Page 37 of The Boxer’s Belle

West’s fists ached for the familiar sting of the heavy bag—or Ben’s face. He very much regretted removing the wraps. Instead, he dragged an exhausted hand over his face. “We’re not— She doesn’t want…”

“Convincing.” The smug expression that crossed Ben’s face rankled West.

“Enough. There’s nothing to circle.”

Ben raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” West said, determined to leave Ben as tetchy as he was.

Benedict blanched at the reminder of his wife’s condition. “Yes… We’re thrilled,” he said, not a hint of conviction in his tone.

“You look it.”

Ben sighed. “I take your meaning. I’ll leave you and Bella to sort out your differences if you refrain from mentioning my wife’s condition. My nerves cannot survive the reminder.”

“Agreed.”

West nodded as the first drops of rain began to beat down outside. Another storm was brewing. Ben’s gaze turned toward the open bay.

“I know I just agreed to stop mentioning my sister. But do you know where she’s gone?”

The mad, infuriating woman would be the death of him.

West hadn’t begun to fret over her—not until the drops became rivers that overflowed the eaves trough. But one hour became two, and then West was properly concerned.

He’d sent Ben to turn over every inch of the house, while he searched the soggy grounds. His voice was threatening to quit him for calling after her when he finally caught sight of crushed brush at the edge of the woodland that surrounded the estate.

A memory struck him.

West stumbled along the furrow—real or imagined—toward the dower house, fighting his way through the overgrown brush.

“Bella!” he cried, his heart giving a pathetic, desperate jolt. “Bella!” he shouted again as he tripping into the clearing.

The slightest movement out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention—the door of the half-rotted house cracking open.

He’d know her silhouette anywhere—too strong and poised for someone so small. His footsteps sloshed through the viscous muck as he slipped and slid his way down the little valley to the front door.

“What the devil are you doing here?” she had the audacity to demand as he reached her. Her hair was damp and loose, her gown clinging to her in ways he had no business noticing—but she was whole and hale, and most importantly, safe.

“Me? Where the hell have you been?”

“Right here!”

“Christ above! What are you doing in this heap?” The rain sluiced down his back in heavy rivulets as he stood outside the partially rotted door.

“Thinking,” she said, waving a hand vaguely. “And it’s not a heap.”

“That is what you wish to argue about?”

“I do not wish to argue at all.”

“Then don’t do fool things like hide in a rubbish pile during a storm! One bead of hail and the entire roof will come down. You’ll get yourself killed, and for what? You have me fucking terrified, soaked, searching the whole damned county for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to come after me! It’s your own fault you’re wet.”

“If I waited for you to ask me to come after you, I’d die of old age first!” He halved the distance between them.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, brushing against the doorframe. “That’s entirely nonsensical. I’m in no need of assistance.”