I’m a murderer.
A heavy fist flew into the side of his face, and William floundered back against the rope, staggering to keep his balance. Before he could get his bearings, another punch landed on his stomach, causing him to hawk up bile.
“Prohibited,” the umpire called. “Round to Sampson but no point, Marauder is on the ropes.”
Pushing himself up with a grimace, William pressed the tips of his fingers to his temple, hoping he was not bleeding while trying to piece his next attack together. Sampson was sure to knock him out by round two if he did not put up a challenge. His eyes flicked over Sampson’s shoulder and…
His stomach lurched.Bridget. She was standing now, her blue gown a shimmering refuge of color in the dark, her eyes wide, her lips pressed tightly in fear for him.
With newfound grit and lightning speed, he went in low, his fist connecting with Samson’s midsection. It was like trying to crack marble with a hairpin, and pain jolted through his arm. He ignored it, following through with alternating jabs, finding the soft spots, and exploiting the breaks in his defenses—only for a wicking punch to send him down, his head smacking the parlor floor.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER 29
“Damn it,” Viscount Sutton hissed as William went down.
Bridget could hardly hear the murmurs in the crowds as her heart was pounding in her ears. William was down and there was no sign of him getting back up… but as she counted, so meticulously, so slowly, his shoulders began to flex, and he got to his knees.
Relief washed through her as a man handed him a bottle of water and a slice of lime. She bit her lip and fretted; that large brute could severely damage him, and she did not care if he won the money or the title, all she wanted was for him to live.
“He’s distracted,” Baron Thornbury remarked.
“I think so too,” Viscount Sutton affirmed, his shrewd eyes raking over William. “His head is not in the game, but what is taking his concentration away?”
She watched powerlessly as he wiped the sweat away from his brows and leaned an ear to the man talking to him before he got back to his feet and walked over to Sampson.
The next two rounds went by in a blur, with very little action and mostly graceful maneuvers from William to evade any further shots to his head, all while Bridget held her breath in apprehension. Before long, the gong for the fourth round rang out, and by some miracle, they were tied at two each.
“The lummox is slowing down,” Adam murmured. “I suppose he is more brawn than anything else. He might have planned on taking the match in under five rounds.”
Yes. William is quicker. That much is certain—
But a sudden blow to his stomach had William winded, worse than any he had delivered to Sampson.
Bridget could not take it anymore and, propriety be damned, gathered her skirts and ran to an umpire.
“Ma’am—”
“I need to speak with him,” she told the man barring her way. “Please, I need a moment.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m his wife,” she said, strangled. “Please, if he dies in that ring—”
The man’s jaw was tight, but he looked over his shoulder and spotted William clinging to the ropes again, chest heaving. He turned back to Bridget and said, “You have ten seconds.”
Ducking under his arm, she rushed to William and grasped his hand; he blinked dazedly. “Bridget?”
“You don’t have to win. Just come back to me,” she whispered. “Come back alive. I believe in you, and I love you no matter what.”
Knowing her time was up, she pulled away, but he held on to her hand as if needing an extra moment; his throat worked with a thick swallow. A heartbeat later, she drew away again and regained her seat, heart pounding and ignoring the looks shot her way before training her gaze on William once more.
Twiddling her ring, Bridget held her breath as William stood, rolled, turned to her, and sluggishly plucked the mask from his face.
A collective gasp rang through the room as the Masked Marauder was now found out to be the Duke of Arlington.
Another thing for the papers. Gentlemen of the peerage do not prizefight.
