CHAPTER 10
“Keep your guard up, Your Grace!” The warning came a second too late.
Alexander barely turned before a fist slammed into his ribs in the same bruised spot he had been nursing for days.
“Oof!” Pain shot through him, sharp and familiar, and he staggered back with a grunt.
“I warned you!” Briggs, his sparring partner, grinned satisfactorily.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who always surprised his opponents with his unnatural speed.
Alexander struggled to catch his breath. “You know that your warnings are completely useless when you don’t give me time to prepare.”
“Sorry, Your Grace. Thought you saw that one coming.” Briggs shrugged, unable to get rid of his triumphant grin.
“I did,” Alexander muttered, straightening up and trying to ignore the searing pain. “I simplychosenot to move.”
Briggs laughed. “Why the devil would you choose that?”
Before Alexander could answer, the door to the underground training room swung open, and a deep, gravelly Scottish accent filled the space.
“Because he’s an idiot, that’s why.”
Alexander turned, breathless but smiling despite himself. “Good morning to you too, Rowan. It is good to have you back!”
Rowan Hale, his trainer, mentor, and one of the few men Alexander respected without reservation, strode in with the confidence of someone who had spent thirty years teaching aristocrats how to fight properly. His arms still bulged from years of training, and his expression remained perpetually unimpressed.
“Mornin’?” Rowan scoffed. “It’s barely dawn. Only madmen and milkmen are awake at this hour.”
Alexander wiped sweat from his brow. “And Briggs, and Dukes.”
“Speakin’ of Dukes,” Rowan said, “they are the worst of the lot!”
Briggs stepped back respectfully as Rowan jerked his chin at him. “Off with you, lad. I need a word with His Grace.”
Briggs nodded, grabbed his coat, and approached Alexander. “Good fight, Your Grace.”
Alexander clasped his hand firmly. “You nearly cracked my ribs, again. Well done.”
Briggs grinned and left. Rowan waited until the door shut before crossing his arms and pinning Alexander with a death stare.
“Now then. What in God’s name are you doing here catchin’ a beatin’ so early in the mornin’?”
Alexander rolled his shoulders, wincing at the ache. “I needed to blow off some steam.”
“Blow off some steam?” Rowan repeated, unimpressed. “You could at least try to fight back, you know.”
Alexander chuckled. “Where is the fun in that, Rowan?”
Rowan snorted. “Ye’re a strange man, Yer Grace. Anyway, I have a fight for you, this weekend.”
Alexander leaned against the ring ropes and grinned at the elderly man. “How many times have I told you to call me Alex? And count me in, I believe I am ready.”
“Ye’re a duke, and I am an ex-soldier with a dyin’ respect for titles. I will put your name down. Your opponent is Gareth Doyle.”
“A worthy opponent?”
“Hm.” Rowan grunted as he walked to the side of the ring; his ginger hair was striking against the stark training room.
