The Leopard Prince (Princes #2)(38)

Harry ducked—in time to protect his head but not his shoulder—as a chair smashed across his side. He turned and stabbed. The man behind him howled, clutching a bleeding thigh. Another crash and the thwack of flesh hitting flesh. Harry realized that Bennet was standing back-to-back with him. The aristo wasn’t as pie-eyed as he’d thought. He was able to fight, at least.

Three men charged at once.

Harry leaned to the side, helping a man pass him with a punch and a shove. A yellow-haired man with a knife came at him. This man had some experience with knife fighting. He gripped a cloak in his free hand and tried to foil Harry’s dagger with it. But the yellow-haired man hadn’t fought in the places Harry had.

Or ever fought for his life.

Harry grabbed the cloak and yanked the man hard. The man stumbled, tried to recover his balance, and found that Harry had him by the hair. Harry pulled the man back, arching his neck, and pointed his knife tip at the man’s eye. Balls and eyes. Those were the two things men feared losing most. Threaten either, and you had a man’s full attention.

“Drop it,” Harry hissed.

Sweat and piss assaulted his nostrils. The yellow-haired man had lost control of his bladder. He’d also dropped his knife, and Harry kicked it. It skittered across the floor, sliding under a table. The tavern was quiet. The only sound was Bennet’s labored breathing and the sobbing of one of the sluts.

“Let him go.” Dick Crumb came out from the back.

“Tell them to back off.” Harry pointed with his chin at the three men still standing.

“Go on. You don’t want to be messing with Harry when he’s in a mood.”

No one moved.

Dick raised his voice. “Go on! There’ll be more ale for them that wants it.”

The mention of ale was magic. The men grumbled but turned away. Harry let his hand drop. The yellow-haired man fell to his knees, whimpering.

“Better get Granville out of here,” Dick muttered as he passed with mugs.

Harry took Bennet’s arm and shoved him toward the door. The younger man wobbled, but at least he kept upright. Outside, the air was chill and Bennet gasped. He put out a hand to steady himself against the tavern wall, and for a moment Harry thought the man would be sick. But then he straightened.

Harry’s bay mare stood beside a larger chestnut gelding. “Come on,” he said. “Best to be away before they finish their drinks.”

They mounted and started off. It had begun to drizzle again.

“Guess I should thank you,” Bennet spoke suddenly. “Didn’t think you’d come to the aid of a Granville.”

“Do you always start brawls without anyone at your back?”

“Nah.” Bennet hiccupped. “This was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

They rode in silence. Harry wondered if Bennet had fallen asleep. The horses splashed through puddles in the road.

“Didn’t know you could fight like that.” Bennet’s slurred voice cut across the patter of the rain.

Harry grunted. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“The poorhouse.”

Harry thought he’d shut the other man up with his stark statement, but then Bennet chuckled. “My father’s a right sod, isn’t he?”

There was no need to reply to that. They crested a rise and came to the river.

“Better not come any farther. You aren’t safe on Granville land.” Bennet peered at him in the dark. “He wants to kill you, did you know?”

“Yes.” Harry turned the mare’s head.

“Will you never call me by my name again?” Bennet sounded wistful. Perhaps he’d entered the maudlin stage of drink.

Harry nudged his horse down the track.

“I’ve missed you, Harry.” Bennet’s voice floated on the night air behind him and melted away like a ghost.

Harry didn’t answer.

OUTSIDE THE COCK AND WORM, Silas peeled himself away from the shadows and watched bitterly as his beloved son rode away with the man he hated most in the world.

“Your boy be dead but for the Woldsly s-steward,” a drunken voice slurred nearby.

Silas whirled and peered into the dark alley between the Cock and Worm and the neighboring building. “Who are you? How dare you speak to me thus?”

“I’m juss a little bird.” A harsh feminine giggle.

Silas felt pressure building in his temple. “Come out of there or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the voice sneered. A face appeared, ghostly in the shadows. It was lined and worn and belonged to an old woman Silas couldn’t remember ever seeing before. “You’ll what?” she repeated, cackling like a demon. “He’s been killing your sheep for weeks and you’ve done naught. You’re juss an old man. Ol’ man Granville, lord of nothing! How’s it feel to be under the spur of the new cock?”

She turned and started staggering down the road, one hand held out to balance herself against the wall.

Silas was on her in two steps.

“MY, THE SOFT-BOILED EGGS are good this morning.” George mentally rolled her eyes at her own inanity.

She, Violet, and Euphie sat at the breakfast table. As per usual for the last several days, her sister refused to make any but the most desultory conversation, reducing George to commenting on the eggs.