Page 79 of The Boxing Baroness

“Quit telling me what to do,” she snapped, each word like an icepick in her head.

“Go. Sit. Down,” he ordered in a low, firm voice.

“You needed me?” Guy asked, strolling up beside the duke.

“Can you make sure Francine’s trunk gets locked up with all the others?”

“Of course. But it’s called a prop chest, Sin.”

“And find me some ice—quickly, please.”

Guy raised an eyebrow but asked no further questions as he easily picked up the heavy case by the leather handle and hauled it away.

“Why are you still standing here?” the duke demanded. “You are swaying on your feet.” His tone was accusatory. “Quit being so stubborn for once, Marianne. Just pretend I’m Jack and listen to me. You need to sit.” He strode toward the dressing room and yanked open the door.

Marianne gave up arguing and followed him into the room, which was, thankfully, empty.

There were several tables and stools, but only one chair. “Here.” He shoved a pile of garments and costumes onto the floor, ignoring her squawk of indignation.

She began to lower herself into the chair, but a wave of blackness flooded her vision and her body turned liquid.

Powerful arms closed around her and held her tight against a hot wall of hard muscle.

“Damnation, Marianne!”

And that was the last thing she heard before the darkness pulled her under.

* * *

Sin wanted to wrap his hands around Barnabas Farnham’s neck and squeeze. Unfortunately, he had an unconscious woman in his arms.

He gently lowered her into the chair and then took two long strides to the door, which he flung open, startling a passing stagehand—Phil, he thought the young man’s name was. “You,” he snapped. “Go fetch a doctor.”

The boy’s eyes were as round as coins. “A doctor?”

“Yes. A doctor.”

“But . . . where?”

“Ask the manager. Now. And be damned quick about it!”

The lad sprinted off in the direction of the theater manager’s office.

“What’s wrong?”

Sin turned at the sound of the quiet voice to find Blade, dressed head to toe in black leather, half her face concealed behind a matching black mask.

“Marianne took a bad hit to the temple, right beside the eye socket. She’s just lost consciousness.”

Blade stepped into the dressing room without speaking and Sin shut the door behind him while she crouched next to Marianne’s chair, pulled off her black leather gauntlets, and lifted Marianne’s eyelid. “How long ago did this happen?”

“When she sat down—less than a minute. She was flushed—even more than usual, and then suddenly lost color.” Sin’s own pulse was pounding loudly enough to make his head throb. “Are her pupils dilated?”

“They seem to be adjusting to the light,” she said, looking at one eye and then the other before examining the swelling on Marianne’s temple, her pale, slender fingers deft and light. She finally dropped her hands and looked up at him as she stood. “I’ve seen people with head injuries before. Even if she is concussed there’s not much you can do other than keep her comfortable and warm.”

Not until she was standing beside him did Sin realize just how small Jo Brown was. Her head barely came up to his shoulders. With her slight figure, snug black outfit, and crown of thick white-blond hair she looked otherworldly, her pale gray eyes almost silver beneath the mask.

“If she could quit fighting, that would be a good start,” Sin muttered, his eyes fixed on Marianne’s pale face. Lord. She looked so bloody fragile lying there. She had won her bout tonight, but the other woman had been huge. He didn’t understand why Barnabas would arrange a fight between his niece and such a big woman. While she’d not gotten in many hits, those that had connected had caused some damage. Marianne had relaxed her guard after a stumble—just for a second—but it had been enough.