The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Come on, Mama Thea!”

Thea pulled herself up onto the branch, then called up through the leaves.

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

Rowena’s face appeared above her. “I’ve climbed this tree hundreds of times,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it with my stomach when that lower branch snapped,” Thea said. “I’ve had enough of falling to the ground in gardens in an undignified heap.”

Rowena laughed. “Uncle Dexter told me about the night Papa proposed to you,” she said. “I think he said it to shock me into behaving properly.”

“And did it?”

“Of course not! I think I shocked Uncle Dex when I said it seemed a better way of getting a husband than waiting to be asked to dance at some stuffy ball. Though I must admit, I do like my new gowns.”

“Then we must ensure you have plenty of opportunities to wear them,” Thea said. “Perhaps we could invite our London friends for a house party.”

“And you could sing for us all again,” Rowena said. “Papa was completely in love with you when he heard you sing in London.”

He may have been, but since their return to Sandiford, he’d still not visited her bedchamber.

Perhaps it was due to the presence of their guest. Mr. Ogilvie was all charm, and Rowena adored him, but Thea found herself looking forward to the return of the relaxed family life they’d enjoyed in London. Griffin’s reserve had returned, and Thea had become, once more, the neglected wife of a man who preferred to spend his waking hours in the White Hart.

When Mr. Ogilvie had earned his winnings and gone on his way, might the open-hearted man hidden behind her husband’s gruff exterior return?

Was that why Griffin had forbidden her from attending tonight’s fight? Because of Ogilvie?

She’d been tempted to argue against it.

In an act of rebellion, she’d suggested Rowena and she climb trees while the men beat each other into a pulp. She had forgotten the exhilaration to be found in climbing—something she’d enjoyed as a child before she’d been forced to succumb to the rules of London society.

It was a pity one had to grow up. Children enjoyed their indulgences with a relish borne of not understanding the world. Once Rowena’s eyes had been fully opened to the world, her childhood would be over, irrevocably.

But for now—they could both enjoy the simple pleasure of climbing a tree, with no fear of admonishment.

As Thea placed her foot on the next branch, it snapped and gave way. She tumbled out of the tree onto the ground. The impact jolted her bones and forced the air from her lungs, but she closed her eyes with a smile. The warmth of the sun caressed her face, and she tipped her head up, relishing the soft pink glow through her eyelids.

She heard a rustle of leaves, followed by a thud as Rowena landed beside her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes!” Thea laughed. “I’m fortunate not to have the type of gamine frame prized in London.”

“What do you mean?” Rowena asked.

“I mean that my curves enable me to benefit from a soft landing.”

“That they do,” a male voice said, “and more besides.”

Thea opened her eyes. Mr. Ogilvie leaned against the adjacent tree, a broad grin on his face. A large red mark adorned his cheek.

“Uncle Alex!” Rowena cried. “Have you been watching us?”

“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no wish to disturb your joy—or mine, for that matter.”

Thea brushed the dust from her skirts. He watched her, a glimmer of hunger in his eyes, then held out his hand.

She took it, and he helped her up. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “You took quite a tumble.”

“Nothing compared to you,” Thea said, gesturing to his face. “Who did that?”

“Your husband.”

“Papa?” Rowena gasped, then Mr. Ogilvie laughed. “A lucky blow, little Rowe,” he said. “We were merely sparring. I’ll be more careful tonight.”

“You’re fighting my husband tonight?” Thea asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m challenging Billy Bates. I’ve learned over the years that a successful man chooses which fights to face head-on and which to avoid.”

“I hope you’ll win,” Thea said.

Ogilvie laughed. “So that I can be on my way? Are you as anxious as Griffin to see me gone?”

Rowena frowned at Thea, accusation in her eyes. “You want him to leave?”

“Of course not,” Thea said. “But I’m aware how eager Mr. Ogilvie is to repay his debts.” She turned to Ogilvie. “A sentiment which does you credit, sir.”

He smiled, then nodded toward the house. “I should get going—the fight starts in a little over an hour. I came to tell you that your husband has changed his mind and wants you to attend.”

“He does?”

“I also came for a talisman.”

“A talisman?”

“A token,” he said. “I wondered if you’d oblige me with a ribbon or handkerchief—to bring me good fortune in the fight.”

“Shouldn’t I give one to my husband instead?” Thea asked.

“I’ll give you one, Alex!” Rowena cried. She pulled a ribbon from her hair and handed it to him. “You’ll be my champion—like Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere.”

He tied the ribbon around his wrist.

“Can I come, too?” Rowena asked.

“I’m sorry, Rowe,” Ogilvie said. “It’s no place for you.”

Rowena pouted. “I’m not a child!”

Ogilvie took her hand. “Your father would never forgive me if I brought you with us. A fight can be a dangerous event, and I wouldn’t want to be worrying about your safety when I’m knocking Billy Bates to the ground. No unmarried woman should be seen at a fight—unless she’s of a certain sort.”

“But…”

“Why don’t you see if your cook needs help with supper?” Ogilvie suggested, interrupting Rowena’s protest. “We’ll be hungry after the fight.” He lifted the ribbon to his lips. “You’ll be with me in my heart tonight.”

Rowena sighed. “Oh, very well.”

“Run along, then,” he said.

Rowena smiled, then ran back toward the house.

Mr. Ogilvie offered his arm. Thea took it, then they followed at a more leisurely pace.

“You certainly have a way with Rowena,” Thea said. “She’ll do anything for you.”

“She’s an exceptional young woman. I’m quite in love with her.”

For a moment, hunger glimmered in his eyes, and a shiver ran across Thea’s skin.

“She’s still a child, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said.

“Griffin doesn’t seem to think so. Didn’t he want her to have a London season before you put a stop to it?”

“Rowena didn’t want a season,” Thea said, “and I agreed with her.”

“You’re wise,” he said. “She’s a pretty girl, and London is a cesspit of libertines. Better she find a husband nearer to home—one that suits her better than some titled dandy.”

“She’s barely fourteen,” Thea said. “Courtship’s out of the question.”

“Courtship!” he laughed. “Where a man dances around a woman, making a fool of himself to persuade her to marry him? I prefer the old ways of securing a mate.”

“I take it you’re referring to animals in the jungle who fight their rivals to establish ownership of the females?” Thea laughed. “London society may be degenerate, but it has, at least marginally, risen above the realm of the beast.”

“But you must admit that most women take pleasure in witnessing male prowess—such as what you’ll see in the White Hart tonight?”

Thea blushed at the memory of Griffin’s naked torso—and the desire which swirled deep within her each time she imagined him parading around the ring, dominating both the arena and his opponent—his sheer, male potency…

“Mrs. Oake?”

He fixed his gaze on her, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I became a little distracted.”

“You’ll need your wits about you tonight,” he said. “A woman as beautiful as you—I swear you’ll start a riot.”

As they reached the main house, she withdrew her hand. “Mr. Ogilvie,” she said, “you’re quite mistaken if you think a woman like me is likely to cause a riot.”

*

Thea stepped throughthe threshold of the White Hart, accompanied by Mr. Ogilvie.

The night was in full swing—the air filled with a cacophony of drunken male voices and the excited squeals of a woman. A wicked thrill coursed through Thea’s body at the thought of seeing her husband dominating the arena.

This time, she could enjoy watching him—openly, not hidden among the shadows—knowing he was hers. She’d be the one he’d take to bed after winning a fight—not some bar-room doxy.

A woman squealed in delight, and another roar rose.

“Tilly will part those fat thighs before you’ve even dropped your breeches, Billy!”

“She’s a fine cunny, that one!”

Thea recoiled at the profanity, then drew her shawl round her shoulders. One or two men leered at her, their expressions clouded by ale.

“Are you sure my husband wanted me here, Mr. Ogilvie?” she hissed. “Perhaps I should wait in the courtyard until the fighting starts.”

“It always gets a little rowdy before the fights start,” he said, “though it’s a bit livelier than normal tonight.”

A hand grasped Thea’s arm, and she found herself pulled toward a thickset man with a ruddy face and sour ale on his breath.

“Whoa—take a look at this tasty piece!”

“Get your hands off me!” she cried.

“Bloody hell—listen to the tart!” another man cried. He shoved the first man aside. “Let me take care of you,” he said. “I like ’em posh, and I’ll pay you a good deal more than Johnny. He never dips his hands into his pockets unless he’s fisting himself.”

He yanked her closer and pursed his lips, and she recognized the man Griffin had fought in London.

“Give Billy a kiss for luck, wench, and I’ll give ye a good time once I’m done in the ring.”

“What the fuck are you doing!” a new voice roared.

The room fell silent. Through the haze of smoke and sweat, Thea saw her husband’s face, dark with fury.

He grasped her assailant by the shoulders and threw him aside.

“Steady on, Oake!” The man laughed. “I saw her first.”

“Lay another finger on her, Billy Bates, and I’ll cut it off and feed it to the pigs!” Griffin growled.

“Don’t be so tight,” the man laughed. “You’ve a wife waiting at home, so your cock will be well served tonight. Surely you wouldn’t deny me a few minutes with this tart before I beat your balls in the ring?”

“That woman is my wife,” Griffin said.

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd.

Griffin turned his angry gaze on Thea. “I did not give you permission to come tonight, woman.”

Thea’s fear turned to indignation. “Permission?” she cried. “Since when must I ask your leave to do anything?”

“Since you vowed to obey me,” he said, glancing at the crowd before resuming his green gaze on her. Then, he grasped her wrist. “Come with me—you can wait in the parlor until the fight’s over.”

Did he think her some doxy to be ordered about?

“I will not!” she cried.

“Do you want me to take my hand to you, wife?”

“Steady on, Griff,” Ogilvie intervened. “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“What the bloody hell were you thinking, bringing her here?” Griffin demanded.

Laughter broke out among the crowd, and Thea’s cheeks burned with humiliation.

“I can defend myself, Mr. Ogilvie,” she said. “As for you, Griffin, you’ve no right to speak to me so!”

The laughter continued, punctuated by crude remarks and gestures.

“Has the Mighty Oak been felled by a wench?”

“You’re no man, Oake,” Billy Bates said, “if you can’t keep your woman in check.” He reached for Thea’s hand. “Come with me, lass. You can order me about as much as you wish—I like a wench to take control.”

Griffin shoved him aside. “Don’t touch her. She’s mine.”

“Then stake your claim!”

“With pleasure,” Griffin said. “In here. Now.”

“Don’t be so foolish!” Thea cried. “You can’t fight over me like a pair of dogs!”

Griffin pulled her close, then hissed in her ear. “The rules of society don’t apply here, Dorothea. The challenge has been made, and I must honor it, or they’ll tear me apart. Can you now see why I told you not to come?”

He released her. “Clear the room!” he cried.

The crowd parted like a receding tide, leaving a space in the center of the room.

“Ned!” Griffin roared.

Ned Watkins appeared at the far door. His eyes widened when he saw Thea. “Bloody hell—Mrs. Oake!” he cried. “Griffin, I thought you said she wasn’t to come.”

“I did.” Griffin pulled off his jacket and unlaced his shirt. The material tore as he ripped it off his torso and tossed it aside, his expression grim, mouth set in a firm line. Thea shivered at the fury in his eyes—he looked intent on committing murder.

His opponent raised his fists. Griffin remained still for a moment, then he balled his hands and waited.

“First man to the floor loses.”

“Fine by me,” his opponent said. He paced the floor, then he rushed toward Griffin. With one swift, smooth movement, Griffin drew back his arm, then thrust forward in a single, solid punch. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, and his opponent reeled back, then crashed to the floor, motionless.

Ned ran forward and kneeled over the still form.

“He’s out cold.”

Murmurs of disappointment threaded through the crowd.

“Bloody hell, Griffin, what the hell have you done?” Ned cried. “Most of these men came to see Billy fight!”

“I had no choice,” Griffin said quietly, his gaze leveled at Thea.

“I know—but—bloody hell!”

Griffin’s body shook with suppressed anger. His nostrils flared, and his eyes shimmered with lust. Then, he stepped forward, grasped Thea’s wrist, and marched across the room.

She almost stumbled to keep pace with him. “Griffin…”

Ignoring her plea, he strode up a flight of stairs and along the passage until he reached a door, which he kicked open.

“Griff…”

He pulled her inside the chamber and silenced her with his mouth, crashing his lips against hers like a man starved. Was this the bloodlust she’d heard of—when a male animal fought a rival for his mate?

Rough hands pulled her against his body, which was hard and ready. Her own body tightened with anticipation. A thrill coursed through her—swelled by the hunger she’d endured ever since they’d returned from London—a hunger which had gone unsatisfied.

Until now.

He fisted her skirt in his hands, then plunged his tongue into her mouth—a victorious beast marking ownership of the female he’d won. Her whole body shook with the thrill of his hands against her skin, and she squirmed against him and parted her legs.

Then he thrust forward and speared her in a swift, hard motion, slamming her back against the wall.

“Oh, yes!” she cried. Grasping his arms, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, drawing him deeper inside, until a fire sparked inside her, glowing brighter as he continued to pound into her, until it burst, and her body shattered around him. She screamed out his name as wave after wave of exquisite, pleasurable torture ripped through her—so intense, so ecstatic—that she thought she’d die of it.

She threw back her head and howled as a myriad of stars exploded above her. Then he roared out her name as his body joined hers in pleasure. She placed her head on his shoulder and sighed, listening to the sound of their hearts, beating in unison—twin hearts and twin souls.

It had been a fortnight since they’d made love. Whether it was the wait or the manner by which he’d taken her against the wall—the pleasure had been immeasurable.

There was no denying that her husband was a beast.

And she loved it.

“That was wonderful,” she whispered.

He stiffened, then pulled free. She lowered her legs, and a wave of cold rippled through her body, together with a sense of loss.

“Husband?”

He said nothing and stared at her. But rather than pleasure, she only saw one emotion in his eyes.

Regret.

*

What the devilhad he done?

Griffin’s wife—the delicate lady he’d married—stood before him, face flushed, hair tangled—as if she was some roadside whore he’d fucked in the bushes.

The beast within him, which had been growling for the past weeks in its eagerness for release, had devoured her, taking his pleasure with no thought of her sensibilities.

What had possessed her to come here tonight after he’d expressly forbidden it? Didn’t she know that a roomful of drunken, lustful men wouldn’t have been able to resist her?

“Forgive me,” he said. “I should never have done that.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I…” she hesitated and blinked. “…I enjoyed it.”

She reached toward him, and he stepped back, shaking his head.

“It was wrong, Dorothea.”

She withdrew her hand, a flicker of hurt in her eyes. “Didn’t you want me?”

“Not like that,” he sighed. “You’re my wife—not my whore.”

She flinched. “Are you saying you’d rather pleasure a whore?”

“Good Lord, no!”

“Then what?” she cried. “Am I not permitted to surrender to passion?”

“Passion leads to weakness, Dorothea. I’ve seen it too often—when a woman succumbs to the needs of the flesh.”

“Do you have any notion how ridiculous you sound?”

“My first wife…” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, so now you choose to speak of your first wife—when you’re condemning my sex!” The hurt in her expression turned to fury. “Do you compare us and find me wanting?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “I…”

She held up her hand. “Pray, do not elaborate,” she said. “It’s plain to see that you don’t want me here. If you’d like the services of a whore, feel free to take your pick from the doxies in the bar. All you need do is drag her by the hair into your cave.”

She picked up her shawl and approached the door.

“At least let me find someone to escort you home,” he said.

“I can look after myself, thank you,” she replied. “I’ll not throw myself at the first man I encounter on the way, lest you feel the need to beat him to a pulp.”

“I was protecting you!” he protested.

“I can shift for myself,” she said, “or perhaps you’re astonished that someone of my age and plain looks can attract the attention of any man?”

She glared at him, but there was no mistaking the hurt in her voice. Did she still see herself as undesirable?

“Dorothea…”

“Spare me,” she interrupted. “You forget, husband, that my experience in life has taught me to recognize when I’m unwelcome.”

She pulled open the door and strode out. He buttoned his breeches, then followed. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she almost collided with Alex Ogilvie.

Curse the man! Was there no getting rid of him?

The barroom door opened, and Ned appeared. “The fight’s about to start,” he said, “but Billy’s still out cold.”

“Bugger,” Griffin muttered.

“You’re telling me. The crowd’s none too happy. They were looking forward to a good fight.”

“Well, they got one for free,” Griffin said. “I wasn’t going to let Billy get away with manhandling my wife.” He gestured toward her. “Show her out, Ned. Take her through the back, so she doesn’t have to endure the mob.”

“I can take care…” she began, but Ned interrupted her.

“Ma’am, I wouldn’t want you to come to harm.” He bowed and held out his arm. She stared at it, then she smiled and took it.

Why didn’t she smile at him like that?

After they disappeared, Griffin rounded on Ogilvie.

“What the bloody hell were you doing bringing her here?”

“She wanted to come,” Ogilvie said. “It’s not her fault—or mine—that you treated her like a whore.”

Griffin opened his mouth to respond then closed it. How could he defend himself when Ogilvie spoke the truth?”

“Shall I go after her?” Ogilvie asked. “You’ll be occupied with managing the fight, and she looked upset.”

The last thing Griffin needed was that man causing more trouble. “I’ll go after her,” he replied. “She’s my wife.”

“You thought that about Louisa,” Ogilvie said. “Then she spread her legs for every man in the place. I presume that display of male prowess just now was your way of staking your claim on your wife. It didn’t work with Louisa—your neglect drove her into other men’s beds—and it won’t work for this one, either.”

Griffin’s hands itched with the need to obliterate Ogilvie’s smug grin. But he wanted to be rid of the man—and pummeling him into a pulp would have the opposite effect. Ogilvie was clever enough to elicit sympathy. He had to be beaten at his own game.

“Go and join the fighting, Ogilvie,” Griffin said. “The sooner you can repay your debts, the sooner you’ll be on your way.”

“Eager to be rid of me?”

“Just make sure you win.”

Griffin pushed past Ogilvie’s grinning form and followed in his wife’s wake. He encountered Ned outside the back door.

“You didn’t escort her home?”

“She threatened to cut my balls off if I accompanied her,” Ned said. “She’s a feisty one, but she shouldn’t be taking out her anger on me.”

Ned was right. He didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of Dorothea’s anger—Griffin did.

“She’ll not be angry at you for long, Ned,” Griffin said. “She’s a good-hearted woman and a fair one.”

“Then you should go to her,” Ned said. “I’ll take care of everything here. Now Billy’s out of the competition, there’s no need for you to stay—unless you fancy a shot at Ogilvie.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more than to smash that bastard’s face in,” Griffin said. “But it’s not passion, or anger, that wins a fight—it’s a level head. And whenever I’m in that man’s presence, I’m anything but level-headed.”

“Then let Johnny Tighe beat the life out of him for you.”

Griffin had seen Tighe fight once before, and he’d acquitted himself well. But though he relished the thought of Tighe beating Ogilvie, he needed Ogilvie to win enough prize money tonight to be on his way.

But first, he needed to make peace with his wife.

Again.

*

He found herin the drawing room on the two-seater sofa, a copy of her sister’s book in hand. She glanced up, then resumed her attention on the book.

“Supper’s at nine,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you home early.”

The matter-of-fact tone she used irritated him more than the histrionics Louisa had always displayed when she didn’t get her own way.

Or was it perhaps that he hadn’t cared one jot about Louisa’s feelings, given that she’d cared nothing for him? Whereas his Thea was the kind of woman whose love was worth earning.

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He closed the door, then approached the sofa and sat beside her. She continued to read, but her breathing had quickened, almost imperceptibly.

He reached out and took her hand, and she looked up, assaulting him with her clear blue gaze.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I-I can never find the words to articulate how I feel…please believe me when I say I had no intention of hurting you.”

She sighed, then set the book aside. “I do believe you. We were both…” she swallowed, and a faint color bloomed on her cheeks, “…caught up in the moment. But I fail to see why it’s something to be ashamed of.”

“We’re from different backgrounds,” he said. “I am what I am, and you’re a lady. I don’t want you thinking that I view you as a…” He gestured in front of him, unwilling to voice the word.

“A passionate woman?” she prompted.

Now it was his turn to blush. A smile curled in the corners of her mouth.

“Our backgrounds are not dissimilar,” she said. “You forget, I grew up in poverty.”

“I can never be your equal, Thea,” he said. “You’re my superior in understanding and character.”

“You do yourself a disservice,” she said, “except in one quarter.”

“Which is?”

“The matter of your late wife. Has it never occurred to you that I’d rather not be compared to her? I am not her and never will be. And yet, you refer to her to justify your anger or frustration, such as earlier today. Rowena should be able to speak freely of her mother—and I deserve your honesty.”

“Some secrets are best kept hidden,” he said.

“Not in my experience. The truth always has a way of revealing itself, often when we’re least prepared for it.”

She folded her arms and fixed her direct gaze on him, and he felt himself withering under her scrutiny. If ever the militia wanted to employ an expert at extracting secrets from the enemy, the perfect candidate sat before him.

Then, uncertainty—and vulnerability—glimmered in her eyes.

“Tell me honestly, Griffin,” she said, “do you see me as a harlot for enjoying the…relations…we shared just now?”

“No.”

“Then you view me as a burden…undesirable?”

Oh Lord—why was it that women not only spoke in riddles, but they sought to entrap a man by asking questions such that a denial landed him in just as much trouble as an affirmation.

He shook his head. “Am I to be condemned whatever I say in response? Is there nothing I can say to prove that I love you?”

Her eyes widened, and she drew in a sharp breath, and he squeezed her hand.

“Can you be in any doubt of my love?” he asked softly.

“Then tell me the truth.”

“Sometimes the truth breaks hearts,” he replied, lifting her hand to his lips. “I have no wish to break your heart—or Rowe’s. The truth—it might destroy her.”

She continued to gaze at him, her silence doing more to pierce his conscience than any words of condemnation.

“I’ve kept the truth inside me for ten years,” he said. “When Mr. Ogilvie has gone, and the balance of harmony is restored in our home—when I am among those I love and trust—I’ll explain. I trust you with my life, my darling Thea—and I also trust you with Rowe’s peace of mind. I will have need of you when the time comes. Will you trust me enough to wait until then?”

Her expression softened, and she reached up and placed her palm on his face.

“Yes,” she whispered, her breath a warm caress, “I trust you.”

He leaned forward and captured her lips, then brushed his knuckles along the neckline of her gown. The color of her eyes deepened, and her body shuddered. He lowered his hand and cupped her breast.

How the devil had he got so lucky to be able to call her his?

“Perhaps we might retire to my chamber before supper,” he whispered, “to enjoy a little appetizer.”

His blood warmed at her coy smile. “Wouldn’t that be ever so wicked?”

“What is pleasure if we cannot indulge in a little wickedness?” he asked. “But I promise to be gentle. I wouldn’t have my wife think me a caveman.”

“I find I relish having a caveman for a husband.”

He caught his breath as he almost spent in his trousers at the devilish glint in her eye.

He grasped her hand, then in a swift movement, lifted her into his arms.

“Griffin! What are you doing?”

“What I should have done the very first day I brought you here,” he said. “I’m carrying my wife to my bed.”

“Mmm!”

Her murmur of encouragement was all he needed.