‘Take your hands off of her, you bastard!’ Preston’s voice was a guttural roar, his fists landing hit after hit, but not without some retaliation. The bully regained his feet and struck back, a meaty fist burying into Preston’s stomach. Preston doubled over from the force, but came charging back like a bull, taking Burke in the midsection and ramming him into a sturdy table, spilling plates and ale. It was all the provocation the rest of the taproom needed to join in.
Chaos was everywhere; tables tipped, chairs flew along with fists; tankards and plates became weapons and shields. Beatrice had never seen this much violence up close. She ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She ought to find a way out, but she didn’t. She felt quite safe in the corner. Preston stood between her and disaster and every other man in the taproom. Never mind there were forty of them to his one. Preston slammed Burke’s head into the table and the big man fell unconscious to the floor.
‘Bea!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Stay behind me!’ He grabbed her hand and pulled, tucking her in behind him, his body her shield. ‘Come on!’ They moved fast, ducking and darting through the melee, Preston’s fists clearing a path towards the stairs, felling one man and then another without hesitation, his face a stoic mask of intensity, his eyes fixed on the next opponent and the next. At the stairs, he pushed her ahead of him, his hand at her back, urging haste. ‘Go, go, go!’ His eyes were fixed over his shoulder on the taproom.
Bea gained the landing before she was aware Preston had stayed behind at the base of the stairs. She looked back in time to see Preston swing at a tall, bulky man with thick arms who didn’t go down. ‘You knocked out my friend. I don’t think I like that,’ he growled, something glinting dangerously in his hand.
‘Knife!’ Beatrice screamed out of an instinctive need to warn Preston, never mind her voice was one of many, sucked up in the chaos of the taproom.
Preston bent to his boot and came up in a fluid motion, a blade flashing in his hand, already swiping at the man’s arm, catching it. A trickle of red showed on the dirty shirt. Beatrice clutched the baby tighter, making him squall. The violence had suddenly become much more real now. Preston was fighting defensively, careful not to maim or worse beyond what was needed. She wasn’t sure the other man was taking such ethical consideration with his punches. The bleeding scratch had the man angry. He wanted blood of his own.
‘Bea, get in the room! Bar the door,’ Preston yelled, not breaking his concentration. Blood or not, she didn’t want to leave him. It was not in her nature to abandon a friend, but she had Matthew to think about and Preston, too. She would only be a distraction to him if she stayed. She took one last look at Preston holding the stairs, ensuring her safety, and ran for the room.
What if he didn’t succeed? Bar the door. That was the reason for the command, wasn’t it? Beatrice didn’t allow for the thought until her back was pressed up against the door of their chamber, the heavy oak shutting out the sounds downstairs, the heavy bolt hopefully prepared to shut out intruders if need be. What if the man’s knife got the better of Preston? What of other knives? What of other men who’d want to try him? He couldn’t fight for ever.
Beatrice set the baby on the bed and glanced around the room for a makeshift weapon. A candlestick. No. It was heavy, but it would require her getting far closer to an attacker than she wanted in order to be effective. She wanted something longer. Her eyes lit on the fireplace. A poker. Perfect. Beatrice crossed the room and wrapped her hand firmly around the handle, testing the weight. It would even be better if it were hot. Bea put it in the fire, feeling inspired. Any unwanted soul coming through that door would regret it.
The only soul she was interested in seeing at the door was Preston. At first, she started at any little sound. Fifteen agonising minutes went by and then thirty. Still, no one came. The poker glowed hot at the hearth. On the bed, Matthew had fallen asleep, exhausted by the excitement and the long day.
Beatrice paced. Surely they weren’t all still fighting? But it was almost worse to think of what it meant if the fighting was over. How would she explain to the Worths if something happened to him? She ran through a few experimental lines in her head.
I’m sorry, Preston was wounded in a tavern brawl. It was my fault because I wanted the bread pudding.
It sounded just as bad as she thought it would. It was all her fault, just as it was her fault he’d had to come to Scotland, had to be on the road for his birthday. Now, it was her fault he was embroiled in fisticuffs or worse.
There was a pounding on the door, at last. Beatrice snapped into action, snatching up the poker from the hearth. She took up her position beside the door as another pound came, this time followed with a voice. ‘Bea, open up, it’s me.’ Relief made her clumsy. She dropped the poker, fumbled with the bar, dropping it, too, in her haste and excitement.
At first, relief at seeing him safe overwhelmed the details. Then, she saw them: the sleeve of his shirt ripped shoulder to wrist, the bruise along his jaw, the cuts on his cheek. ‘You’re hurt!’ The words were entirely inadequate. Of course he was hurt. He’d just fought how many men on her behalf? She tugged him inside and struggled with the bar, lifting it into place. There was suddenly so much to do.
‘Come, sit down. I’ll heat some of the washing water.’ She would have paid dearly for a kettle just now, to be back in her little cottage kitchen where she’d have all she needed to hand. She settled for wedging the ewer among the coals and the towels he’d used to dry off with earlier.
‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ She worked his shirt off, desperate to see the damage beneath the slashed sleeve, hoping there was none. ‘Are you cut?’ She examined the arm, looking for signs of injury, but finding none.
‘No, I was too fast for him.’ Preston grinned and she could hear the cocky pride in his voice.
‘Don’t tell me you were downstairs enjoying all this while I was up here worried sick,’ Bea scolded. ‘I was imagining all sorts of horrid things befalling you.’
Preston chuckled, wincing from the effort. ‘Oh, ouch!’
Bea gave him a stern look. ‘Ribs?’ She hoped not. That could be serious. She’d far rather treat a knife scratch. She ran her hands down his torso, feeling for any sign of a cracked or broken rib. The men down there had been big enough to deliver damage. He flinched where she pressed. ‘I think they’re just bruised. I can wrap them for you.’ She was already running through possible makeshift bandages. She had a petticoat in her luggage she could sacrifice.
Preston shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine. I won’t have you ripping up clothes on my account.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ Beatrice wrapped a towel about her hand and reached for the warmed ewer. She poured water into the basin and soaked a cloth. ‘I saved some of the cold water for your face. That bruise will hurt, it needs cold, but your ribs will appreciate the heat.’ She knelt and pressed the folded cloth to his ribs, realising too late what work and concern had obscured. She had stripped Preston Worth to the skin, had put her hands all over him and was now kneeling before him in what could be taken as a rather intimate position under other circumstances. Her body didn’t seem to know the difference, although it should have.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen his bare chest. She’d seen him shirtless countless times before, during the long summers of their youth. But this chest was nothing like the chest he’d sported as a slender adolescent. This was the chest of a man blooded in battle. Her finger traced the scar left by the wound this autumn. ‘Roan?’ She shuddered at the thought of how close the blade had come to doing permanent damage.
‘Yes, but the stitches are all Liam’s.’ Preston laughed.
Bea