Where Dreams Begin(53)

Finally, when Warrington's sweating face was adorned with a triumphant smirk and Turner and Enfield were cheering lustily in premature victory, Zachary threw a three-shot combination followed by a hard right cross that caught Warrington squarely in the eye.

Warrington staggered backward, clearly stunned by the power and speed of the blows. The men were instantly silenced as Warrington's legs buckled and he fell to his knees, before scrambling to rise again.

“End of the round,” came Ravenhill's call, and Zachary went to his corner. He was beginning to sweat from exertion, and he brushed his hand impatiently at the wet locks of hair that fell over his forehead. “Here,” Ravenhill said, giving him a clean wine towel, and Zachary blotted his face.

Warrington retreated to his own corner, while Enfield wiped his face and offered advice.

“Don't toy with him for long,” Ravenhill murmured, smiling, although his gray eyes remained cool. “There's no need to drag this business out, Bronson.”

Zachary handed back the towel. “What makes you think I'm toying with him?”

“It's clear the fight is yours to finish whenever you choose. But be a gentleman about it. Make your point succinctly and have done with it.”

Thirty seconds had passed, and Zachary returned to the center mark for the next round. It annoyed him that Ravenhill saw through him so easily. He had indeed been planning to prolong the fight, taunting and humiliating Warrington with his superior prowess. He had intended to give the spoiled aristocrat a lengthy, painful thrashing that turned every inch of him black and blue. Instead, Ravenhill wanted him to end the fight soon and allow Warrington to walk away with a bit of pride left. Zachary knew that the recommendation was indeed the gentlemanly thing to do. But it aggravated him sorely. He didn't want to be a gentleman; he wanted to be merciless and strip away every modicum of Warrington's vanity.

Warrington came at him with renewed vigor, planting his feet and delivering three right-hand uppercuts that caught Zachary on the chin and snapped his head back. Zachary followed with two hard rib shots and a whiplike left hook to the head. The blasting blow rocked Warrington back on his heels, and he did a quick two-step to stay on his feet. Retreating, circling, Zachary waited until the other man approached once more, and they traded blows until Zachary landed a powerful straight left to the jaw. Dazed, Warrington fell to the floor and cursed as he tried to lurch to his feet.

Enfield called for the end of the round, and both opponents retreated to their corners.

Zachary swabbed at his face with the damp wine towel. He was going to be sore on the morrow—Warrington had blackened his left eye and bruised the right side of his chin. Warrington was not a bad fighter, actually. One had to give him credit for being busy in the ring, not to mention determined. However, Zachary not only outmatched him in power but was far more experienced, delivering fewer but infinitely more effective blows.

“Good work,” Ravenhill said quietly. Zachary wanted to snarl that he didn't need or want his damned approval. Nor did he need the bastard's instructions on how to fight like a gentleman. However, he kept his fury in check, suppressing the emotion until it simmered coldly in his belly.

Returning for the third round, Zachary tolerated a rapid flurry of shots from Warrington, who was already tiring. Dodging at least half the blows, Zachary experienced the familiar sensation of settling in for the fight, reaching the plateau on which he could last for hours. He could box like this all day without requiring rest. It would be easy to keep Warrington occupied until the other man simply dropped in exhaustion. However, Zachary went in for the kill and landed a five-shot combination that sent Warrington to the ground.

Clearly bewildered, shaking his head in a useless effort to clear it, Warrington remained down. Turner and Enfield screamed at him to rise again, but he spat some bloody saliva and held up his hands in refusal. “Can't do it,” he muttered. “Can't.” Even when Enfield came forward to lift him up and lead him to the center again, Warrington refused.

Although Zachary would have liked to have inflicted further damage, he was mildly placated by the sight of Warrington's bruised and battered face, and the way he held his ribs in obvious discomfort.

“Match is finished,” Warrington said out of one side of his swollen mouth. “I cede to Bronson.”

After taking a minute or two to regain his strength, Warrington came forward and faced Zachary. “My apologies to Lady Holland,” he said, while his companions complained and grumbled loudly. “I retract every word I said about her.” He turned to Enfield. “Cut off the top button of my coat and give it to him.”

“But what's he going to do with it?” Enfield complained, glaring at Zachary.

“I don't give a damn,” Warrington replied curtly. “Remove the blasted thing.” Turning back to Zachary, he extended his hand. “Bronson, you've got a head like an anvil. I suppose that makes you fit company for the rest of us.”

Zachary was surprised by the gleam of friendly amusement in the other man's eyes. Slowly he reached out and shook Warrington's hand, the grip ginger in regard for both sets of sore knuckles. The gesture meant that Warrington recognized Zachary as an equal, or at least as someone whom he considered an acceptable member of the club.

“You've got a good right cross,” Zachary replied gruffly. “As good as any I took in my prizefighting days.”