Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(51)

He didn’t dare draw attention to the pain. Instead, he stretched his neck under the guise of perusing the crowd, first on the ground and then up, on the rooftops.

She’d come for him.

She was flanked by his brothers, who had been watching from the start, Devil smiling like an ass and Whit looking like he was ready to do murder. But Ewan had no interest in them.

He didn’t care, as long as she didn’t leave. As long as he could drink her in, the long lines of her made longer by her black breeches, tight to her legs. By her black leather boots, wrapping up over her knees, by her long black coat, billowing back in the wind, lined in a glittering sapphire silk.

He liked that lining very much—the nod to her love of color. The proof that something was left of the girl he’d loved, even if she’d grown into this woman who looked down on him like a fucking queen.

High above on the rooftops, watching her warrior.

And him, ready to do anything for her favor.

The wind lifted her hair up and back behind her and the sun caught it, turning it to flame. Turning him to flame, as it revealed her face. Unmasked.

Unmasked and perfect, her eyes on him. Everywhere. He bathed in her scrutiny, wanting to spread his arms wide beneath it, loving the way she assessed his muscles beneath his damp clothes, loving the way her gaze lingered on his burning shoulder, somehow easing the pain. Loving the slide of her gaze up his neck and over his face.

Christ, he loved it.

He saw her throat work.

Saw her lips part on a breath.

And when she met his eyes, he saw that she liked it, too.

He lifted his face to her, acknowledging her attention. Wondering what she would do if he scaled the damn wall to get to her.

She’d probably push him over the side, but the idea had merit, and for a moment he imagined an alternative—him coming up over the edge of the roof, lifting her in his arms, and stealing her away to somewhere private, where he could give her enough pleasure to make her forget all the pain he’d wrought.

“Oy! Duke!”

He was pulled from the thought by the shout from the crowd, his well-honed instincts immediately refocusing his thoughts. The bark had come from his left, and he slowed, turning his head just barely—not enough to look at the enemy, but enough to locate him.

He didn’t have to do much to see him, a big, broad bastard who seemed like he’d never refused a fight. The crowd assembled seemed to spit the bruiser out, landing him several feet into the yard, a half-dozen yards from Ewan. Finding himself with an audience, the man did what men with a little strength and far less sense tended to do.

He blustered.

Instead of listening, Ewan roped another block of ice and focused on the crowd, knowing that if the Irishman started a brawl, the Garden would finish it. And Ewan would be in the thick of it. Pleasure shot through him at the idea. He was good for the fight.

He’d been good for a fight for days. For decades.

Hefting the heavy weight, he ignored the wicked burn at his shoulder and made his way back across the yard, this time able to see the man who would come for him first. Able to recognize the slur in his Irish brogue. Able to register his slight swerve—a need for balance, even as he stood still.

The man was drunk. Which meant a fight was on.

The crowd knew it, too. They circled, closing in on Ewan. Building him a ring. He kept his gaze on the far end of the yard, but watched the faces, a dozen screwed tight already. More willing to jump into the fray when there was one for the jumping.

How many would he have to fight?

A clump of mud smacked Ewan on the back of the head.

He stilled. Stiffened. Turned.

The bruiser approached. “I’m talkin’ to you, Duke.”

He was eight feet away.

Six.

Ewan looked to the rooftops, where Grace watched, riveted, just like the rest of the Garden. His heart pounded, and his chest broadened.

He wanted to show her what he was still able to do.

Four.

Ewan set the ice down.

Two.

When the blow came, he was ready.

He caught the other man’s fist in his hand, startling him. Ewan’s brows rose as the Irishman’s jaw slackened. “Don’t expect a duke to have a right hook, do you?” he said softly, letting the Garden seep into his voice.

His opponent’s eyes went wide at the words, and then he scowled. “You ain’t got nuffin’ yet, toffer.” He followed the words with a massive swing of his free hand—fisted to the size of a ham.

Ewan dodged the blow and straightened, planting his fist directly into the face of his attacker. “How about now?”

If there was a reply, it was lost in the roar that sounded from all around them, echoing off the brick walls of the warehouse. For a moment, Ewan thought perhaps it was the sound of the thrill of an audience—how interesting could his hauling ice have been for them? But then he heard the sounds of fists meeting flesh. Everywhere.

It wasn’t the thrill of the audience. It was the thrill of the fight.

The whole yard had been watching, waiting, wanting a shot at their own blows. And now, they’d been gifted a proper brawl.

He landed a second blow—a sharp uppercut that knocked his opponent back on his feet, snapping his head properly back on his neck, but before the other man could catch his balance and return to their fight, a hand grasped Ewan’s raw shoulder, sending fire through him as it pulled him around to face him.