Page 46 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Chapter Twelve

An orderly mob gathered at a corner of Snow’s Fields where the pond and Tenter Ground joined. All yelled at the top of their lungs, among them Royal Marines and beefy naval men. A cockfight or a bare-knuckle bout most likely, a hastily organized event devised by bored men with something to prove, as was the nature of Tenter Ground entertainments. Plans didn’t exist in this part of Southwark.Nab your fun when you canwas the motto. Ha’pennies were a treasure, and smuggled brandy an elixir.

Rough and transient, the citizens wore dignity and humor in equal measure. Thieves, laborers, an outcast harlot or two... the souls of Tenter Ground. She was fiercely protective of them. Those corrupt thief takers, Mr. Berry and Mr. MacDaniel, coming round were trouble.

A certain barrister-cum-government-man was more troubling.Hegot her hackles up.

Her lips pressed grimly.Mr. Sloane.Why couldn’t he try and look beyond the obvious evidence? Because the man lived too much by the letter of the law.

Her footfalls punched soft earth.Let him find comfort in his facts.He’d find no comfort with her.

She strode forward, hunting for another man. Rory MacLeod.

Instinct told her the Highlander was either in the mob or the center of it. She squeezed between bumping, elbowing bodies and found two shirtless behemoths battling.

Ferocious and bloodied, men circled each other. One of them, MacLeod.

He was a sight, sweat sluicing down great slabs of muscle. Buckskin-colored breeches soaked at the waist. Leg hairs glued like dark threads to his calves. The second fighter was equal in size, a sun-bronzed man a decade younger. Fists cocked high, both brawlers took vicious swipes.

Her gaze dropped to the ground. A fighter’s feet told the truth. That’s what her father had taught her. Not sweat nor blood nor size. How a man moved mattered, the true tell of strength and stamina.

The young brawler’s shod feet dragged through grass.

Mr. MacLeod danced on the balls of his bare feet.

The banty-sized Irishman, Mr. O’Shea, adjudicated the bout, flapping his hat to keep the crowd at bay. Men jostled her, their seaworthy curses spraying the air. Genteel sport—horse races, boat races, and cricket—was more to her liking. No blood, no violence. Legs braced, she held her ground, while the man beside her struck the air. A Royal Marine by his red coat.

The young lieutenant yelled, “Bellows to mend, George! Bellows to mend!”

She grabbed his sleeve and shouted, “Sir! How long is this fight?”

The startled lieutenant stopped punching air. His mouth curving in a friendly smile, he bent his tanned face lower.

“What’s that, miss?”

“I said, how long is this fight?”

Though they were close, they had to conduct their conversation at a near yell.

“One round. It’s over when one bruiser is felled.” He cocked his head at the ring. “My money’s on George, a gunner on my ship. You’d best be quick if you want to wager on this one. The fight’s gone nigh on half an hour.”

She checked the makeshift ring, which was marked by a trench in grass and dirt (probably made by O’Shea’s heel). Mr. MacLeod danced with masculine grace, his muscle and sinew straining under sweat-slick skin. Rib cage billowing, the Highlander’s queue was a dark line in the furrow of his back. Not the appealing blunt-cut queue of a certain barrister-cum-government-man. She swallowed the unwelcome comparison and concentrated on the handsome lieutenant.

“I’ve already wagered on one gentleman today and I’m afraid he was a disappointment.”

“A gentleman, was it? His misfortune is my good luck.” He took in her breeches. “And you all dressed up and ready for fun.”

Jaw freshly shaved, cravat hastily tied, gorget polished to a shine on his neck—she knew the look. This was a young Royal Marine returned from a voyage, hungry for bed sport. Probably his first day back in port. They were of the same age, yet years apart in experience. Months ago, she would’ve welcomed sharing a pint, and other adventures shouldthey happen. Not today. Spending time with the lieutenant would be like wearing an ill-fitting shoe. It’d be all wrong.

“A handsome man like you will find plenty of good luck at the Iron Bell.”

She winked, but her cheer was barely skin-deep.

He set his tricorn over his heart. “Might I appeal to your sense of—”

A roar erupted. The lieutenant bolted upright.

Mr. MacLeod’s fists rammed the gunner’s face. One punch—two, three, four. Smashing blows. Blood arced, a stream of red and sweat and spittle.