Page 42 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
She put aside months of lessons in deportment forced on her by the late Mr. Throckmorton-Rutherford and climbed up onto the bar, same as she did in the old days. The view was perfect and the fight grand. Mr. Swinford had fashioned a ring with barrels and rope. Two brutes, stripped off their shirts, and were circling each other in battle for dominance.
Mr. MacLeod maneuvered in bare feet, the hair on his legsspringing darkly from well-formed calves. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Dust moats floated in light from two upper windows. A massive man, Mr. MacLeod passed in and out of that light. He wore his homespun breeches and nothing else. His spine was a furrow and his long dark queue, a hard line resting there. Raw, male, his back flexing with sinew and meaty muscle. His bruised back added to his menace. He was a man who’d never stop fighting. Only death could make him quit.
She clenched a damp, nervous fist. His tenacity, his unwillingness to stop, worried her.
The captain surprised her. Stripped to his shirt, stockings, and breeches he was a mighty man. She nibbled her thumbnail, frantic. Captain Crawford was proud of his pugilistic skills. Both men were equal in their talent, their fists cocked high, trying to slam the other with vicious swipes.
Sabrina’s blood raced. She willed this to be over.
This was an unhinged display of dominance. No better than wild animals.
Every man and woman in The Spider and Fly ate it up. Fists beat the air. Bellows shook the rafters. Mrs. Swinford was no different. She was now standing up, yelling for a good fight.
Sabrina raised her voice to ask, “How long will it be?”
The proprietress was glassy-eyed and frenzied. “’Til the first man falls and doesn’t get up. Look at them, luv. It’s a fight to the death.”
Great slabs of muscle moved under Rory’s glistening skin. He was raw power roused and displayed in human form. Both men’s fists were hammers, swinging, striking, punching.
Blood squirted from the captain’s nose. Enraged, the captain answered with a blow to Rory’s cheek. Thundering voices around the ring rose to a fevered pitch. Inside the ring, the beastly pair moved in a murderous dance.
Their battle dance went round and round the ring until the captain glimpsed her. His eyes flared, angry and wide. A hesitation which cost him. What came next flowed by. Mere seconds.
Rory pulled back his arm as if it were a trebuchet.
And he let his blow fly at the captain. One. Hard. Vicious blow.
Captain Crawford teetered. His eyelids sunk. His knees buckled. She blinked, open-mouthed and enthralled. Captain Crawford, keeper of the castle, fell to the ground with a meaty slap. Sabrina sprang off the bar and tore through the crowd.
Mr. MacLeod’s chest and lungs heaved. A kind soul had tossed him a rag which he used to wipe his face. His right eye was swelling shut. His chin bled and hair matted his neck. He was beautiful, glorious, and he was hers.
She launched herself into his arms. All she could do was whisper his name. “Rory, Rory, Rory…”
He lashed an arm around her waist and held her close. He was more solid, more honorable than any other man she’d known.
The Spider and Fly was a hive of drinks and laughter. A few slapped Rory’s back. She felt is because he hadn’t let go.
“I don’t ever want to leave you,” he said into her hair. “I love you more than life itself.”
His ribcage was a bellow trying to keep up with his body’s need. From the corner of her eye, she saw two men scrape the dazed captain off the floor and help him out, one man carrying his prized boots and red coat.
“I love you too,” she said, kissing the life vein on his neck.
Rory tasted salty and perfect.
“I’ll live in the barn until you’re ready to marry me. But wearegoing to marry.” He pulled away, his near swollen eye fierce. “I’ll build your brewery and I’ll be your husband, your partner, whatever you want, lass. But I’m staying.”
She touched his jaw. A light dusting of whiskers tickled her palm. “I want you to stay. Forever. With me.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed the unswollen side of his mouth. “I’ll stash you in my barn, in my bed…anywhere you like, Rory MacLeod. You are my knight in kilted armor.”
His crooked mouth hitched sideways. “Someone had to save you from that mouthful of a name.”
She laughed against his chest.
A throat was cleared beside them. Mrs. Swinford was standing there, the bill of lading tucked into the tankard half full of coins.
“Take this. You’ve earned,” the woman said, offering up the tankard.
Rory curled his fingers around the tankard. “Thank you.”
