Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eleanor watched as James visibly shook himself and then clenched his teeth with new determination. She could feel Robert glancing at her to make sure she was all right, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the ring.
It was horrible, yes. Every time Clark reached for James, her stomach dropped, and every time he actually managed to hit him, or grab onto him, it turned into a lead pit. She found herself whispering under her breath, pleading for his safety to whatever deities might be listening.
But it was also strangely beautiful—oddly intimate—to see him like this. His body was slick with sweat, his muscles straining, red staining his mouth like wine.
They were both very good, she could tell—graceful and quick and powerful in a way that only a pugilist could be. This was James in his element. This was an opponent who matched him, who possibly outmatched him. It was a grappling, grunting battle for dominance, a battle, not just between their bodies, but of their wills.
It was a dance, in the same way that making love was a dance, but different, too. It was brutal and charged and dangerous. Sweat and blood. Violence and power.
No, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
James was beautiful, even as he fell to his knees.
The first round was over.
A man, James’s second, yelled at him from beyond the ropes, urging him to stand up. And James, who was not a quitter, and who, hopefully, knew his limits, pushed to his feet.
He grinned at Clark, mouth still bloody, spat, and stepped forward again. Eleanor’s heart surged.
Eventually, James drew Clark’s blood, too, and both men were a mess, but neither of them capitulated. James threw Clark to the ground to end the second round, but the man, who was just as stubborn as his opponent, stood up again.
The next few rounds were a blur, a flurry of fists and motion.
Clark was worried. His jaunty smirks from the first round had disappeared. Eleanor assumed he’d thought this would be a quick victory and was shocked when it wasn’t. After he was thrown down, he fought harder, struck faster, like a cornered animal.
James returned hit for hit. But he was tiring. They were both tiring.
Eleanor’s hands were squeezed into fists of her own. For all she knew, she was drawing blood, too, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the man in front of her.
She found herself shouting encouragement, even when Robert tried to shush her. Unladylike, awful things like “Knock him down” and then, after a particularly dirty, below-the-belt hit that the referee didn’t catch, ”Hit him in the face!”
Eleanor knew James heard her. His shoulders straightened. He seemed invigorated, like her voice had spilled new life into him.
He pummeled Clark, diving in quick, hitting quick, backing away before the other man could touch him.
He grinned sharply, a grin that felt like it was made for her, and her alone, and then he threw a punch that collided with Clark’s face—and, if she wasn’t mistaken, dislodged another tooth.
Shortly after James’s fist collided with Clark’s face, Clark’s body collided with the ground. He spat out blood, nearly hitting James’s shoes, which might have been intentional, tried to push himself up, and then fell back with a weak groan.
His second was snarling something at him, but he shook his head. “No,” Eleanor heard him gasp, “I’m finished.”
There was a pause. A hush. A moment of searing triumph.
And then the crowd erupted.
Eleanor, who was not prone to wild displays but who couldn’t control her excitement, screamed more loudly than any of them, heart thrashing against her chest.
She was still screaming when Robert grabbed her arm in one hand, and Georgina’s in another, and tugged them toward the carriage.
“Wait,” she said, as Robert moved to hand them up. “What if he looks for us?” They shouldn’t be too difficult to spot if he came this way. Most of the spectators were still at the prize ring.
Reluctantly, Robert acquiesced, leaning against the side of their carriage. “Bollocks, it’s cold,” he muttered, folding his arms.
“Robert!” Georgina reprimanded.
He scoffed. “I’m quite certain you just heard any number of worse things in less than an hour.”
“That was strangely exhilarating,” Georgina mused, almost voicing Eleanor’s own thoughts. “Let’s not tell Theo we were here.”
Eleanor laughed shakily.
About five minutes later, a tall figure appeared, trudging toward them. James had cleaned himself off with a linen towel that hung around his neck, but he was still shirtless, and the gleam of victory was still bright in his eyes.
Eleanor’s heart surged again. She hoped all of this surging wasn’t detrimental to the organ’s health.
Though she wasn’t a barrel-er, she couldn’t manage to contain herself this time. She supposed there were a few occasions in life that called for some exuberance. She rushed toward James, who opened his arms automatically, and they collided so hard he was knocked back a step.
She grabbed his face and kissed him.
“Well,” he said, once they’d broken apart. “That’s done.”
She huffed against his bare chest.
“I heard you, you know,” he said, idly playing with her hair. “I always suspected you were a bloodthirsty wench.”
This made her smile. He pressed kisses into her hair, so softly, so gently she almost thought she imagined them. “Come home with me,” he said in a low voice that rumbled through his chest.
She pulled back, stared at him with parted lips, and then nodded.
Robert called out from behind them, “Enough of that now. Georgina and I are going back. Eleanor?”
She turned to face him.
“I shall accompany James in his carriage,” she said. At the look on Robert’s face, she added, “We are betrothed.”
James took her hand, his grip tight. “We are?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Aren’t we?”
The smile that curved his mouth was so wide that it crinkled his eyes, too, and so bright that it nearly hurt Eleanor to look at him. “Yes, lass, we are.”
With that, he tugged her toward the waiting carriage.
Robert spluttered behind them. “But that’s still not—Eleanor!” He swore, but Eleanor didn’t hear exactly what he said because the carriage door was already shutting behind them.
“If I was a more chivalrous sort of man,” James said as the carriage picked up speed, “I might ask you if you were certain about marrying me, but I’m not chivalrous, and you already said we were betrothed. I’m holding you to that promise.”
“I wouldn’t take it back, and chivalry doesn’t suit you anyway.”
“No,” he mused, “You’re probably right. I’ll subdue any future impulses.”
With that, he dragged her into his lap, hands warm on her thighs, but he still didn’t kiss her. He only looked at her, as though he was trying to memorize this moment. The blanket beside them went unused as they drew heat from one another instead.
“You said you would have to sell your horses.”
“I did,” James answered. “This isn’t my carriage. It’s my second’s.” Then he added, “But my prize money was nothing to scoff at, and now that I’ve beaten Thomas Clark, I bet attendance at the saloon will be even better than before. I could probably afford more horses, if you want them.”
She heard the hint of uncertainty in his voice, the question he wasn’t asking. “I would still marry you,” she said softly. “Even if you’d lost.”
“But I wanted to be worthy of you.”
“You are.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “God, Eleanor, how I’ve missed you.”
Her heart softened as she looked at him. His face was more open, more raw, more vulnerable than she’d ever seen it. This was James without armor. This was James unprotected. And she was surprised to see, or maybe not so surprised, that he was as fragile as anyone, though he always appeared so much stronger.
“I wanted to stop so many times. I wanted to give up and crawl back to you. But I knew if I did that, I’d never finish training. Don’t ever let me prove my worth again,” he finished vehemently.
“It wasn’t easy for me, either,” she pointed out. “And you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy your victory.”
This brought a small smile to his lips. “I saw the duke’s face in the crowd when I won. That made the time we spent apart almost worth it. But then I saw your face in the crowd, and I realized you were the only one who mattered.”
“Well, I enjoyed the fight,” she said.
“Bloodthirsty wench,” he agreed. “Your sort of love might just kill me.” But then, his smile faded and his voice turned serious. “You didn’t let me say it. That was cruel of you.”
Her pulse raced, but she didn’t apologize. “Tell me now, then.”
He took her face in his large, gentle hands. “I love you, Eleanor. You are gunpowder, and you aren’t quite as dismayed by my bloody face as you should be, and sometimes I suspect you’re a bit perverse—you do seem to get an extraordinary amount of delight from watching beetles mate—and I love all of it. I love every single thing about you. Which makes me suspect I’m a little perverse, too, so we should probably get married straight away so we can stop inflicting ourselves on your siblings and innocent bystanders.”
“That is the most intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”
He tipped back his head and laughed, and she kissed him, awkwardly, affectionately, lovingly, until he managed to contain his laughter and wrap his arms around her. Outside, the snow fell harder and the scenery blurred past, but neither of them noticed anything but each other.