People in the crowd nearest her started to turn, to stare, and she still couldn’t make herself look away from The Berserker’s gaze as it sharpened and went dark with a deadly gleam of rage.
The Berserker broke their stare, at last, and turned slowly to face the other fighter, who faltered at whatever he saw in the depths of his opponent’s merciless glare.
Red Jack didn’t have time to regret whatever he’d said, however, because in the next instant, The Berserker was upon him.
Bess drew in a breath that felt less like a gasp and more like the prelude to a scream that got caught somewhere in her throat. Every part of her body tensed and flinched at the raw, animal sound of a man grunting in pain, the loud thud of fists hitting flesh—until she realized with a shock that all the sounds were coming from Red Jack.
Not only had he not managed to land a single blow on The Berserker, but The Berserker fought in an eerie silence that made him seem something other than human.
He’s not even breathing hard, Bess thought in a haze of disbelief, until he took a particularly strong cross-body shot that twisted his bare, gleaming torso…and he made a sound like the low rumble of thunder before shaking it off.
But not before Bess’s dazed eyes had fallen to the long, shallow scrape, scabbed and still raw looking, that cut across his lower ribs.
No. It couldn’t be.
It must be a coincidence, her mind stuttered out, even as the rest of her catalogued and confirmed the details she’d noticed before but hadn’t been able to focus on.
Tall. Light brown hair that she was more accustomed to seeing ruthlessly tamed and brushed back away from a face that was all sharp edges and distinctive Roman nose. A lean, powerful body that moved with deceptively casual grace.
The wide, muscled planes of the chest she’d been close enough to touch the night before—the taut, hard lines of his waist where she’d wrapped his wound.
Red Jack got in another lucky blow, uncurling from his defensive hunch to drive his opponent back a step. The taller man skidded in the straw and he circled Red Jack slowly, stalking him around the ring with his back suddenly to Bess, and she saw…she saw…
She blinked hard and looked again, but still could not believe it.
There, poking out of his trouser pocket, was a bit of white cloth with a ragged edge, stained dark maroon with blood.
It was a strip from her own petticoat. The one she’d used to bind the cut on the ribs of…the Duke of Ashbourn.
The Duke of Ashbourn was the pitiless, feral beast known as The Berserker.
The Duke. Of. Ashbourn. Was ripping another man to shreds before the fascinated eyes of a hundred slavering spectators.
And when he finally put Red Jack down with a final hammer-blow of a single fist, the Duke of Ashbourn stood for a moment panting over the prone body of his enemy before slowly raising his head to find Bess in the wildly cheering crowd.
Still silent, without a single word, he lifted the same hand he’d used to beat his enemy into the dirt and pointed directly at Bess.
Then he turned and stalked out of the ring.
Chapter Two
Four weeks earlier
“Come on, Bess, I don’t want to miss the start of the battle!”
Grinning at her young friend’s impatience, Bess allowed Lady Lucy Lively to hustle her through the crowds lining the banks of the Thames all the way to London Bridge.
It was slow going, to Lucy’s very vocal dismay, because they had to pick their way through the refuse that littered the streets and politely shove past small throngs of people, all while guarding their reticules from the threat of the pickpockets who were sure to view the day’s public celebrations as a golden opportunity for mischief.
Even with those challenges, Bess relished the tang of excitement in the air.
After spending most of her life in a sleepy Wiltshire village, Bess had finally achieved her dream of visiting London.
Back in Little Kissington, she had imagined a city of culture and lights, wide boulevards lined with trees and white buildings full of smart, stylish, interesting people who lived exactly as they pleased, carefree and joyous.
She used to close her eyes, distracting herself from the ache in her muscles and the repetitive, exhausting daily work of kneading bread or scrubbing dishes by picturing herself wandering the storied Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, gazing in rapture at fireworks—and perhaps experiencing a few rapturous fireworks of her own with a handsome rake who would pull her into a shadowed alcove and ravish her hungrily.
It had been a pleasant fantasy, one that sustained her after her sweet Davy died and the years went by and it began to look less and less likely that Bess would ever encounter a man who viewed her as something other than a sister—or, worse, a mother—much less a handsome scoundrel willing to reignite her passions.
