Page 16 of Bound By The Christmastide Moon

“Oh, ye be work’n if ye sit, I promise ye that, wench.”

The man’s word started another round of chuckles at Silas’s back, and he closed his eyes against the urge to step in. This was not his town, and not his fight. The barmaid could take care of herself—women in her profession were resilient and held a measure of cunning most men never gained. If that failed, the barkeep would put a stop to the harassment.

If word spread that he was causing problems, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong in town, the Countess of Banfield would have all the more reason to turn him away. He needed to remember his plight was not only to help his lot in life but also that of his siblings. Sybil needed proper sponsorship when she made her debut next Season, and Slade, he needed to be shackled to a solid stone wall in the basement of the castle. Because if he kept up with the mounting gaming debts, Silas would need more connections in London than even the countess could provide to keep his twin safe once his debts were called in.

“I said no!”

Again, something knocked his shoulder, giving Silas no option but to assess what was transpiring behind him.

The instant he turned, he saw a brawny, bearded man, recently off a fishing vessel judging by his smell, slipping a hand into the serving maid’s bodice. No one jumped to her aid. In fact, the barkeep turned the other way, and the tavern patrons were suddenly very interested in their cups and meals.

He should have entered The Crown & Anchor and sought his room after returning from Tetbery Estate; however, proper conduct was proper conduct, no matter where you lived or who your relations were.

No man had the right to set hands on a woman if she said no.

End of story.

Having raised his younger sister—and in many ways, his own mother—Silas adamantly refused to support the mistreatment of women, be it his sister or a perfect stranger. Barmaid or princess. Orange seller or opera singer.

Silas pushed from his stool and stepped before the man, separating the pair. If the woman was smart, she’d slip from the room and be well hidden until after Silas disposed of the offending man.

“Get outta me way, you toff.” The man’s chest puffed in an attempt to intimidate Silas. “Mind ye own lot.”

Silas shook his head, feigning regret, and placed his hand on the aggressor’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

With a firm squeeze on the man’s collarbone, Silas guided him toward the door.

“Let me go, ye brute.”

“One would categorize you as the brute, sir.” The maid scurried out of the common room, and Silas pushed the man out the door and into the early afternoon sun. “I think it best you seek out your home and be done at The Crown & Anchor for the day.”

The man appeared ready to argue, but his lips clamped shut, causing the vein in his forehead to throb. If he threw a punch in Silas’s direction, it would surely hurt like the dickens.

The villager, clearly a seaman from the stains on his trousers, would not be so foolish as to assault a stranger.

Silas blocked the door to the tavern, crossing his arms over his chest, and waited for the man to depart either on foot or horseback. However, he only stood staring at Silas, his fists clenching and unclenching at this sides as his face turned molten red.

“Do not be a buffoon—“

The fist came out of nowhere. One moment, Silas watched the thing clenched at the man’s side, and the next, it landed solidly in Silas’s gut. His only saving grace was that the short distance separating him and his opponent was not wide enough for the man to gain any momentum for his punch. The second swing came at Silas’s head, and he ducked with a swiftness he hadn’t known he was capable of. The man’s fist traveled harmlessly through the air.

Unbelievable. What had transpired in his life over the past six months that Silas went from the museums and art galleries of Paris to the waterfront taverns in the wilds of Cornwall—not to mention having a drunken fool coming at him with wide-eyed rage?

Speaking of wide-eyed, raging fools, the man stumbled back when his fist connected with only air but came back quickly, teetering forward as he lunged at Silas once more.

Silas’s thick, woolen coat only hampered his movements as he sidestepped the man but swung around quickly to prevent him from entering the tavern again.

A crowd gathered just inside the public house as the patrons pushed close for a view of the skirmish.

Bloody hell. Everyone at Castle Keyvnor and Tetbery Estate would likely hear of the tavern brawl before the day ended.

Silas needed to put an end to things before they went any further and someone was gravely injured. It would not do to arrive at the castle with a shiner or, worse yet, be made to seek out a physician due to broken ribs or a fractured arm.

The next round came with the agility of a man half his size and a decade younger as a fist collided with Silas’s shoulder; however, he was able to block the man’s right hook aimed at Silas’s chin.

This only angered the seaman further, his mouth thinning into a grim line as his brain worked through his next move.

Silas could fairly see the wheel turning as he assessed his opponent’s weak areas. Unfortunately, he did not know that Silas had saved every spare penny to pay for sparring lessons in his youth: bare-knuckle boxing, fencing, and wrestling. If Silas had wanted to cause a bigger commotion by taking the man down, he would have done so before fists flew in his direction.