an idiot. After all, what holy man stepped into a boxing ring while hundreds of men bet on the outcome? What could possibly be religious about that?

  Then another man stepped into the ring. Oh sweet Heaven, he was huge! It was the blacksmith from the same village as the butcher. From the response of the crowd, he was clearly a local favorite. He was dressed the way she would ex­pect: open breeches cut short to mid thigh, no shirt, and light shoes. And he looked like he could crush Jie Ke between his two massive fists.

  She struggled to remember the rules of this event. She'd never really cared to know, but her brothers enjoyed these fights. What had they said? She rapidly reviewed everything she could remember and came to a single horrifying conclu­sion: there were no rules. The two men fought however they wanted—hands, feet, head—as long as they were without weapons. They fought until one could not get up again.

  She looked again at Jie Ke's opponent. He was huge! Would he kill Jie Ke? Would Jie Ke be forced to kill him? The very idea was barbaric! And then it began.

  Without preamble, the butcher stepped away from the ring. Jie Ke bowed in his usual manner, fist in open palm, a slight bend at the waist. The blacksmith arched a brow, playing to the crowd, then turned to face Jie Ke.

  Everyone—the people in the stands, the bettors up close, even Evelyn—collectively drew a breath. She desperately wanted to look to Zhi Min, to see what he thought of the coming disaster. Did he know that his friend was about to die? One look at the crowd told her they would accept no less than blood. Probably a lot of blood! But she couldn't tear her eyes away from Jie Ke standing there so calm. His eyes weren't even fully open. Was the man falling asleep? Didn't he—

  The blacksmith lunged, his massive fists descending like two hammers. She didn't even see Jie Ke move. He swerved around the fists somehow, then spun around and kicked the blacksmith once beneath the arm, then again in the face. The huge man's breath went out of him with a burst of spittle, then he spun and dropped. He hadn't even landed one of his fists.

  The whole thing was over that fast, and was shocking. The crowd went dead silent as everyone waited for the blacksmith to move. Jie Ke took a step back, repeated his characteristic bow, then retreated to the side to wait in absolute stillness. Still the blacksmith didn't move.

  Was the man dead? Everyone strained forward, anxious to know. Did his chest tremble? Was he breathing? Yes. Small movement at first, then larger, fuller. He released a groan. The crowd roared in approval. Evelyn felt almost bowled over by the roll of sound urging the man to stand up and fight again. Many hands reached through the rope to help him sit up. He wobbled drunkenly, shook his head to clear it, then blinked at Jie Ke.

  "Git up! Git up!" screamed a hundred voices.

  The blacksrnith tried. He pushed unsteadily to his feet. The crowd roared their encouragement. Evelyn winced, feel­ing sorry for the man. He was clearly no match for Jie Ke, and yet he didn't want to let down his fans.

  The blacksmith tightened his hands into fists again, and the crowd
began howling with glee, but Jie Ke didn't move. Evelyn was watching him closely, wishing she were in a bet­ter position to see his face. All she could see was a leashed potential in his beautifully sculpted body, and a silent ques­tion to the blacksmith as to whether they would fight again.

  The smith took a deep breath, his chest expanding to huge proportions, and he lunged. Jie Ke didn't fight back, he sim­ply sidestepped. Even Evelyn could see he had many oppor­tunities to strike the blacksmith, but he didn't. He simply avoided the man's blows again and again.

  The crowd began growling in fury. At first she didn't un­derstand why. Then she began focusing on the words. "Hit him! Hit him! Knock him down!"

  She thought they were encouraging the blacksmith to strike Jie Ke down. Many of them were. But it soon became clear that the blacksmith would never lay a finger on Jie Ke, so the crowd was demanding his blood. Anyone's blood would satisfy—if it couldn't be the monk's, then make it the blacksmith's.

  The very thought sickened Evelyn, but she couldn't deny the excitement the crowd generated. There was a power in the collective demand of so many people. She began to share their frustration when pass after pass from the blacksmith brought no resolution.

  In the end, the big man chose to finish it. After one last fu­tile attempt to grab Jie Ke, he simply stood and faced his oppo­nent, giving him an awkward bow of bis own. Jie Ke returned it with reverence and, Evelyn thought, a kind of respect.

  The crowd was having none of it. The blacksmith retired from the ring amidst the most vehement sneers and insults that Evelyn had ever heard. No wonder females did not gen­erally attend these things. A proper lady would be blushing for at least a month!

  Of course, now that she looked, there were indeed a few women. None of them were aristocrats, and many were screaming viler insults than the men. Just the sight of them sent Evelyn into a bit of a quandary. Was she becoming one of those women, those foulmouthed harridans screeching imprecations at the blacksmith's manhood?

  Of course not, she told herself. Then again, she was again beginning to feel the excitement that ran through the crowd, for the next man stepped into the ring.

  Now that she knew Jie Ke would not be killed, she felt a tin­gling thrill at seeing his sleek body facing off against a thicker, more muscled man. Jie Ke would surely win, and she loved be­ing here to see it.

  She was right: he did win. Every match. Two hours later, Jie Ke was still in the ring fighting. He'd beaten every comer with relative ease, though as time went on, Jie Ke began to show signs of exhaustion. His punches were slower, his kicks less high. He worked as efficiently as possible, ending fights in amazingly short time, but his opponents were also getting better.

  And worse, the mood of the crowd was getting ugly. As the locals lost more and more money, their curses became more vicious, their fury all the more bloodthirsty. How long could Jie Ke keep this up before the crowd lost control?

  Without even realizing it, she pushed forward until she was nearly on top of the ring. Her cap had been restricting her view, so she tilted it back, confident now that no one would recognize her. After all, everyone was watching the ring.

  It never once occurred to her that Jie Ke would look out and see her. She never once thought that he would stop in the middle of a fight, his body obviously jerking in surprise as he stared right at her. And in that moment of frozen shock, when their gazes locked and held, the very first opponent of the afternoon managed to connect.

  Wham! It was a blow to his face, and Evelyn cried out in alarm.

  The crowd drowned her out. Finally, someone had drawn blood from the saffron-robed interloper! And as Jie Ke strug­gled to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, Evelyn real­ized that everything up to this point had been just child's play. Now the bloodletting would really begin.

  She could not be here. That was Jie Ke's only thought before the anvil-fisted butcher or shepherd or carpenter or whomever he was fighting took him completely unaware. The blow caught him high on the cheekbone, snapped his head around, and threw him into the ropes.

  If he were back at the temple, the monks would be roaring with laughter and his instructor would be shaking his head muttering about white devils who could not keep one thought in their heads. Jie Ke had one thought in his head. Unfortunately, it didn't have anything to do with fighting. It was all about Evelyn standing there for all the world to see.

  What was she wearing? That dirt on her face wouldn't fool anyone! Even absent so long from England, he knew that women of her sort were not supposed to be here. And given that this particular day of fighting was looking to end up—

  Another blow across the face reminded him to return to the here and now. His head bounced painfully against the ground, but not so hard that he lost consciousness. In truth, this was the moment in every fight that he both awaited and feared: that breath when pain and adrenaline combined with raw power. When all his world shrank down to the fight, and he released all practice, all thoughts, to simply become Fighter.

  It was not what they taught at the temple. It was not what monks were supposed to do, but Jie Ke did it anyway; he stepped from calm restraint into sublime violence. He let all his fury and his hatred boil up through his body. Assuming he kept one part of his mind rational, he could stop himself from killing. That was the plan, and part of Jie Ke relished the knife's edge of control that existed in this place.

  He lay nearly still, allowing his opponent to believe that he was whipped, but still stupidly willing to fight for bravado's sake. He rolled awkwardly to one knee and watched for glee in his opponent's eyes. It came quickly. Jie Ke blanked his mind in preparation. His eyelids even drooped as he cut out all external sights and pretended to semi-consciousness.

  The man swung. Jie Ke reacted with a speed he only had in this place. He allowed the punch to connect with the top of his shoulder. There was no pain—there often wasn't in these moments, especially since his shoulder was already pre­pared to give way to the punch. Then he slipped beneath the man and rolled, using his feet to lift and launch the fighter head over heels into the crowd.

  He had a split second to think of Evelyn. She wasn't in that part of the crowd, was she? She wouldn't be hurt, would she? Oh hell. She was, and she would be! The woman had no skill in self-preservation.

  He shifted his throw, but his timing was off, his balance in­correct for what he now wanted to do. Both he and his op­ponent landed in a sprawling heap of tangled limbs.

  This was not where Jie Ke fought best, not with legs and arms entangled. Brute strength always overcame defensive flow here. He took blow after blow on his face, on his arms. The man holding him gripped him with massive thighs, and his body weight kept Jie Ke from scrambling away. The crowd was screaming in the background, but all Jie Ke heard was her voice, her high-pitched wail. "Stop it! Stop it!"

  Was she insane? Didn't she realize that if he could hear her, others would too? How would she explain her presence here? Alone and dressed like that she was completely vulnerable to any number of disasters. The danger to her reputation was the least of her problems. Theft, rape, murder—all happened from time to time at these fights. That's why ladies didn't come.

  He had to end this. He had to get out of here so that he could get her out of here. He shifted his grip and his knee to throw the man off him. It meant that he exposed his face and jaw, but only for a moment.

  He shifted, taking the hit, then tensed to throw. But then he stopped.

  He couldn't win this. There were at least a dozen more men waiting to fight him. They never allowed a man to leave the ring until he had either beat all comers or lost. If he won now, then the fighting would continue on and on with the risk to Evelyn multiplying every minute. Which meant he had to lose.

  The violence that boiled up inside him at the thought took him by surprise. His rational mind struggled for control while raw hatred screamed inside him. This was why he fought! So he could destroy all opponents. So he could beat those who attacked, defend hims
elf from all disasters, and make a pile of money while doing it. To lose on purpose would be like exposing one's throat to the bandit—on purpose! He couldn't do it.

  He began to fight with blind fury. Even from his back, he could hit with frenzied speed, impacting his opponent's eyes, his nose, his jaw. Blood scented the air and dripped into his eyes, while inside his anger churned all the darker because of it. He wanted to kill!

  Her voice brought him back. Her scream—high and keen­ing. He heard it and froze. What did he do now? How did he—

  His opponent slammed forward again, and a fist detonated across his temple. Hatred boiled up, but he needed control. He needed to think! He needed . . .

  To save Evelyn.

  He relaxed his grip, not needing to feign light-headedness. The rain of blows continued. He managed to lift his arms enough to protect his face, but that only exposed his belly.

  He tensed his muscles, biting back a groan. His head was swimming with pain, and he kicked without conscious intent. The man fell sideways, momentarily winded from the blow. Now was the moment when Jie Ke would surge upwards. Now was the time when he would finish the beat­ing, finish his opponent. His body screamed with the need to kill this man who had hurt him so badly.

  His mind reeled. He could hear Evelyn screaming—one voice among hundreds, but he heard her nonetheless. His hands tightened into fists and his vision narrowed onto his opponent. There was blood on the man's face, blood on his fists. Whose blood? And why? Why did he fight? Why was he so angry? Questions! Questions!

  He surged upwards, his control shattering under the on­slaught of pain, anger, and those damnable questions! To stay sane, he had to narrow his focus down to one thing: the bloody bastard who had hurt him. Jie Ke could end this man. He knew just how. His feet were free, his hands lightning fast. The clarity with which he could accomplish the task sparkled before him with such beauty—and it was even possible to finish the fight without killing the bastard. Possible. Even probable.