Page 6

“Right. I guess it doesn’t matter. Just odd, though. Best get to it, hmm?” After exchanging a glance with his brother, Alexander moved toward the judge in the center of the roped off ring.

Pennyweather came toward the judge from his side of the ring—a tall, lean man with blond hair arranged in a devil-may-care style and a heavy mat of hair on his chest that did nothing to hide how well defined his form was.

But that man wasn’t him, wouldn’t move like him. He had to believe that.

“Looks like I’ll be able to put you down in two rounds, Stapleton,” Pennyweather said with a fair amount of cockiness. “Rumors say you’re not as skilled as your brothers, and the wagers say the same.”

“I never listen to rumors, for they’re usually twisted to the speaker’s benefit.” Alexander flexed his hands, then lifted his arms above his head and performed a few stretches. “Of course, I’ve never heard of you, so what does that say about your reputation?”

The other man sneered. “Don’t try to confuse me with words. I’m here for the fight alone.”

“As am I.” Confidence and adrenaline flowed through Alexander’s veins. Seconds later, he assumed his first position, fists at the ready, body taut and balanced, feet a shoulder’s width apart. “Best of luck, Pennyweather. I’ll try not to wreck your face too badly.”

A whistle blast split the air. The judge shouted, “Remember, rounds will continue until one man is put on the ground and unable to stand after three seconds. Go!”

Alexander and his opponent circled each other, prowled through the meadow grass of the eight-foot by eight-foot roped off area.

The judge as well as the doctor waited in opposite corners.

How best to bring Pennyweather down? Anticipation rode his spine and anxiety pulled knots in his stomach, but he wanted to be the one to tag first. He threw the first punch.

It connected solidly with the other man’s cheek and threw his head back.

“Ha. Much like a bee sting. How disappointing.” Pennyweather grinned as he struck out with a fast fist.

Alexander minced away, much to the crowd’s roar of approval. “I’m just getting started, but wait until you see what else I’ve got.” He swung a fist, but the other man dodged the punch while continuing to circle him.

“You’ll go down so easy, I’ll be able to enjoy a late luncheon.” Pennyweather darted with a fast uppercut to Alex’s chin that jarred his teeth together and caused him to bite the side of his tongue.

“Damn.” Pain exploded through his face and the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, but he held his ground and returned a punch.

Then they were into the thick of the first round as blows rained and fists pummeled, landing on solid flesh in rhythmic intervals.

One of his jabs sent Pennyweather staggering backward, but the man recovered and came at him with fists flying.

Alexander didn’t give quarter. He defended himself with adequate ease and pounding fists.

Minutes ticked by counted by the dull thud of fists into bodies, fast footwork, and a few curses. Finally, his chest burst t and his lungs slightly burned before the round was called.

Grateful for the brief reprieve, Alexander plodded to his corner, as did his opponent. “Pennyweather is quite tenacious and has one hell of a right hook.” He perched upon Duncan’s knee as various portions of his body throbbed in pain.

“Then you’ll need to do a better job of counteracting him.” Duncan handed him a ladle of cool water from an oaken bucket. “Move your feet faster like Papa taught us. That is something Pennyweather doesn’t do well.”

“Right.” Alexander wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. After taking a deep sip from the ladle, he gave it back to his brother.

“You’ve gone against worse before.” Duncan rubbed the muscles in Alex’s shoulders and neck. “Wear him down, keep your jabs quick and fierce, and then try to nail him in the middle. I think I heard that he’d suffered broken ribs about six months ago.”

“Good to know.”

Another whistle blast announced the start of round two. Alexander returned to the middle of the ring to face off with his opponent once more.

“I’ve had about enough of you, Wexley,” the other man growled. A cut on his high forehead glittered with dark blood. “I want that prize purse.”

“So do I,” he tossed back.

“Titled men like you have no need for the coin.”

“In that, you are so wrong. Titles are often empty. Mine is no exception.”

“You English nobs are all the same. Pretending to be something you’re not to keep up appearances in society.”

A hard uppercut to his jaw had Alexander staggering backward.

He hadn’t expected it. The crowd roared and as one entity they surged forward.

Quite fickle in their support, it seemed, but then, people liked to see blood, and they enjoyed making coin on a wager.

Pain exploded through his head, but he kept his feet.

Reminding himself this wasn’t some damned drawing room and there was no need for conversation, Alexander darted toward his opponent with a grunt.

He landed two quick jabs to Pennyweather’s stomach and cheek.

The man retreated before gathering himself and charging at Alex to once more exchange blows that were more like hand-to-hand combat than boxing.

Well, if that’s what the man wanted, he’d have it. Again and again, Alexander drilled his fists into the other man’s body, making certain to land them into either side of his ribcage, but the boxer wouldn’t fall, even after a grimace of pain crossed his face.

Pennyweather got off a few good punches of his own, but Alex kept his feet through sheer stubborn determination, for he didn’t want to disappoint his brothers or his supporters in the stands, damn the pain cycling through his body.

“Give it up, Pennyweather. I’m the better fighter.” So saying, he delivered a swift right hook to the other man’s cheek that had the other man spinning about. There was a moment when Alex thought the man might fall, but he didn’t.

“I’m coming back for you in the next round.” The man wiped at his brow with a hand that had bloodied knuckles, the same as Alex’s.

“We’ll see.” Then the round was once again called without a clear victor.

As he looked out over the crowds, his gaze landed on the doctor in one corner, but what took him by surprise was the young man in the slouch cap who stood next to him.

When their gazes connected, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that person was a woman.

As she gave him a tentative wave and a nod of encouragement, he frowned before stumbling back to his corner.

Then he dropped onto Duncan’s bent knee, panting.

“The man is a plague,” he admitted in a whisper.

“Most Americans usually are.” Duncan plied him with water, and Alexander gratefully drank from the ladle. “But I saw him wince when you tagged his left side. Concentrate there.”

“I’ll try that, but he’s uncommonly skilled.

” And damn, he didn’t want to think about the bout right now.

He stood, glancing once more at the woman in disguise who still stood at the doctor’s side.

When their gazes connected, she again offered a faint smile before a frown took it away.

Heated sensation went through him from the brief exchange.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Damn it, Alex, concentrate,” Duncan hissed, and gave his shoulder a push, which refocused his wandering thoughts.

“Right.” I don’t need a woman in any capacity.

The judge blew his whistle again. The next round was imminent.

“Keep your head out of your arse, man.” Duncan again slapped his shoulder. “Go put this man down, so we can take our winnings and return to London.” He shoved him, and it propelled him to the center of the ring for round three.

“It’s time to end this, Wexley!” Pennyweather came out in a rage, and he engaged Alexander in a storm of blows, jabs, and punches that left him reeling and breathless. “Nothing to say, my lord ?” Sarcasm went through his voice when he said the honorific.

“Not to you.”

When one of the bigger man’s fists drilled into his abdomen, pain swamped him, had him doubled up with pain. Another blow caught him in the temple, and then Pennyweather caught him by the shoulders, ramming a knee into Alex’s midsection. Apparently, they’d left gentlemanly rules behind.

“You’ll pay for that.” After taking a deep breath, Alexander came back using a quick double uppercut, one with each fist that found purchase in Pennyweather’s chin and the left side of his ribcage. Then he followed those with a blow to the man’s temple.

But his opponent only grunted. He didn’t fall, but he did deliver a kick to Alex’s stomach with the flat of his foot.

“Not exactly a punch, idiot,” Alexander wheezed as he stumbled backward.

“It’s a fight, Wexley, not a tea party,” the other man said with a grin made ghastly with blood.

In the back of his mind and from what sounded like a lifetime away, a female cry of encouragement infiltrated his brain over the roar and cheers from the crowd. Was she a lover of the sport or was it him she cheered on? Then Duncan shouted for him to keep moving.

Footwork would win the day, just as his father had taught, but damn his strength was flagging. Straightening his spine despite the pain and fatigue, Alex blew out a breath and once more faced his opponent. “Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted the other man.

“Give up, Wexley. You aren’t as skilled as your sainted father.” Pennyweather chuckled as he circled. “Your brothers are twice what you are.”

The words chipped away at his confidence. “Shut up.” Every movement he made brought spikes of pain to different places in his body, but he entered the fray once more. “Either take your shot or concede the bout.”

“To you? Like hell.” The other man came on like a summer storm. He had strength on his side and perhaps fury.