No chit is worth getting cut over. But she’s a pretty one, she’s worth a little something and you’ve stolen our fun, guv’nor. I think you owe us a little sport in exchange. Fight me for her, fists only. First one down loses. You lose, I get to kiss her. You win, the two of you can go on with your evening. Either way, you get to go on with your night, only if you lose you might always wonder whose kiss she prefers.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Who knows, maybe the lady likes a bit of rough.’
Jonathon sheathed his knife and began to remove his coat. ‘Hold this for me, Claire.’ It took a moment for her to realise what he meant to do.
‘No, there will be no blood shed over me,’ she protested.
One kiss was certainly better than kissing all five and who knew what else. ‘I’ll give him a kiss. It’s just a kiss.’
‘The hell you will, Claire,’ Jonathon growled, his eyes on Greasy Hair. ‘Now, stay back out of the way and let me deal with this cur.’ He took out the gold links from his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves while one of the men drew a chalk circle around the two combatants.
‘First one down loses. There is no stepping out of the fight circle. Stepping out results in a forfeit.’ The beefy one who coveted her dress called out the rules. ‘No weapons, only fists. Blood doesn’t count as down. As long as two men are standing, the fight goes on.’
The circle looked impossibly small to Claire. How could Jonathon possibly win? He wasn’t a street fighter. She was starting to see what a disadvantage he was at; it was their rules, their street. She thought that for all of five seconds until the beefy man called out ‘Go!’ and Jonathon swung hard for the man’s jaw with a lightning-quick punch and kept striking, first with his left, then with his right, and once more before Greasy Hair landed a punch to his gut that sent Jonathon staggering backwards, dangerously close to the chalk line.
‘Watch out! Jonathon, get him!’ The words flew out of her mouth as she got caught up in the fight, adrenaline sweeping her away as Jonathon regained his balance and swung out, his fists fast and lethal. He caught Greasy Hair in the nose. Blood spurted and Jonathon didn’t stop. He came at Greasy Hair again. His shirt and waistcoat stretched across his shoulders, his body exerting its determination to end it. There was something glorious and primal about watching his body, all fluid, violent grace and athleticism as he pummelled Greasy Hair—there was no other way to describe it. It was definitely a pummelling.
Jonathon took a final swing and Greasy Hair went down. The fight was over. Jonathon didn’t wait for a declaration of victory. He shot a hard look at the gang of men, issuing a silent invitation for any and all to try him. Then he strode to her side, wrapped his arm about her and led her away.
He didn’t stop until they stepped inside the eating house. Even safe inside, his face still wore a fighter’s grim expression. His hands gripped her arms as he studied her, looking for any sign of hurt. ‘Claire, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she managed. ‘He was just rough, that’s all.’ If she said anything else, she was quite certain Jonathon would stalk out of the eating house and finish the bounder.
Jonathon pushed a hand through his dark hair, his uncooperative lock falling forward as he blew out a breath. ‘I am so sorry. This was all my fault. I never should have let you come alone. I don’t know what I was thinking. Can you forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she assured him, holding his gaze with her own to convince him of her sincerity. But her shock over all that had happened would not be held at bay much longer. It was running riot in her mind. Any moment, it would tear loose. She stared at him hard, trying to digest the transformation. Her princely gentleman, her divine waltzer, had transformed right before her eyes into a street fighter, a man of blatant power and strength and physical prowess. Why was it so hard to believe? Hadn’t she had an inkling of this last night when he’d stormed her room?
‘Sweet heavens, Jonathon, you broke his nose for me.’ She was starting to tremble. She’d never been that close, that intimate, with violence before. But he had. That much was clear.
‘He had his hands on you. I would break more than his nose for that alone.’ He growled, his voice a rasp, his face close to hers in the cramped quarters of the eating house’s tiny hall. ‘You, Claire, are worth fighting for.’ His voice cracked with a groan. ‘God, Claire, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.’
‘I wanted that, too,’ she confessed fiercely, just before his mouth descended on hers, rough and ravaging, the power of the moment overwhelming them both.
Her fingers gripped the lapels of his waistcoat with a talon-like ferocity, refusing to let him go, her body wanting him against her, wanting him closer than even that if it were possible. Claire revelled in the rough play of it; the devouring press of his mouth, the harshness of the wall’s uneven surface at her back, the hardness of him rising against her, all muscle and male.
‘Claire,’ he gasped her name, a hungry, needy sound that made her reckless. His hands were in her hair, tugging her head back, exposing her throat to his mouth, a most delicious, decadent exposure. She’d never been kissed liked this, not even their hungry kisses in the bookshop rivalled these. She had never imagined kisses could be so primal, so wild, and that she’d want more, so much more than that wildness could offer on its own.
She tugged at his cravat, wanting his throat for herself, too, wanting any piece of him she could get. ‘Jonathon, I don’t want to eat dinner.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, as needy as his.
His carriage, the full-sized town coach, not the open-air curricle, was outside. She had no recollection of exactly how they made the short walk. Her mouth was too busy, her hands too busy to pay attention to such mundane details. Jonathon managed to give the command to drive and they were off. She didn’t care where. She only cared that she was on Jonathon’s lap, straddling him in a most unladylike but convenient manner for what she wanted. For what he wanted. In her current position there could be no doubt of that. The fight had left them restless and roused, every nerve, every sensitivity exposed.
She finished with the cravat and dragged it from his neck, her fingers moving on to his quickly discarded collar, his neck exposed to her at last. She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse beat hard and confident beneath her lips. It still wasn’t enough. Sweet heavens, how she ached! Her body had no trouble recalling what it now knew existed. There could be so much more than this!
Instinctively, her hips ground hard against his, asking for more. He gripped her waist. ‘You will be the death of me, Claire, if you keep that up,’ he warned, or was that encouragement she heard in his rough voice? Gone were the cultured, easy tones she was used to. ‘I know what you want, love.’
His hand slipped beneath the tangle of her skirt, his warm touch sliding up her thigh, unerringly coming to the core of her and the source of her ache. Perhaps later she’d be embarrassed, or feel some shame over the thought of his fingers teasing apart her folds, of them sliding inside her to find her wet and wanting yet again and in a coach no less, not even surrounded by the trappings of a bedroom. But now, in the moment, it was the most glorious sensation she’d ever felt. His thumb grazed the tiny nub, sending a familiar shiver through her. Only now, she knew it was merely the beginning.
‘Like that, did you?’ He kissed her long and slow, his teeth drawing out her lower lip as his thumb made another pass and she gasped, helpless against the twin pleasures he’d coaxed from her.
‘Move against my hand, Claire. Yes, like that. Do it again, and again.’ She did, her breathing turning to pants, the exquisite sensation growing with movement, with each of his passes, caresses. Their kisses turned savage, matching the tempo set by his hand and his wicked thumb—oh, sweet heavens, that thumb!
‘I think I shall burst,’ Claire confessed in ragged breaths, the pressure and the pleasure building in her without release, proof that last night had not been an anomaly; proof