Page 47 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She had to shut her eyes. Full-throated cheers pitched feverishly until she heard a body fall with a meaty slap.
Revelers eased apart, their chatter rising. When she opened her eyes, Royal Marines and naval men surrounded their fallen friend. Rory MacLeod sauntered over to a pile of clothes beside weathered jackboots, his lungs working hard. The Scot swiped his chest with a shirt, half listening to Mr. O’Shea.
Arms folded, she waited. As bare-knuckle fights went, Snow’s Field paid the worst. Any brawler worth his mettle fought on the other side of the river. Smart brawlers put some thought into it and printed sheets to advertise the fight. They hired lads to hawk the fight and paper every public house and gentleman’s club with the news. Those were bouts one planned for. If she read this one right, the Royal Marines and the gunner flat on his back had left their ship in the King’s Yard, hungry for fun. The draw of a large Scotsman and an aimless crowd must’ve looked like easy quid.
But this was Snow’s Field. Easy quid was hardto come by. The gunner and his friends would get nothing, and Mr. MacLeod would get little more than nothing. Mr. O’Shea was, in fact, dropping four shillings into the Highlander’s open paw.
“That’s all?” MacLeod’s Western Isles brogue rose in disbelief.
“Well, if ye’d agreed to fight the other three men, ye might be lookin’ at a dozen to fifteen shillin’s.”
“In Brighton, I was paid twenty shillings for one fight.”
“It’ll be different next time, now that I know ye have middling talent,” the Irishman said.
MacLeod’s eyes rounded when he was deemed amiddling talent.
O’Shea slapped the Scot’s arm good-naturedly. “I didna think a man o’ yer years had it in ye.”
“My years?” MacLeod dumped his coins into a paltry purse and knotted it.
“Ye’ve got a good ten to fifteen o’ them on the lads comin’ out o’ the King’s Yard.”
“I’m thirty-one. Hardly long in the tooth.”
“But yer not a young cock o’ the walk either.”
MacLeod dropped his coin purse, its scant jingle a sad reward for his toil. He tugged on his shirt, and when linen cleared his head, crystalline blue eyes met hers and lingered.
Mr. O’Shea fussed with his buttonless coat.
“If yer interested in something permanent, I could accommodate ye.”
MacLeod adjusted his shirt. “Didna know you had to fit me into your schedule.”
“I’m a busy man, I am. If we come to terms, I’ll arrange a bout within the week. By the taverns near Marshalsea.”
“The prison? No’ much quid to be earned by a prison.”
“Patience, me good man, patience.”
She sauntered forward. “Mr. MacLeod, Mr. O’Shea. Good day to you, sirs.”
MacLeod nodded a mute greeting, and O’Shea tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
“Miss MacDonald, me dove, I was just transacting a wee bit of business with yer compatriot.”
“It sounded more like highway robbery. Everyone knows the best fights are across the river and someone with Mr. MacLeod’s skills can easily fetch twenty-five to thirty shillings a fight...ifhe has a proper business partner.”
Mr. MacLeod began to tuck in his shirt. The Royal Marines and naval men had procured a bucket and were splashing their groggy friend. Smoke wafted by, the work of two older boys squatting around a fire, roasting unknown meat.
Mr. O’Shea scratched a sparsely whiskered jaw. “Workin’ the other side of the river would take some doin’...”
“It’s possible that youcouldbe the man for the job,” she said.
“Well, it sure as shite isn’t you, me dove. Dressin’ like a man doesn’t make ye one, and bare-knuckle brawlin’ is a man’s business.”
To which she laughed. O’Shea’s ire was understandable. The Highlander could be his golden goose.
