Staring wide-eyed, she was stunned into speechlessness at the sight of the bar brawl that had broken out. A handful of men flung fists at one another, smashing up tables and tumbling over chairs, while the few women travelers rushed outside to avoid the melee. Stable hands and grooms running inside to join the fight were caught up by the women in the bottleneck of the narrow doorway.
A bottle shattered against the wall. When the innkeeper poked his head up from behind the bar to curse at whoever had thrown it, an ale tankard flew past his head. He ducked back down, this time staying put and leaving the fight to play out without interference.
At the center of the fray stood three large, golden-haired men with broad shoulders, clenched fists, wide grins—
Robert.
She gasped. Impossible! Yet there he was, standing back-to-back with two other men who looked so much like him that they could only be the Carlisle brothers. The scourge of Mayfair and the bane of Lincolnshire. And right now, three men well on their way to destroying the inn.
One of the grooms who had pushed his way past the women grabbed the youngest brother by the back of his coat and tossed him across a table. When he landed, he jumped to his feet, then went running back into the brawl, fists flying. Seconds later he was thrown over the table again, and this time when he scrambled to his feet, a broad grin of unabashed joy lit his face. Without pause he rushed back into the fray.
The other man to Robert’s right—good heavens, was that the Duke of Trent? And were dukes supposed to be so skilled in bare-knuckle brawling? But this man was. He lowered his shoulder and plowed into a hostler who swung a wide punch and missed his target, bodily tossing the man through the door and out into the yard.
But her eyes kept returning to Robert, who simultaneously ducked and landed punches with the ease of a well-trained pugilist. Her heart lurched at the sight of him, and in that moment’s confusion, she didn’t know whether to rush forward to throw herself into his arms or join the other men in swinging at him.
In the middle of the skirmish, Whitby stepped inside the inn. “What the devil—”
Robert lunged.
*
Burning with jealousy, Robert grabbed Whitby by the lapels and shoved him against the wall.
“She belongs with me,” he growled through clenched teeth. “You don’t get her. Not now, not ever.”
“I don’t—I don’t know—” Whitby’s eyes grew large. But Robert wasn’t going to be fooled by that bewildered look on the man’s face. “Why are you here?”
Or fooled by feigned innocence. “To stop you from—”
A pint of ale poured over his head.
“What the hell!” He released Whitby’s coat, and the man fell to the floor in a heap. He wheeled around.
He should have known—“Mariah.”
Tossing the empty tankard aside, she knelt beside Whitby, who now sat on the floor, dazed, although not a single punch had been thrown at him. Around them, the fight continued, with more broken pieces of furniture, more smashed bottles, and a solid string of curses coming from the innkeeper still hiding behind the bar.
“What did you do?” she accused, shooting Robert a dark glare.
“I didn’t lay a hand on him,” he refuted, wiping the ale from his hair. “For god’s sake, he fainted!”
She pulled Whitby into her arms. “Leave him be!”
Her defense of Whitby flamed the anger inside him. He ground out, “The hell I will!” He took her arm and lifted her to her feet. She tried to yank herself away, but he held tight. He’d come too far to let her go now. “You are not marrying him.”
Stunned by his words, she froze. Only her eyes moved as she stared at him, growing wide in surprise as if he’d just admitted to attempting to kill the king.
Taking full advantage of the moment, he grabbed her into his arms and carried her swiftly through the fight and up the stairs.
“Put me down!” Mariah demanded, kicking her legs and hitting at his shoulders to make him release her.
“No,” he answered flatly, trying the door handle of each guest room. One of the handles gave way, and the unlocked door swung open wide to reveal an unused guest room.
He carried her inside, shut the door with a kick of his boot, and rolled her onto his shoulder, to free his hand and flip the lock.
When she kicked a knee into his stomach, he sucked in a mouthful of air and slapped her bottom. “Stop that!”
He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed. With a gasp, she bounced on the mattress.
Placing his hands on either side of her, he leaned over to bring his face level with hers. “You are not marrying that man,” he repeated, wanting no mistake between them on this point. “I won’t let you elope with Hugh Whitby.”
Her mouth fell open. “You think that Whitby and I—that we’re—”
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t need feigned innocence from her right now, either. “Running away to Scotland, yes,” he drawled acidly.
Her eyes grew impossibly wider. Then she laughed, so hard that she had to place her hands over her stomach.
He glowered at her. Damnable woman. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh yes, it is!” she choked out between laughs.
“I’ve been riding nearly nonstop for two days to catch up to you,” he bit out, fighting to keep his patience. “When that message from Whitby arrived at your house—”
“You were at the house?” The laughter died on her lips, replaced instantly by suspicion. Her distrust of him cut nearly as painfully as her laughter. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to explain to you about St Katharine’s.” He clenched his jaw in anger as the memory of reading Whitby’s note flooded back, carrying with it the sharp stab of her rejection. “Only to learn that you’d fled north. With Whitby.” He paused and stared down into her green eyes, seeing the pain and anger in their depths that he’d put there. For the first time since leaving London, uncertainty that he’d be able to change her mind gnawed at his gut. His shoulders slumped as he asked quietly, “Do you hate me so much that you’d marry another man just to spite me?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then her chin somehow rose defiantly into the air even as she lay on her back. “Why do you care whom I marry, as long as I wed?”
Her anger wasn’t strong enough to hide the pain he heard in her voice, which only added to his guilt and frustration. She wasn’t wrong to doubt him. A few weeks ago, he wanted exactly that. But now he wanted so much more.
“Because you’re not going to marry Whitby,” he said with complete resolve. He leaned in closer, so close that he could feel her breath fanning across his lips. “You’re going to marry me.”
Stunned by his words, she stared at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. He could almost see the thoughts whirling inside that sharp mind of hers.
Then her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that why you bedded me, Carlisle?” Her voice was a scornful hiss. “So you could secure the partnership through marriage, if not by merit? To hedge your bet in case my season failed you?”
Hell no. “I made love to you,” he said, deliberately correcting her description of what happened between them, “because I wanted to be with you. No other reason.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered. Despite her fury, anguish dulled the light in her eyes and traitorously revealed how much pain pulsed inside her. “Besides, Papa won’t let—”
“I don’t give a damn about that partnership,” he growled. For God’s sake, how did he make her believe him?
Her eyes glistened with suffering and rage. “And you don’t give a damn about St Katharine’s, either!”
With a fierce cry, she shoved hard at his shoulders to push past him and scramble off the bed. But Robert grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back down, pinning her beneath him. The minx was going nowhere, not until she’d heard him out.
“I care about St Katharine’s,” he explained calmly, despite an elbow she threw into his ribs, “because you care about it.”
She punched at his shoulder. “I don’t believe you! I heard what you said to Papa—”