Chapter Eleven
Oh, yes. Rafe could kill him. He could demolish this vile, reeking piece of scum. Easily. With one hand.
Which meant he had to be very careful now.
“Do you know who these ladies are?” he said, both to inform the scum and to remind himself to keep some hold on civility. “They’re both nieces of the Earl of Lynforth. Miss Whitmore is the local landowner and soon to be married to my brother, Lord Granville.”
Rafe still held his tankard of beer in his right hand. With his left forearm, he nudged the man in the chest. Repeatedly.
“You don’t touch them.” He strode forward, backing the man toward the edge of the room. “You don’t speak to them. You don’t look at them.” He pushed the man against the timber-and-plaster wall. “You don’t breathe in their general vicinity, ever again. And in exchange, I let you leave this pub with the same number of teeth you brought in. Miss Whitmore’s intended groom might be a diplomat, but he’s not here right now. I am. And I don’t do anything the nice way.”
In his youth, he’d lived with anger at a constant simmer. Smaller insults than these had sent him boiling over with violence. Ten years ago, he would have punched first and thought later, leaving blood on the walls and no apologies.
He was older now. Wiser, he hoped. But when it came to scum like this? No less angry.
He was closer to losing control than he had been in years.
Easy, Rafe.
The card cheat chuckled. “Oh, I know who you are, Brandon. You had a good run in your day. But that’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“Not for long. I’ll be reclaiming my title soon.”
“That so? Let’s see what you have, then.” The man cracked his neck and shook out his fists. “I’ve been in a brawl or two myself. I’ll take you on.”
Rafe rolled his eyes. Damnation.
This ginger-haired jackass couldn’t be a compliant, fearful, reeking piece of scum. No, the idiot was just drunk enough to make this difficult.
“I don’t spar with amateurs, as a rule.”
“So the gossip’s true,” the drunk taunted. “You’re washed up. Running scared.”
“I said, I don’t spar with amateurs as a rule. But every rule has its exceptions.”
Behind him, someone in the growing throng of onlookers crowed. “It’s a fight, boys!”
“No fighting is necessary,” Clio said, speaking from somewhere behind him.
Rafe heard her.
His eyes never left the card cheat, but he heard her. And though he couldn’t reassure her, she needn’t worry. He knew very well what was at stake in this situation—for her and for him.
“This was all our fault for interrupting the card game,” she said bravely. “Sirs, you have our sincere apologies. Isn’t that right, Phoebe?”
“I see no reason to apologize,” Phoebe said. “He was cheating. I was right.”
“Neither of you owes this man a damn thing,” Rafe growled, taking a handful of the scum’s shirtfront and twisting it in his grip until he’d hauled the man up on his toes. “I’m going to give him what he’s got coming.”
The man’s face paled in a most satisfying fashion.
All around them, the tavern customers’ excitement reached a new pitch. Men cleared the tables and chairs to the edges of the room. Wagers were being made. And the reeking filth he held dangling in his grip . . . well, he had to be hearing how few of those bettors liked his chances.
Rafe was getting hungry. And he didn’t mind who saw it. He had earned this brutish reputation, and it was his to use as he pleased.
A soft touch landed on his shoulder. Clio’s voice broke as she whispered, “Rafe, please. Don’t do this.”
“Oh, I’m doing this. And I’m going to enjoy it. Just as soon as I set down my drink.”
With that, he drove his right hand forward, crashing his tankard into the limewashed plaster of the tavern wall, just six inches from the man’s blanched, ugly face. Beer sloshed the floor.
When he withdrew his hand, the tankard stayed there, embedded in the plaster. As though he’d made it its own little shelf.
“Still eager to fight me?” Rafe asked.
The man flicked a glance toward the tankard stuck in the wall, no doubt picturing it embedded in his teeth. “I . . . That . . .”
“Didn’t think so.” Rafe released the man, and he dropped to the floor and lay there. Just like the scum he was.
Before the onlookers could catch their breath, Rafe had both Clio and Phoebe under one protective arm.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he told the crowd. “No fight today.” To Clio, he murmured, “Let’s be on our way. Now.”
Rafe didn’t have to ask her twice.
Clio was only too happy to leave the place.
The three of them walked out of the village without stopping or speaking, all the way until they reached the country path.
When they came to a stile, Rafe stopped and turned to them. He swept them both with a concerned glance. “Are you both well? Not harmed at all?”
Clio shook her head. “We’re not harmed. Just rattled a bit.”
“That was my fault, wasn’t it?” Phoebe’s delicate dark brows knitted in a frown. “I made him angry.”
“No,” Clio said. “He was a drunkard and a cheat, and you did nothing wrong.”
“But I did. I did.” She tugged at her hair. “I’m always doing or saying the wrong thing. I know I’m odd.”
“Phoebe, darling. You’re not odd. You’re special.”
“Why make the distinction, as if they aren’t the same thing?”
Clio moved to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder.
Her sister brushed the touch aside. “If you’re worried I’m going to weep or go into hysterics, don’t. I never do either. That’s what makes me odd. Or at least, it’s part of it. You can’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t think or behave the way others do. There are things that are important to me that no one else seems to give a fig about. And then there are things everyone else seems to prize, and try as I might, I can’t understand the fuss. Daphne teases me. Clio, you’re too polite, but I know you’re worried. I’ve heard you discussing it.”
“We both love you,” Clio said.
“And I don’t understand that, either.” Phoebe clambered over the stile and strode away.