Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(52)

He roared the agony of the touch, his blows already launched as he came to face another man, who happily took a punch to the nose before setting his own fist firmly into Ewan’s gut.

The Duke of Marwick hunched over the blow, but recovered quickly, coming back to his full height and the admiration of his new opponent. “You ain’t like any duke I’ve ever seen,” the man said.

“I ain’t like any duke anyone has ever seen,” he replied, and the two were back at it—sparring until another man launched himself into the fight, wanting his own chance to bring down the duke who’d come into the Garden.

And so it went for seconds, minutes, hours—time was lost with dodging blows and throwing his own, making sure they were soft enough when they landed that they didn’t do real damage. He knew why he’d been brought here—to take his knocks. And he would do just that.

Proving to the Bareknuckle Bastards that the money wasn’t all he offered.

Giving the Garden the fight they wanted—on equal footing, no titles or power or money or privilege changing the outcome of the game.

And giving her a look at the man he had become.

Grace.

Just the thought of her was enough to pull his attention from the fight, just enough to miss a dodge and take a strong punch directly to the nose. Pain knocked his head round, and when the stars subsided, he couldn’t help himself—he looked to the rooftops once more.

She was gone.

He froze. A mistake, as another bruiser leapt into the fray to have a go at him. He blocked a swing, pushing the man into another crowd that happily swallowed him up for their own fight.

She was gone, but his brothers remained. Whit watched with intense scrutiny, as though he was learning how to exploit any weakness in Ewan’s strategy for his own purposes, and Devil observed with a smirk that made Ewan wish he could scale buildings for the second time that afternoon—this time to wipe the smile off his arrogant brother’s face.

Where had she gone?

Why hadn’t they gone with her?

Was she safe?

Another round of sparring pulled him away from the rooftops, a half-dozen fighters coming from all directions. Fighting dirty. A hand grabbing his hair, another at the waist of his trousers. A third with a club of some sort. He raised a brow. “Unsportsmanlike, that.”

The brute grinned—revealing a handful of missing teeth, and took a swing. Ewan dodged the blow, just barely, but was not out of danger. Someone grabbed him from behind, slipping one arm beneath his own, and a second around his neck. Holding him tight. Choking him. He struggled, the other men closing in, taking leisurely shots at his torso.

The blows were enough to take the breath from him, and he looked up to the rooftop, meeting first Whit’s eyes, then Devil’s. Neither of his brothers moved to help.

Neither of them would save him.

The arm around his throat tightened, and Devil reached out a gloved hand, extending his thumb. Ewan understood instantly.

And what, you make me a gladiator and feed me to the lions?

Devil snapped his thumb down, to face the earth.

As though waiting for the emperor’s ruling, the arm at Ewan’s neck tightened. He reached up to grab it, unable to get a decent grip. He shouldn’t have pulled his punches with this one.

He looked back at his brothers, high above. Whit was talking, his eyes on something beyond. Devil’s attention followed.

They didn’t even care to watch him die.

The roar of the crowd had lessened, replaced by a different roar, this one in his ears. He was losing consciousness. The air around him was stilling, the brawl seeming to quiet. He leaned his head forward in a last effort to break the hold. He snapped his head back, connecting with the nose of the man behind him, who cried out in pain and released him.

Ewan pulled loose and turned. It was the original Irishman. No. A different one, but with the same face. The same meaty arms. Brothers?

How must that feel? he thought as he stumbled back, gasping for breath. To have brothers who stand with you?

He’d known how it felt once.

Ignoring the blood that streamed from his nose—it seemed Ewan had broken it—the man came for him once again, no doubt to finish the job that had been interrupted.

He backed away, slowly, expecting another set of hands and fists to come from another direction. They didn’t. Instead, silence came.

And it wasn’t in his head.

The fight had come to a stop, all around him.

No. The fight had been stopped, all around him. He looked to the rooftops, where his brothers remained sentry.

Broken Nose’s attention flickered to something in the distance, over Ewan’s shoulder, and whatever he saw there had him coming up short. Whatever it was, it brought restraint to the Garden—a place where restraint was virtually unheard of.

Not knowing what to expect, Ewan turned to look.

And there she was.

Their queen.

No. Not theirs.

She didn’t spare the crowd a look as she parted it like the sea, her hair a riot of flame around her shoulders, her black coat, perfectly tailored, blowing back to reveal the sapphire lining somehow pristine in the dirt, a match to the pristine sapphire corset she wore, designed, clearly, to be worn just so, above trousers, without shame. Everyday wear.

And at her waist, the scarlet scarf he remembered from a year earlier—not a nod to frivolity or a whimsical belt . . . a weapon.