Page 1 of A Deal with a Rake (Wicked Widows’ League #35)

T he cold Scottish wind whistled over the moors as hundreds gathered in a hollow between two large hills.

Excitement rippled through the crowd as bets of coin, whisky, and livestock were shouted back and forth.

At a bare-knuckle match, any payment was fair game, and this one promised to be legendary.

Tavish O’Brien stood at the edge of the makeshift ring, its stones braced with rough wooden stakes. He’d waited two years for the chance to face The Butcher, to claim the title of Champion.

For five years, The Butcher had held the championship with brutality, crippling opponents, killing twice, never offering remorse or prayer for the dead.

Nothing.

Flexing his neck left and right, Tavish jogged in place, fists cutting the air as blood rushed hot in his ears. This was it—his chance to avenge Hammer.

It had taken everything he had buried inside to train and prepare for this day. The day he would take down his friend’s killer once and for all.

Silas Slade, nicknamed Hammer for his devastating left hook, had been Tavish’s only true friend beyond his family.

They’d met as boys when the family had first moved to London from Ireland.

His da had moved the family to London to pursue his dreams of opening a gentleman’s club and prove his nob of a family wrong.

Flynn O’Brien had turned his back on his noble family when he married Tavish’s ma in Ireland.

The third son of a duke had no hope of inheriting—or so he believed.

Yet, from the last letter Tavish had received from his ma, the old duke still had not produced an heir.

How strange to think that anyone in his family could inherit a dukedom, especially his da.

Bloody hell.

An ache shot through Tavish at the thought of his da.

They had not parted on good terms, not with Tavish choosing the ring over the gentleman’s club his da had built with his own hands.

That wasn’t him. That life was for his brothers.

Still, he wished their parting had been kinder, but it couldn’t be helped as they were too much alike—stubborn to the bone.

Dutch’s heavy hands slapped at Tavish’s shoulder repeatedly, before he started kneading hard. “Stay away from that bastard’s fists. If he gets you, you won’t live to father any children.”

Tavish cracked his neck, letting his thirst for revenge surge through his veins. “He won’t fecking touch me,” he growled, pivoting to face his long-time trainer and friend.

Dutch met his gaze, eye to eye, his rich dark skin concealing his true age but not the weight in his eyes. Jaw tight, eyes filled with unsaid words, a dark shadow clinging to him, the same shadow he wore before Hammer faced The Butcher. The same darkness before Hammer never breathed again.

Fear.

Fear was foreign to Tavish. Since boyhood, he hadn’t feared anyone or anything.

Perhaps it was the unorthodox discipline of his parents.

With five boys a year or two apart, they had to come up with unconventional ways for punishment.

His da had punished them all by training them in bare-knuckle fighting.

Their ma made them scrub floors and haul laundry, since she had no daughters to help her.

Their cousin, Caitrin, had joined the family years later, and his little sister, Adara, wasn’t born until he’d left at sixteen.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, alternating punches in the air. This was it, the big one, the fight that would make or break him. Every match, every bruise, every victory had brought him here. Tonight, The Butcher would fall. Tonight, Hammer would be avenged.

After months of being away from civilization and training like his very life depended on it, Tavish was ready. He was never nervous before a fight, just anxious to get it over with, to have his opponent on his back begging for mercy or knocked out cold.

Whichever came first.

“Are you ready, ladies and gents?” the referee barked from the center of the ring, voice carrying over the roaring crowd.

The mob answered his call with one of their own. Farmers, laborers, and aristocrats alike, all hungry for blood. Tavish’s blood. The odds were stacked against him. It didn’t matter that he’d never lost a fight in his entire career. The Butcher was infamous, his viciousness legendary.

“This is it,” Dutch muttered, guiding Tavish toward the ring.

On the opposite side, The Butcher entered. A mountain of a man, standing over Tavish’s six foot two frame, twice his width and built like steel. The crowd howled, smelling blood.

None of it mattered. Revenge was everything to Tavish.

He stepped into the ring, and the world narrowed: his blood hummed, vision tunneled to only his opponent.

The referee’s voice carried over the crowd. “Our champion, Jack ‘The Butcher’ Russel!” The referee stretched his hand dramatically toward The Butcher, who punched the air viciously, a clear display of his strength.

The Butcher peeled his shirt off like armor, revealing a wall of muscle littered with scars. A pale vicious line ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth, carving menace into his face.

“Don’t fecking die,” Dutch shouted over the crowd.

Tavish gave his old friend a lazy, dangerous smile. “Not today, old man.”

“The challenger,” the referee began, “Tavish ‘The Leprechaun’ O’Brien!”

He tugged his shirt over his head, the cold wind snapping against his bare skin, as half the crowd booed and half cheered. It didn’t matter if they liked him or not; the only thing that mattered was winning.

The Butcher loomed across from him, a broken nose, beady eyes, a face full of violence and hatred. Murky gray eyes glared down at Tavish. “I’m going to enjoy making you as ugly as me, before I kill ya,” he snarled

“You can fecking try, but I doubt I’ll ever be as ugly as you,” Tavish sneered then winked.

The Butcher took a step toward him but was stopped by the referee’s hand on his chest.

“Save it for the ring, Butcher,” the referee, said looking between the two men. “Keep it clean. Irish style. No biting. No low blows. No weapons. The rounds end when yer down. Fights over when you’re out cold or dead. Thirty seconds between rounds. Do ye agree?” he asked, his accent thick.

“Let’s fucking get on with it,” The Butcher growled out, missing front teeth flashing.

Tavish nodded before he turned away and headed over to his knee man and bottle man, waiting in the corner of the ring.

“That’s one mean bastard,” Frank said, as Tavish perched on the big man’s knee. Frank had been a knee man for the boxing mill for two years. He was the one Tavish preferred in his corner, along with his bottle man, Sam.

“Aye,” Sam agreed, passing over a cup of water.

Tavish gulped down the small amount, knowing it would be his only source of refreshment until the round ended.

“Attack the body,” Dutch shouted from the ropes. “Don’t you fecking stop hammering his kidneys until he’s begging for his ma’s tit, ya hear me?”

Tavish nodded, unable to find his voice. This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for since Hammer fell to his knees, blood trickling down his pale skin. The Butcher didn’t stop there. One last blow was all it took, and his friend was gone.

The referee climbed one of the poles, signaling to the bellman to begin the fight.

“To the scratch line!” the referee yelled.

Rising, Tavish walked to his side of the scratch line, waiting as the bigger man slowly rose from his knee man and met him in the middle of the ring.

Raising his fists, Tavish held them out, before The Butcher brutally punched his knuckles against his.

“Say hello to Hammer in hell.” The smile on his face was menacing and would’ve been frightening to someone other than Tavish, who simply stepped closer to The Butcher, not caring that he had to peer up at the taller man.

“Go feck yourself, you bloody bastard.”

The Butcher let out a vicious snarl and took a step toward Tavish, a foul stench of body odor and liquor wafted off of him.

Tavish didn’t move as he waited on The Butcher to take a step back. Any signs of weakness would be his undoing. Men like The Butcher preyed on those they believed were lesser than them, people they deemed helpless.

Tavish had never been helpless a day in his life, and he’d be damned if he’d ever allow a bugger like The Butcher to make him feel anything less than who he was, an O’Brien, and an O’Brien was never helpless.

Tavish stepped back, holding his hand up in the Irish fighting position. His left arm was in front of his right, hands clenched so tight, he could see the white of his own knuckles.

Holding his breath, he waited for the bellman to start the fight. Everything outside of the ring disappeared, the shouting crowd, the whistle of the wind, the rustling leaves. All was gone. There was nothing but the heavy breathing of the man in front of him and the beating of his own heart.

The bell rang.

Tavish opened fast.

Left to the jaw.

Right to the chin.

Left to the kidney.

Right to the kidney.

Pivot, evade the massive jab that had killed others.

Bouncing on his toes, he shuffled around the ring, avoiding two left punches and another right. He never allowed his fighting stance to falter, unlike The Butcher whose rage made his arms waver and feet stumble over each other.

“Stop running you fucking spineless coward.” The Butcher threw another right, catching Tavish in the temple.

White momentarily blinded his vision, a loud ringing that had nothing to do with the crowd blared in his ears. Refusing to be affected, Tavish threw out a punch, missing as The Butcher followed up with another blow of his own, this one meeting the corner of Tavish’s eye.

Needing a moment, he swiveled left then right, ignoring the pain pounding against his temple. He gulped in a gust of fresh air, squeezed his fists together, and focused on why he was there.

Hammer .