As she loves him. Quite desperately.
“Nonsense,” one of the women replied. “Who could love someone who did such a thing? I’m sure he quite hates her.”
He should . But somehow—by some miracle—he doesn’t .
Mara began to fidget. She wanted this all done. She wanted him.
Immediately.
“And besides,” the first said, “I’m a marchioness. And terribly young to be widowed.”
As though all Temple should be considering for his future happiness was a title. Mara hated the thought.
“I imagine there is quite a queue lined up for the position of Duchess of Lamont,” another said happily. “And not just the widows. My sister has a daughter nearly eighteen, and she would kill for a ducal son-in-law.” The room laughed, and the speaker continued. “It is not a jest. I would not put honest murder past some of these mothers on the marriage mart.”
Mara swallowed back the words that rose to her tongue, desperate to be spoken. He didn’t need a title. He needed a woman who understood him. One who loved him. One who would spend the rest of her days making him happy.
One who would keep him safe from them.
From the ring beyond.
She turned to Anna. “You must stop it.”
Anna shook her head. “The challenge was made. The bets have been laid.”
“Bollocks the bets!” Mara said.
Anna’s gaze filled with respect. “You sound like Temple.”
“You’re damn right I sound like him,” Mara pushed, worry and irritation and frustration warring for dominant position in her emotions. “Take me to Chase. He shall listen to me.”
Anna’s eyes betrayed her surprise. “Trust me, Miss Lowe, Chase would change nothing about this night. There is a great deal of money on this fight.”
“Then he’s no kind of friend. Temple is not ready to fight again. His wound is still unhealed. He could set himself back days. Weeks. Worse.” She turned on Anna. “Was he forced to do this?”
The prostitute laughed. “Temple has never been forced to do anything in his life.”
“Then why?” Mara’s gaze moved to the ring, to where he stood half naked and proud and beautiful. She moved for the door, and the enormous security guard there blocked her from leaving. She turned back to Anna. “Why?”
She smiled at that, soft and sad. “For you.”
“For me!” Insanity.
“He avenges you.”
Even now. After all she’d done.
Her gaze fell on him, taking in the ripple of his muscles, the set of his jaw. The way his gaze tracked his opponent. But there was something different in this Temple. Something that she had not seen all the other nights.
Anger.
Desperation.
Frustration.
Sadness.
He loved her.
Just as she loved him. Mara closed her eyes. She might not deserve him, but she wanted him nonetheless.
She pressed her hands to the window. “He thinks I am gone.”
“Yes,” Anna said.
“Take me to him.”
“Not yet.”
That’s when the second fighter entered the ring. Her brother. “What is he doing here?”
“Showing his idiocy,” Anna said. “He came to the club and challenged Temple.”
She’d given him money. A chance to leave. And still, he’d come here out of greed and insolence and childishness.
She shook her head.
“Your brother insulted you.”
Mara had no doubt that Kit had done so with colorful aplomb. “Nevertheless, you must stop it.”
Anna looked to her, eyes suddenly wary. “Why?”
“Why?” Was the woman mad? “Because he shall hurt himself!”
“Who? Your brother? Or Temple?”
Had everyone in the entire world gone mad?
Mara faced Anna. “You think I don’t love him.”
“I think he is a man who deserves more love than most. And I think you are the reason why. So yes, I worry that you don’t love him enough. I worry that in this instance, you want the fight stopped for a different reason.”
She wanted the fight stopped so she could be with him. So she could love him. So she could finally, finally put the past to rest.
But the fight began before she could say so, and this new, angry Temple led the bout, coming out hard and fast, striking first with several blows, a right hook. A right jab. A right cross.
Always the right.
Kit recovered, coming at him with one blow, a second of his own, sending Temple dancing back across the ring. Mara watched the bandage, saw the linen ties that kept it in place loosen. Turned to Anna. “Please. Take me to Chase. We must end this.”
The prostitute shook her head. “This is his fight. For you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“And yet, you receive it all the same.”
Another right hook. A right jab.
That’s when Kit saw the pattern.
Mara looked away. A child could see the pattern.
He was going to lose.
How many times had he told her he did not lose? How many times had she heard of him, the great Temple, the winningest bare-knuckle boxer in Britain. In all the world. Unbeatable. Undefeated. Unbreakable.
Kit might be drunk, but he was no fool. He knew that Temple was weak on the left side, so he went for it, landing blows inexpert enough to have marked his own demise ten days prior. But now, those blows were hard enough to inflict pain. Hard enough to set Temple back.
He was not unbeatable. Not tonight.
But Kit had insulted her, and he would take the loss for himself before he would take it for her.
“Christ, why doesn’t he use the left? Why doesn’t he block on it?” Someone asked, and Mara heard the frustration in the woman’s voice.
“He can’t,” Mara whispered, her hand on the shaded window as she watched her love take another blow and another. For her. Again and again.
His arm wasn’t working correctly.
He was going to lose.
Kit landed another blow, and Temple came to his knees, the crowd counting the seconds he spent on the floor of the ring, before he looked up at his opponent and spoke. Kit danced away, and Temple pushed himself up to stand once more, blood running down his cheek.
He would fight until he was destroyed.
He would not give up. Not when Mara’s name was on the line.
He loved her.
His words from the prior night returned. What am I if not unbeatable? If not a fighter? If not the Killer Duke? What is my value then?
He would not stop. Not until her brother killed him.
Anna saw it then, the inevitable end. And when she looked to Mara, she said, “It will be over before we can stop it.”
Mara wouldn’t hear no.
The man she loved was ten feet away. Fewer. And he needed her.
Dammit, if she was the only one who would save him, she would.
She moved without thinking, lifting the chair in her hands before anyone in the room could predict her actions. Anna reached for it too late, calling out, “No!”
But Mara had one goal only.
Temple.
H e was going to lose.
His left side was screaming in pain, the muscles protesting the bout—too soon after the stabbing. And that was without the nerves, sizzling in fits and starts down his arm, causing as much pain from the inside as Lowe was from the outside.
He was going to lose. He could not avenge her.
Not that it mattered; she had left him.
She’d run from him. Again.
Lowe landed two powerful blows to his left side, sending Temple to his knees. There, in the sawdust, he wondered when the last time was that he had been on his knees in the ring.