Her first few attempts were embarrassing. The first time, she failed to connect with the pillow at all. On her second attempt, her “jab” was more of a nudge.
But Rafe didn’t laugh at her attempts. He kept at her, encouraging and teasing by turns, and taking breaks to correct her form. After a few dozen attempts, she threw a punch that seemed to land with something that resembled . . . force.
“There,” he said. “Felt good, didn’t it?”
“Very good,” she said, breathless. But “very” was too polite a word. This was bare-knuckle boxing, after all. “Damned good. Bloody good.”
He smiled. “Don’t tell Bruiser, or he’ll start angling to get you in a ring.”
She cocked her head. “There are female prizefighters? Really?”
“Oh, yes. Very popular with the crowds. Mostly because they often end up bare-breasted.”
The shameless devil. She sent a right cross that hit the pillow with a satisfying oof. “I’m starting to understand why you like this.”
“Then maybe you can understand my true secret now. The one none of those other women wanted to believe.”
“What’s that?”
“That I don’t need to be saved from fighting. Fighting saved me.”
Clio lowered her fists and regarded him. She did believe it. The tone of his voice as he explained these simple motions . . . It was imbued not only with authority but something that almost sounded like love.
Prizefighting was more than brute violence or rebellion to him. It was a craft he’d worked years to master. Perhaps even an art.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking time to teach me.”
He raised the pillow. “Oh, we’re not finished. Do it again.”
She did it again. And again. She punched at those pillows over and over, until she started driving him backward and he circled to keep from being backed against the wall.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s my girl. Punch back at everything they told you. That you weren’t good enough. That you never could be. It’s bollocks, all of it. Look how strong you are.”
She threw punch after punch, pushing out all the anger and frustration of the last eight years. Until her arms were custard.
“Now”—he threw the pillows aside—“I’m Piers. I’m back from Vienna. Ready to marry you. Give me your worst.”
“My worst? I thought you wanted me to give your brother a chance.”
“It’s the same thing. Give him a chance, but give him hell. If he can’t win you over, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“Er . . . “ She was out of breath from all the boxing. “Oh, goodness. Piers, I—”
“No, no. Your posture’s gone all wrong.” He corrected her with his hands, laying one palm between her shoulder blades and the other on her belly. “Remember, you can do this. You’re not seventeen. You’re a woman. A strong one.”
He released her and took two steps back, pretending to be Piers again. “Now, what is it you have to say?”
“I . . .”
“Eye contact. Look up.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I am glad to see you home safe and well, but I don’t think we should marry.”
“Oh, jolly good.” He slung himself into the nearest chair and propped up his feet.
Clio shook herself and laughed. “What are you doing?”
“What you’ve been claiming Piers will do.” He folded his hands beneath his head. “You promised me he’d be nothing but relieved. Overjoyed, even.”
She sighed.
“See? When you’re honest with yourself, even you know that’s not going to be the case.” He stood up again. “So he’s not going to say ‘jolly good.’ He’s going to say something like . . .” He pitched his voice into an aristocratic baritone. “Of course we’re going to marry. It was decided when we were children. We’ve been engaged for years.”
“Yes. But I think it might for the best if . . .”
“No, no.” Rafe broke out of his Piers role. “Don’t use words like ‘think’ or ‘might.’ You’ve decided.”
“I’ve decided. I’ve decided to break the engagement.”