He knew she’d be disappointed, but he had to go. He didn’t trust himself. If he spent one more moment in her presence, with those fair, soft hands reaching out to him—he’d haul her close, ruining her and both their families.
No, this was the perfect time to leave. After he’d done all he could, and before he cocked anything up. He’d made certain his brother would have a chance to win her back, and to be honest, that was probably more than Piers deserved.
After a while, the stretch of road started to look familiar. He wasn’t but four or five miles from Queensridge.
And in Queensridge, he could find a fight.
God, that was just what he needed. He’d gone too long without the taste of blood in his mouth and the frenzied roar of a crowd in his ears. He was forgetting who he was.
He could have walked into any hamlet and picked a scuffle with the local loudmouthed blackguard. Every village pub had one. But he wasn’t a bully, and he didn’t fight amateurs. He needed a proper bout with a skilled opponent.
The Crooked Rook was just the place.
In centuries past, the inn had been a favored haunt of smugglers and highwaymen. Nowadays it mostly catered to a prizefighting crowd. Since prizefights were illegal, they had to be staged well outside Town and could only be publicized on short notice. The broadsheet went out a day in advance, and from there it was a mad race for spectators to reach the designated site.
The Crooked Rook was ideal: close enough to London, not too far from the main road. Only a few hours’ journey for most. It had a wide, empty field in the back with plenty of room for a proper ring and spectators. And Salem Jones, the current proprietor, stayed on friendly bribing terms with the local magistrates.
To Rafe, and many others, it had become a surrogate home. If he had entered the place last year—back when he was champion—he would have been met with a rousing cheer from every corner.
Today, when he strode through the doorway just about noontime, his reception was more tepid. Oh, a good many nodded or called in his direction. But the general mood in the place was uncertain. No one quite knew what to make of a vanquished champion.
He cracked his neck. That would change by the time he left this place. It felt like a good day to start a comeback. And a quick glance toward the bar was all he needed to find his first opponent.
Prizefighters fought for different reasons. Some liked the sport. Some liked the money. Some just liked to make men bleed.
Finn O’Malley belonged in the latter category. He’d been champion some dozen years ago, but for the past decade O’Malley had been holding down the leftmost barstool at the Crooked Rook. He only roused himself from that perch for one of two reasons: to go out for a piss or to throw a punch. He’d fight anyone, loser buys the next round.
The man hadn’t paid for a pint in years.
Rafe made a path straight for him.
The aging Irishman peered up at him, his eyes dark, wary slits. “Is that Brandon? What do you want?”
“I want a fight. One washed-up champion against another.”
O’Malley sneered. “I only fight idjits for pints. I don’t fight champions unless there’s a purse.”
“That can be arranged.” Rafe drew his own money from his pocket. He shook a few coins loose and kept them, then dropped the remaining weight on the counter. It landed with a resounding thunk. “Hold it for us,” he told the barkeep.
A new fire kindled behind O’Malley’s eyes. It was a look that told him this wouldn’t be easy.
Good. Rafe didn’t want it to be easy.
“In the courtyard.” O’Malley placed both hands on the counter and levered his weight off the stool. “Give us a minute. After I take m’self out for a piss.”
Rafe nodded.
As he stood gathering his thoughts, a tankard of porter appeared on the bar before him.
“From the lady.” The barkeep tilted his head toward a hazy corner of the tavern.
Lady? Hah. Only one kind of “lady” frequented this establishment.
Rafe had a glance.
Slender. Dark-haired. Fetching.