After that, she wove through the noisy room, replenishing drinks and platters. Along the way, she wiped down tables, collected dirty vessels, and dodged wandering hands. Her last stop was the table in the alcove next to the back door.
She approached warily as the pair of brutish newcomers sprawled in the seats were well into their cups. From their salt-chapped hands and Cockney accents, she guessed they were seamen passing through. Their florid, leering faces spelled trouble.
She took a breath, pasted on a smile. “Good evening, sirs. What’ll it be?”
“What’re ye offerin’, dove?”
This came from the sandy-haired man seated to her right. Her skin crawled as his piggish eyes roved over her, lingering on her breasts. The lout on the left had a striped kerchief wound around his neck, and he was looking his own fill, licking his thick lips as he eyed her bottom.
Not for the first time, she cursed her appearance. Why couldn’t she be a respectable-looking female—a slender blonde, say, with an angelic blue gaze? Instead, all Goode women were cursed with wavy reddish-brown hair, full curves, and green eyes, a combination that proved to be a lightning rod for randy bastards.
She kept her smile fixed in place. “The ale and meat pie are some o’ the finest in the county.”
“Reckon ye ’ave more than that to offer a man,” Striped Kerchief said, winking.
“Food and drink are all I serve,” she said firmly. “Now if you be needing time to decide—”
He reached out, grabbing an unruly tress that had escaped the knot at the back of her head. When she tried to pull free, he stabbed his fingers into her hair, yanking her face to his. Pain shot through her scalp.
“What I need is a good ruttin’.” His breath puffed hotly against her cheek. “And ye look like just the wench to give it to me.”
Her insides lurching, she snapped, “Let me go, you blighter!”
“Saucy wench, eh? I like lively sport.” He nodded toward the nearby door, which led to the alleyway behind the tavern. “Let’s get to know one another be’er.”
Maggie raced through her options. She was no missish female, and if this were any other situation, she’d have walloped the blighter. Her ma and brothers had taught her to defend herself: she could wield a frying pan like a weapon and knew how to disarm a man with a well-placed knee.
But she didn’t dare create a fuss. Not here. Mr. Marsh had made it clear that any bar maid causing a ruckus would be sacked, a threat he’d carried out twice since she’d started working here.
After the fiasco at the butcher’s shop, she couldn’t afford to lose this job, which she’d been lucky to get, given her family’s reputation. If she was dismissed from this position too, she might never find work in the village again. And her dream of the flower shop would be forever out of her reach.
The bastard yanked again, and she gasped, “All right, I’ll go with you. Just let me go.”
I’ll run for the bar. The bastards won’t be bold enough to rape me in public.
The instant the pressure on her scalp eased, she jerked away, ready to bolt. Her back slammed into a beefy chest. Pig Eyes—he’d crept up behind her. Before she could cry out, his thick hand smothered her breath.
“No need to put on airs, wench,” he hissed in her ear. “Blind man can see ye make yer living on yer back. Come out back wif us, and we’ll make it worf yer while.”
Panic thumped in Maggie’s chest as Pig Eyes locked an arm around her waist, dragging her toward the back door. He was giving her no choice. Job or no job, she would have to fight back—
“Beg pardon,” a deep, aristocratic voice said. “I must ask that you release the lady.”
Despite Maggie’s predicament, she couldn’t help but gawk at the man who stepped into their path. He was the most dashing gentleman she’d ever seen. His exotic hazel eyes gleamed beneath dark, slashing brows. Shadowed by the brim of his fine hat, his face was chiseled and strong, his golden skin a virile contrast to his snowy cravat. His tall, lean figure was garbed in understated elegance, and his lord of the manor bearing could only come from centuries of blue-blooded stock.
“Get out o’ my way,” Maggie’s captor snarled.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You are absconding with the serving maid, and I am in want of ale.” The gentleman smiled wryly. “Or what passes for ale in this establishment. At any rate, for the sake of my thirst, I must insist you release her.”
Pig Eyes faltered at the banter, his hand falling from Maggie’s mouth although he kept her trapped against him. She wasn’t sure what to make of her would-be champion, whose pleasant drawl was laced with a quiet threat. She sensed the restrained power beneath his polished façade, and it set off a strange, quivery feeling in her stomach.
She knew instinctively that only a fool would challenge the man.
Striped Kerchief surged forward. “Ye can shove yer fancy words up yer fancy arse.”
Aye. Only a fool.
Maggie’s breath held as the brute threw a punch. The gent dodged the attack easily, catching the bastard’s arm with one gloved hand, twisting it behind the other’s back. Quick as lightning, he used the limb as leverage, forcing his opponent onto the ground, his polished boot planting into the other’s back.
