Page 6 of Coming for the Champion
Malcolm shuddered. “I was accused of that more times than I can remember.” He’d always had to open his fists and show the judges and opposition that he wasn’t hiding lead weights in his fists, that his hands were just big and heavy all on their own.
“It figures.” The Long Laird’s gentle exploration of his hands was almost overwhelming in its care and attention. His touch went beyond that of another fighter examining his tools, eking towards the erotic and Malcolm could only stare at The Long Laird’s pale fingers moving and caressing him. Freckles dotted the backs of his hands, and light brown hair peeked out of the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists. Malcolm didn’t pull away, not even as the tremors became worse, he wanted more of TheLong Laird’s touch despite his own hands shaking like they always did when he held his hands out like this for an extended period.
“My coach had this...” The Long Laird’s voice cracked and Malcolm looked up from their connection to see a shimmer in the other man’s eyes. “He refused to stop sparing and it worsened rapidly.”
“I stopped when they started. Galforth noticed after my sixteenth win and made me stop. Every year they get a little bit worse. It’s so gradual that it’s hard to tell if the progression is getting faster.” He gulped. It wasn’t something he talked about, and no quack of a doctor would know what to do.
“Oh Colossus.” The Long Laird squeezed his hands, still too gentle when Malcolm craved a stronger touch.
“I’m not him anymore. Please call me Mr Milson, or maybe just Malcolm.”
“Malcolm. My name is Rory. Laird Rory Cockburn.”
“Rory. A suitably Scottish name.” His own had been given to him by Galforth on his arrival in England as a young boy, his original name erased long ago.
“Aye.” Rory didn’t ask about his origins and he was glad of it. Anyone who knew anything about politics could look at Malcolm’s skin and know that it wasn’t a good story, and it wasn’t one he wanted to repeat to a stranger. Not even a stranger who—still—cradled his hands so nicely. It had been so long since anyone cared for him like this. He had Lawndry and a few other friends, and he had occasional lovers at the King’s Book Club, but those connections weren’t like this. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get lost in The Long Laird ... in Rory’s touch.
“So the nickname is because you are actually a Laird?” Malcolm needed to remind himself that this man with the gentle touch stood well above him in societal status.
“Aye. But that might change soon.”
Malcolm didn’t understand. Once a Lord or Laird, always one. “How?”
Chapter 5
Rory rubbed his thumbs over Malcolm’s knuckles again. If he was to protect Malcolm from further harm, he needed to keep him out of the ring. Guilt tightened his gut; stopping the fight was in his best interests too. He didn’t want anyone to see him incapable of facing his worst fear, and as soon as he’d seen the tremor in Malcolm’s hands, he knew it gave him the perfect excuse too.
“I thought the only way someone can lose a title is to die. Are you about to die?” Malcolm’s gaze became assessing, and Rory’s breath hitched. For a second he’d thought Malcolm meant his boxing title of Champion and he was going to agree but thankfully he realised that Malcolm meant his title of Laird.
“No. Only the English titles are tied to the person. Scottish ones are tied to the land. If I lose my land, I am no longer Laird Cockburn, and merely a Mister. The new occupant becomes the Laird.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“It is a peculiar difference between the two nations.” One that many wars had been fought over. “The simplest explanation is that Englishmen own the land. They can trade it if they want although some properties are entailed to the titleholder and are essentially stuck to the person. For me, the land owns me. I am but a guardian of it.” And he was failing in his duty. Englishmen who embodied their titles marched over his land in the Lowlands, disposing the Lairds who were left with nothing until his ancestors had fought back. Over centuries the different approaches had led to many conflicts, including Bennington’s Salt Act which had bankrupted his father. The English couldn’t beat his people by fighting, but they could beat him with paper.
“If you are the guardian of your land, what brings you to London?”
Rory closed his eyes for a moment. It was the time for one of his truths; well, Malcolm already knew his other truth. Every boxing enthusiast in the world knew that story. It’d been a news sensation as he’d been dragged to court and afterwards, when it was all done, he’d gone to the Continent for several years to escape the press. “It is a long story.”
“We have time.”
“But do we have a destination?” Rory had followed Malcolm into Lord Bennington’s carriage without listening to the instruction given to the driver.
“Yes. I asked the driver to take us to the Duck and Egg Hotel. There is an old publican there who I trust to help us.”
Rory blinked. “I assumed we were going to Gentleman Jackson.” The pugilist coach was probably the only boxer in England with more fame than the two of them.
“No. I’d rather the whole world didn’t know about this.”
Rory nodded. “Smart thinking. Once people start talking, it’ll be harder to avoid this.”
“Impossible. I wanted us to get some advice and have some options.”
Rory’s admiration for The Colossus, for Malcolm, grew. “I appreciate your forethought.” He bowed his head and kissed Malcolm’s knuckles. It was a huge risk. Malcolm’s breath hissed and Rory jerked his gaze upwards to check if he’d messed up.
“Keep going.” Malcolm’s growl sent a wave of heat flushing across Rory’s skin, and then Malcolm pulled one hand away and traced a shaking finger over his cheekbones.
“You are flushed.”
