Lord of Scoundrels (Scoundrels 3)

That would want a long and dogged battle.

The drunken Ainswood, she thought ruefully, stood a better chance of winning than she did. On the other hand, he did not seem overly intelligent, and her struggle wanted brains, not brawn.

Jessica did not lack brains, and the mouthwatering sight below constituted more than sufficient motivation.

She watched one of the men secure Dain’s left arm in a makeshift sling. Then the two combatants stood up to each other, nearly toe to toe.

The signal was given.

Ainswood instantly made a fierce rush at his opponent, head down and fists flailing. Dain, smiling, retreated, carelessly dodging the shower of blows, simply letting the duke come on as hard as he could.

But hard as the man came, he got nowhere. Dain was light on his feet, his reflexes lightning-fast—as they must be, for Ainswood was surprisingly quick, despite his insobriety. Nonetheless, Dain led him a merry chase. Blow after blow that seemed certain to connect struck only air, infuriating the duke.

He came on harder yet, throwing more power into the assault, trying every angle. One blow glanced off Dain’s arm. Then there was a blur of movement and a loud thwack! And Ainswood staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose.

“A conker, by gad,” Jessica muttered. “And I never saw it coming. Nor did His Grace, to be sure.”

Bloody but undaunted, Ainswood laughed and bounded back for yet another dogged attack.

By this time, Bridget had returned to her new mistress’s side. “Mercy on us,” she said, her round face wrinkled with distaste. “Isn’t once enough to be hit?”

“They don’t feel it.” Jessica turned back to the fight. “Until it’s over, that is. Oh, well done, Dain,” she cried as her lord’s powerful right slammed into the duke’s side. “That’s what he wants. To the body, my dear. The oaf’s head is thick as an anvil.”

Fortunately, her cries could not be heard over the shouts of the assembled onlookers, or Dain might have been distracted—with unfortunate results—by his dainty wife’s bloodthirsty advice.

In any case, he’d evidently worked out the matter on his own, and one—two—three—brutal body blows at last brought Ainswood to his knees.

Two men rushed forward to haul His Grace up. Dain backed away.

“Give it up, Ainswood,” someone in Dain’s circle shouted.

“Aye, before he really hurts you.”

From her vantage point, Jessica could not be certain how much damage Dain had done. There was a good deal of blood spattered about, but the human nose did tend to bleed profusely.

Ainswood stood, swaying. “Come along, Big Beak,” he taunted, gasping. “I’m not done with you.” Clumsily he waved his fists.

Dain shrugged, strode forward and, in a few swift motions, knocked the flailing hands away and planted his fist in his opponent’s gut.

The duke folded up like a rag doll and toppled backward. Fortunately, his friends reacted quickly, catching him an instant before his head could hit the cobblestones. When they’d pulled him up into a sitting position, he grinned stupidly up at Dain. Sweat mingled with blood trickled down the duke’s face.

“Apologize,” said Dain.

Ainswood took several heaving breaths. “Beg pardon, Beelz,” he croaked.

“You will also take the first opportunity to apologize to my lady.”

Ainswood sat, nodding and breathing hard for a long moment. Then, to Jessica’s chagrin, he looked up toward the balcony. “Beg pardon, my lady Dain!” he called out hoarsely.

Then Dain looked up, too. Damp black curls clung to his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his neck and shoulders.

His eyes widened briefly in astonishment when they lit upon her, and an odd, pained look crossed his features. But in the next instant, the familiar, mocking expression was in place. “My lady,” he said, and swept her a theatrical bow.

The crowd cheered.

She nodded. “My lord.” She wanted to leap down from the balcony and into his arms.

One-armed, he had fought his own friend, because of her. He had fought cleverly, splendidly. He was magnificent. She wanted to cry. She mustered a tremulous smile, then turned and hurried through the door Bridget held open for her.

Not certain at first what to make of his bride’s troubled smile, Dain took stock of the situation and his appearance, and ended by making the worst of it.

The smile and the cool composure, he decided, were for the audience’s benefit. It was a cover-up smile, as so many of his own were, and he could easily imagine what she was covering up.

Her new husband was an animal.

He’d been brawling in an innyard like a common ruffian.

He was dirty and spattered with Ainswood’s blood and sweating and stinking.

He was also half-naked, and the torchlights had given her a lurid view of what he’d intended to conceal in darkness: his gross blackamoor’s body.

By now, she was probably clutching a chamber pot, casting up her accounts—if she wasn’t bolting the door and helping Bridget push heavy furniture against it.

Dain decided against washing up in the room. Instead, he marched to the pump, deaf to his valet’s warnings about the night air and fatal chills.

Not to be outdone, Ainswood joined him there. They silently doused themse

lves while their friends gathered round them to exclaim and argue about the fight.

When the two had completed their cold ablutions, they stood eyeing each other and shrugging their shoulders to conceal their shivering.

Ainswood spoke first. “Wed, by gad,” he said, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought it?”

“She shot me,” said Dain. “She had to be punished. ‘Pardon one offense,’ says Publilius, ‘and you encourage the commission of many.’ Can’t have every female who feels vexed with me running after me with pistol cocked. Had to make an example of her, didn’t I?”

He glanced round at the others. “If one female gets away with shooting Beelzebub, others might start thinking they can get away with shooting any male, on any trifling pretext.”

The men about him fell silent. As they pondered this outrageous prospect, their expressions grew very grave.

“I wed her as a public service,” he said. “There are times when a man must rise above his own petty concerns and act on behalf of his friends.”

“So he must,” said Ainswood. He broke into a grin. “But it doesn’t seem so great a sacrifice to me. That is a prime—I mean to say, your lady is exceedingly handsome.”

Dain affected indifference.

“I should say beautiful,” said Carruthers.

“Quality,” said another.

“Her bearing is elegant,” another volunteered.

“Graceful as a swan.”

While his chest expanded and his shoulders straightened, Dain managed to appear disgusted. “I give you leave to cudgel your brains, composing lyrical odes to her perfection,” he said. “I, however, mean to have a drink.”

Chapter 11

Jessica’s dinner appeared about twenty minutes after the mill. Her husband did not. He was in the bar parlor with some companions, according to the innkeeper, and had requested Her Ladyship not to wait for him.

Jessica was not surprised. In her experience, after trying desperately to knock each other’s brains from their skulls, men promptly became the very dearest of friends and celebrated their intimacy by becoming cockeyed drunk.