“That money will be donated to a women’s relief society.”
Durham’s eyes glinted with mockery. “I see your sobriquet of the bare-knuckle king has led you to the delusion you will win this match. I plan to gamble and visit my favorite pleasure house.” He licked his lips suggestively and some in the audience laughed.
“This fight is about justice, and a matter of honor.”
She watched James with a terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off his expression of ruthless purpose. His implacable mien was unnerving.
The marquess’s face creased in a mask of concern. “What in God’s name are you about, Maschelly?”
“You hurt someone I care about.”
Everything inside of her went warm. Yet the silence around the two fighters was chilled.
The marquess’s lips thinned. “I don’t—”
James stepped closer and lowered his voice. Verity had to lean on the ropes to hear him. “This was years ago, and you have escaped the consequences of your actions. You attacked her, held her down, and tried to force yourself on her. You are a despoiler of innocence and beauty. You leave behind fears and nightmares. You abuse when you should protect. For that you deserve to die. There is no recognition in your eyes of whom I speak. And that tells me you have lost count of the faces you have hurt. You will learn a very painful lesson tonight, Durham.”
Verity almost cast up her accounts. She had not been his only victim. Wild anger throbbed through her, it twisted and churned, until it became calm, and hinted of the darkness James had spoken about. This man had hurt her, possibly hurt other ladies or servants under his care because that was the type of man he was. Fury almost choked her.
Verity barely heard the announcer shout that the fight was about to start, that they followed the underground laws which meant no rules, and the purse was twenty thousand pounds. But she heard the final word as it was bellowed, “Fight!”
Both men moved toward the other with ruthless purpose. They both possessed similar raw-boned, powerfully built frames. Worry for James rushed through Verity, and she wanted to plead with him not to risk himself. The snake was not worth it. The Marquess danced in, his form graceful, and attacked. James shifted away with stunning agility and slammed a fist into the marquess’s side. Thwack. Someone behind her gasped at the inherent power in that hit, and Verity's heart roared.
The marquess stumbled, and he shot James a dazed look, and she instinctively recognized that usually when contenders fought, it was not with such brutality.
You will learn a painful lesson tonight, Durham.
Verity pressed a hand over her mouth and watched in horrified fascination as James slammed another fist into the man’s gut before he could recover. The marquess doubled over for a few seconds before he stumbled upright. Then James moved in and gave him no mercy.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Each hit echoed with the brutal and punishing force of their delivery.
And not once had the marquess landed a hit on James. The marquess tumbled to the floor, and she expected a cheer from the audience, but they remained quiet.
“Get up,” James commanded.
It took him a few tries, but the marquess stood, swaying slightly. Verity winced to see the blood dripping from his lips, and the already ugly purple and black discoloration forming over his body.
Then James shifted to face her and held out his hand.
Her heart galloped and skipped a few beats, was he really holding out his hand to her and indicating for her to enter the ring? She breathed heavily, looking at his bloodied hands, unsure what James was thinking. But she trusted him unequivocally. She reached for him, and he helped her into the ring. She peered into the raw, brilliance of his gaze, uncaring they had an audience.
“You said, if one day you could tell him what he did…the nightmares would go away forever.”
She inhaled in a shallow, quick gasp, then turned and faced the marquess. Verity felt helpless in the grip of sensations—rage, fear, doubt, daring—swelling through her body. She stepped closer and stared at the man who had caused her such pain.
“What the hell is this?” Durham snarled, swiping a bubble of blood from his lips.
The warm, protective heat of James’s body moved closer. “She has something to say, and you will listen to every word.”
“She?” The marquess peered at her from a swollen eye, an ugly smirk on his face. “What did I do, not leave enough coins?”
She flashed him a look of pure disdain. “You took something from me: Peace and happiness, and you will not get another minute, you vile, revolting excuse of a man. You are a maggoty coward!”
Anger flashed in his eyes, and he stepped closer. Yet she did not feel intimidated. She stepped forward, felt James’s start of surprise, but before he could stop her, she balled her fist and let it fly. Pain jerked along the bones of her arm, but with satisfaction, the marquess's head snapped back.
With a roar of fury he charged at her, and with a nimbleness that rivaled James's earlier elegance, she danced from beneath his reach to behind of him. A murmuring of admiration swept through the crowd, but she did not direct her attention to their reaction. The marquess spun around, and Verity saw the perfect opening. She stepped in with sure swiftness and kicked him in the balls with all the pent-up pain she had lived with for almost five years.
An odd high pitch squeal tore from his throat as he tumbled to the floor, clutching at his man parts. Tears leaked from his eyes and sweat coated his body. No remorse filled her. Verity wished she could do it again when she thought about every other woman whom he might have hurt. All the other ladies who might not have had an aunt to rescue them. Or a brother and a father to defend their honor. Or a…James.