The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter One

With a body that looked like it had been carved out of marble, and an air of masculinity which set her pulse racing from halfway across the courtyard, he was, without doubt, the most perfect, primal male specimen she’d ever seen.

And he was exactly the sort of man who wouldn’t look twice at a woman like her—what would a prizefighter in his prime, with the pick of beauties for his bed—want with a dried-up spinster?

He was tall—taller even than her brother.

And all muscle. A solid, immovable wall of muscle.

Blonde hair, too long to be respectable, brushed his shoulders, damp with sweat, and framed a face with strong features—a high forehead, chiseled jaw, and a nose that bore a slight kink in the center.

But the most arresting feature was his eyes. An intense, clear green—capable of striking fear into the heart of the stoutest opponent.

Most battles were won or lost before they began, and to this man, the battle was won the moment he stepped into the arena. He was a natural-born warrior, like the conquerors of old who brought opponents to their knees with a single glance.

The Mighty Oak they called him. And tonight, he was the favorite to win the bout at the Queen’s Head.

He strode toward the ring—crudely marked on the ground—amid the cheers of the crowd.

To Thea, he was Hercules—a demi-god who wrestled with Death and conquered Titans.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks and threaded through her body, where a faint pulse throbbed deep within. She knew what would happen next, for she’d seen it before.

He unlaced his shirt—slowly. The atmosphere among the crowd thickened with anticipation. She could swear she heard gasps of desire from the watching women.

Then he pulled his shirt off, revealing his torso, and the crowd sighed. He crumpled the garment into a ball and tossed it into the air. Eager hands thrust out from the crowd, accompanied by shrieks and the sound of a scuffle. Then he flexed his body, his chest muscles rippling in the light of the setting sun, and lifted his arms to the sky as the crowd erupted into a cheer.

The sound of clinking metal echoed across the courtyard as money exchanged hands. Fortunes would be won or lost this evening—on the strength of his fists.

“All hail, the Mighty Oak!”

He nodded, acknowledging the adoration.

If Thea closed her eyes, she could imagine herself in the crowd at the Colosseum. Maybe she would have been Caesar’s wife or a Roman noblewoman, cheering the gladiator she patronized.

But she was neither. She was a phantom, hiding in the shadows, watching him from afar—unobserved, ashamed. And such fanciful notions usually earned her a lash from her brother’s tongue.

If Dexter knew she was here, he’d be furious. But why shouldn’t she indulge in a little fun? By day, she was the spinster aunt—too old to make a respectable union that didn’t smack of desperation. And, in Dexter’s eyes, nobody in the Hart family was permitted to tarnish his reputation by appearing desperate.

She uncurled her hand to reveal indents in her palm where she’d dug her fingernails into the flesh. But the physical pain couldn’t offset the pain in her heart. Why shouldn’t she indulge in a little passion? She’d only ever wanted one thing in life, yet, of all her siblings, she was the one who seemed doomed never to have it.

And that was a family—a home, and children of her own.

Nobody expected her to have feelings. Passion was for the young—and not for her. Thea’s place in life was by the side of whichever of her siblings had need of her.

But at night, when Dexter wasn’t watching…

At night, she could indulge in a little pleasure, even if that pleasure was merely a product of her imagination. At night she dreamed of a mighty warrior—and what he was capable of doing with that big, muscular body of his.

What he was capable of doing to her.

His opponent entered the ring. A big brute of a man with a shaven head—but even from a distance, Thea saw the defeat in his eyes. Nevertheless, he raised his arms, pumping his fists in the air.

A small cheer erupted from his supporters, but he was no match for the beast who dominated the courtyard. If he were lucky, he might last the first round.

A third man entered the ring and held his hand up, brandishing a white cloth, to signal that the fight was about to begin. Tension crackled in the air, and Thea held her breath and shrank back into the shadows, even though she already stood apart from the crowd.

A cry rang out, and the cloth fluttered to the ground. The two gladiators raised their fists and circled each other trampling the cloth underfoot. Even from a distance, Thea noticed the tension in the other man’s stance, a sharp contrast to the easy, arrogant gait of the Mighty Oak, who prowled the ring as a panther might patrol the perimeter of his territory.

And it was his territory—his kingdom. Not only did he own the inn where the fight took place, but he owned the man who dared challenge him. And he owned the crowd—every last man and woman.

Including her.

A small groan escaped her lips as the sinful little devil in her mind whispered of all the wicked things he could do to her body. Then he glanced in her direction, and she caught her breath.

She was too far away—but for a moment, it was as if he’d looked right inside her and understood her need.

Foolish woman!

Was this what she’d been reduced to? A desperate woman wanting the attentions of a man—something she was constantly being told was now beyond her? She could just imagine Dexter’s words.

Dorothea, your place is with your family. Isn’t it time you acted like a grown woman and not a schoolgirl made giddy by her first crush?

She bit her lip to stem the tears of shame.

If the Mighty Oak knew of her obsession, he’d laugh at her. They’d all laugh. Dorothea Hart—the spinster aunt, with girlish fancies beyond her circumstance.

His opponent rushed toward him with a roar. The Mighty Oak parried the blow, and their fists clashed with a slap of flesh. He dodged to one side, and Thea marveled at how such a large man could appear so light on his feet. His opponent gave a growl of frustration and charged again. This time he was ready, and he leaned forward, meeting him with full force as they crashed to the ground.

The crowd erupted, whoops of glee echoing round the courtyard. The two fighters rolled in the dirt, sending clouds of dust into the evening air. Then they parted, and Mighty Oak sprang to his feet, fists at the ready.

“Mighty Oak! Mighty Oak!” The crowd chanted as more coins exchanged hands. Baying for blood, they screamed at him to finish his opponent. But he stepped back, waiting for the other man to rise to his feet.

A beast—and a gentleman.

They circled each other for another minute, then his opponent rushed toward him, swinging his arm with the need of a man who knew the game was lost. And it didn’t take long for the Mighty Oak to secure his victory. With an almost graceful movement, as if engaged in a dance, he swung his fist upward and caught his opponent in the chin.

Without a sound, the other man crumpled to the ground.

A cheer rose up, and the Mighty Oak turned and saluted the crowd. He wiped his chest, smearing dust and sweat across his skin. Then he strode toward the water trough at the edge of the courtyard, his leg muscles rippling in his tight breeches, and splashed handfuls of water onto his chest. The water beaded on his skin and ran in rivulets across his body, following the contours of his muscles. He strutted like a lion who’d bested his rival in a fight for domination over the pack.

And a lion he was. Female voices cried out his name. Which of them would be warming his bed tonight? Or would he take them all?

A woman rushed toward him with his shirt in her hand—she must be the lucky female who’d caught it earlier. Was that how he chose his conquests? How might he react if Thea caught his shirt next time?

The woman draped her arms round his chest as if she owned him, and a stab of jealousy pierced Thea’s heart. He grasped her buttocks amid lewd remarks from the crowd. Then he pushed her away and strode toward the inn. Undeterred, the woman followed, and they disappeared inside.

With their hero gone, the crowd dispersed—some scattered into the night, the rest followed him into the inn. There would be drinking aplenty tonight.

She ought to go home, but she couldn’t. She had to get a final glimpse of him.

It wasn’t long before her wish was granted. A familiar silhouette appeared at an upper window where he stood, as if looking out.

Did he know she watched him—dreamed of him?

Then a second silhouette joined the first and shattered her dream. The two silhouettes merged into one, and Thea’s eyes stung with tears as she imagined them locked in a passionate embrace.

He drew the curtain, shutting out the night so that she was, once more, an outsider looking in.

She wrapped her cloak around herself and set off for home.

She might never have the life she yearned for, but nobody could stop her from dreaming.