The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal
Chapter Nineteen
What the devil was her husband playing at?
He’d not turned up for supper, and a shamefaced Will had said he’d gone to his inn for the evening. There was little chance of him returning before her usual time for retiring, and she’d be damned if she would hang around waiting for him like some lovesick fool.
She blushed at the profanity, even if only uttered in her mind. Rather than turn her husband into a gentleman and his daughter into a lady—she was turning into a wanton.
Whatever he might have said earlier, it was plain that he regretted their match. There was nothing else to do tonight other than retire—perhaps with a glass of brandy to ease the ache in her head, if not the one in her heart.
As she crossed the hallway, the main doors crashed open, and a man staggered over the threshold. Untamed blonde locks curled over his shoulders. With his shirt half undone, exposing a broad muscular chest, and a necktie hanging loose, he looked like a ruffian.
He lifted his head, and she let out a yelp.
“Griffin!”
A bruise was already darkening on his face, and one eye was swollen almost shut. He lumbered toward her, and she caught the stench of male sweat and the familiar, metallic odor of blood.
He lifted a hand to steady himself, and she caught sight of his knuckles—swollen in places, red droplets blooming where the skin was missing.
He was hurt!
“Were you attacked on your way home?” she cried. “Who did this to you?”
“Johnny Tighe.”
She clasped his sleeve as he reeled sideways.
“But the Mighty Oak felled him once more.”
Thea recoiled in disgust as realization dawned on her.
“You’ve been fighting, haven’t you!” she cried. “Is this why you were so eager to abandon your family tonight, to indulge in a brawl?”
“I won.”
“That’s not the point! You could have been hurt.”
“Johnny came off worse. He won’t get the better of me.”
“Judging by the state you’re in, I’d say he did get the better of you!”
“Is this what I come home to?” he growled, “A henpecking harridan?”
“Whereas you’re nothing more than a brutish barbarian!”
Curse him! He wasn’t the only one who could use alliteration as an insult.
He let out a crude laugh. “If I recall, you’ve looked upon this brutish barbarian with relish. What does that make you?”
She recoiled at the insult. “I was going to tend to your injuries, Griffin,” she said. “But for that, you can see to them yourself.”
She gave him a push, and he let out a yelp.
“Don’t be such a baby!” she snapped.
Men were worse than children—overly eager to get into fights to prove their prowess but the first to cry for their mamas the moment they sustained a scratch.
He clutched his chest, and a red stain spread across the fabric.
Sweet heaven—he really was hurt!
She pulled his shirt back to reveal a deep gash on his chest, which glistened with a darkening red liquid.
She touched it with her fingertip, and he flinched.
“Was there nobody at the inn to tend to injuries?” she asked.
“Whatever for?”
“Silly me,” she huffed. “I suppose you’d consider sending for a doctor to be an act of weakness.”
“Have you finished, woman?” he growled.
“Not with you, I haven’t. Can you walk unaided?”
“Of course. What do you think I am?”
“That question’s best left unanswered,” she said sternly. “Like it or not, those wounds need cleaning.”
“They’re nothing to speak of,” he said. “Leave me be.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Go and wait in the drawing room, and I’ll tend to you there.”
“Henpecking me again?”
“Oh, you’re unbearable!” she cried. “But much as I’d prefer to leave your wounds to fester—if only to teach you a lesson in manners—you’ll be even more unbearable tomorrow if I do.”
“Do what you like,” he said. “My head hurts so much, it’s easier to yield.”
He might be The Mighty Oak, but a few sharp words felled him better than any blow from Johnny Tighe, whoever he was. He was worse than her young nephew.
Ten minutes later, she entered the drawing room, carrying a tray laden with bandages and supplies. But he was nowhere to be seen.
He’d slunk off to his chamber to hide and sulk. Well, he wasn’t going to escape.
When she reached his chamber door, she hesitated. There seemed to be an unspoken rule that a husband’s bedchamber was his sanctuary, and a wife must wait to be invited inside.
But, tonight, he’d lost all rights to obedience. She pushed open the door.
The room was furnished in deep, masculine colors. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, which were unadorned except for candle sconces. A huge bed occupied the center of the room, thick, carved wooden posts supporting a canopy of dark green velvet, with frayed edges which needed mending.
She wrinkled her nose at the faint smell of damp.
The chamber must have been elegant in its time, but now it looked forlorn and neglected. It was, most certainly, the room of a barbarian.
And the room of a lonely man.
He lay on the bed, seemingly asleep. As she moved closer and placed her tray beside the bed, he let out a groan.
“Hell! That hurts.”
She recoiled at the profanity.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” she said.
He let out a snort. “Are you here to plague me?”
“I’m here to dress your wounds,” she replied. “Take your jacket off—or must I do it for you?”
He sat up, his eyes narrowing in pain, then hesitated, glancing at his chest.
“There’s no need for shyness,” she said. “I think I’m capable of restraining myself while I clean you up. Here—let me.” She tugged at his sleeve and, with a sigh, he yielded and let her peel off his jacket and shirt.
The aroma of man grew stronger, and she lowered her gaze to his chest. Her heart thudded and her cheeks warmed as she followed the contours of his muscles.
She reached for the cloth and dipped it into the bowl of water, releasing the soft aroma of the herbs she’d sprinkled over the surface.
He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?”
“Lavender,” she said, dabbing the cloth on his chest. “It’s good for wounds and for masking unsavory smells.”
“Are you saying I smell bad?” He looked up at her, and she was met with the full force of his gaze—a clear green, like an exotic ocean—an ocean she would willingly drown in…
“Ouch!” he winced. “That’s devilish painful.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Devilish?”
He gave a wry smile. “I can hardly curse in the presence of a lady.”
“It hasn’t stopped you before,” she said, returning the smile. “Here…” She reached for a small vial and uncorked it.
He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?”
“Laudanum,” she said. “It’ll be less troublesome—for you and for me—if I can clean your wounds while you’re half-conscious and free from pain.”
“As you wish.” Like an obedient child, he opened his mouth when she held the spoon to his lips.
She placed the bottle back on the tray, but before she could resume her work, he caught her hand.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’m doing what any wife would do.”
“Not in my experience.”
He closed his eyes, and she tended to him in silence, washing the grit out of his wounds and pressing the cloth against the bruises. By the time she’d finished, his breathing had grown steadier.
She placed her hand on his chest and caressed the skin, following the planes of his muscles with her fingertips. His body shuddered, and a smile curved along his lips.
“Mmm…” he murmured. “Delectable creature. I could rut you all night.”
She froze. “What did you say?”
“That lovely arse of yours,” he continued. “Two ripe, round globes, just made for my hands. I could part them and mount you from behind, while you howled like a cat in heat.”
Sweet Lord!
“And your breasts…” he sighed, and his voice grew fainter, “…oh, those breasts. So sweet, so pink—how I long to taste them!”
Who was he speaking of? Some harlot from the White Hart?
“I want you,” he whispered.
Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away.
“I want you…my Thea.”
She froze.
“You want me?” she whispered.
But no answer came, for he’d fallen asleep.