Lachlan jerked and flailed like a fish on a hook, but trying to throw Ciaran off him was like trying to topple a horse. It would have to be a blow, then—either that, or he’d be leaving a puddle of his blood and maybe a tooth or two behind when he left this inn-yard.
Lachlan’s arm tensed. He clenched his hand into a fist and waited, knuckles facing out. Ciaran liked his brawls bloody, so he’d go for the mouth again, or perhaps the nose, and when he did his body weight would shift ever so slightly, and…
Now.
Ciaran drew his fist back, but he didn’t get a chance to strike before Lachlan’s own fist shot up from the side, just far enough to the right so Ciaran never saw it coming. Lachlan winced at the crack of his knuckles against his brother’s cheekbone, but the blow did the job. Ciaran listed sideways from the force of it, and before he could regain his balance, Lachlan shoved the heels of his hands under Ciaran’s knee, threw him flat onto his back, and leapt to his feet.
“You’re set on more bloodshed tonight then, eh Ciaran?”
For a man so deep in his cups, Ciaran staggered back to his feet with impressive agility. “No need to spill another drop of yours. This isn’t your fight, brother—not as long as you get out of my damned way.”
But itwashis fight. His and Ciaran’s, just as every fight since they’d left Scotland had been their fight. Instead of accepting his fate, Ciaran’s resentment was spreading like an infection from a festering wound.
Helped along by great quantities of whiskey, of course.
“If I was going to get out of your damned way, I would have done it by now.” Lachlan turned in a slow circle, facing his brother as Ciaran closed in on him. “Now get up to your bedchamber before I knock that thick head of yours off your neck.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll go up just yet. I fancy another drink.”
“You’ve had enough to drink.” If Ciaran returned to the inn and happened to come face to face with the Englishman he’d just accused of cheating at cards, he’d have far more to worry about than Lachlan’s fist in his face.
The Englishman’s ball between his eyes, for one.
Ciaran laughed, but there was an ugly edge to it. “A Scot who’s trapped in England can’t ever have enough to drink. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you,brother, what with you being an Englishman now?”
Lachlan’s hands curled into fists. Since they’d arrived on English soil nine days ago, he’d carved a dozen small half-moon scars into his palms. “I’m still Scot enough to knock you unconscious for the rest of the night.”
Ciaran shrugged, then raised his fists. “Have it your way. First your blood, and then his.”
“Get on with it, then.” Lachlan dropped into a crouch, and waited for his brother to strike.
It was one o’clock in the morning, and so dark Lachlan could just make out Ciaran’s face in the dim glow filtering into the yard from the inn’s window. Ciaran was so drunk he likely wouldn’t remember this encounter tomorrow, but Lachlan would still have to pummel his brother bloody before this would end tonight.
His stomach heaved in protest at the thought.
Didn’t matter. He could heave all he liked, and it wouldn’t make any difference. Whatever else might come of this evening, one thing was certain.
He and Ciaran were going to brawl.
Again.
* * * *
Two inches only. A mere sliver and no more than that. Two inches was all she dared.
Hyacinth Somerset scrambled to her knees on the window seat, pressed her cheek against the cold glass, and raised her chin so what little fresh air there was could drift across her open mouth.
It had come to this, then. Her world had been shrinking for weeks…no, longer than that. Months? A year? It had been narrowing, tightening, falling in on itself, and now she was to be smothered in an airless tomb, silent but for the low, continuous drone of impending doom buzzing in her ears, and—
“Hyacinth! What in the world are you doing, child? Close that window at once.”
Hyacinth jumped at the sharp command, and her bottom hit the window seat with a hard thump.
Oh, very well, then. Shewasn’ttrapped in an airless tomb, but in a cramped bedchamber at the Horse and Groom Inn. The dronewasn’tso much impending doom as it was her grandmother’s snoring.
At least it had been.
How in the world was her grandmother still conscious? Despite Hyacinth’s warning, she’d dosed herself with enough laudanum to fell a horse.
