Page 38 of Eight for Losing, One for Loving

“Shut up!”

Vi gasped as Pembury smacked Harbottle’s face, yelling in fury.

There was a blur of movement and terror thrilled through Vi as she saw Leo force the gun in Pembury’s hand up and shove him hard to the floor. Then she could see nothing more, but she heard the thuds and crashes that indicated a fight was in progress.

“Leo!” she cried, caring for nothing other than the fact Leo had put himself in harm’s way and she could not stand by and do nothing.

Vi yanked her skirts from the brambles they were caught on and ran for the door, hesitating as she passed a wood pile. She gave the pile a cursory glance, then picked up a log about two feet in length and as thick as her forearm. If she was to give Leo the best chance possible, she ought to cause as big a scene as she could to put Pembury off balance. Holding the log in both hands overhead, she took a deep breath and then ran through the door, shouting something she hoped resembled a battle cry as loudly as her lungs would allow.

Pembury and Leo were still standing, wrestling over the gun, and both men jolted in shock, gaping in disbelief as Vi came thundering into the room, bellowing like a small but enraged warrior queen. To her relief, the shock must have slackened Pembury’s grip on the pistol, for Leo rallied quicker. He smashed the man’s wrist against the wall, and the gun fell with a clatter. Vi ran on, beating Pembury around the head and shoulders with the log until the man drew his arm back hard, elbowing Vi in the head.

Vi saw stars, pain exploding in her temples as the room went dark and her knees gave out beneath her.

All the breath left Leo’s lungs as he saw Vi fall, her slender form collapsing in a tumble of pretty fabric on the filthy floor of the Hatts’ disgusting dwelling. For a moment terror held him immobile, the need to go to her stronger than anything else, but Harbottle was there, leaning over Vi and patting her cheek.

“She’s alive, just knocked out,” Harbottle shouted, giving Leo’s heart a reason to beat again as white-hot rage surged in his veins, erasing everything else but the desire to murder the man who had dared to hurt her.

The man Edgar had called Pembury had pushed clear of Leo during his distraction and the gun had been kicked under a moth-eaten armchair and out of sight during their scuffle. The two men circled each other now, fists raised. Pembury was a tall, well-built fellow, and the two of them evenly matched for weight. He was grim-faced, a look in his eyes that suggested he’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted, but Leo didn’t care. He needed to get to Vi, to take her in his arms and see for himself that she was unharmed, and he could not do that until the man responsible had been dealt with to his satisfaction.

Pembury lunged but Leo dodged out of range and Pembury came on again, swinging wildly. To Leo’s satisfaction, he saw the man had no actual skill, only a desire for violence and a willingness to use his fists. He stayed out of range, sizing him up as Pembury kept moving forward, overturning furniture as he went. Pembury swung again, a blow that might have broken Leo’s jaw if it had connected. As it was, it only grazed his cheek but reminded him to keep his wits about him. Pembury swung once more and Leo dodged, following up with a hard right that snapped Pembury’s head back.

“Oh, I say! Nicely done, sir!” Harbottle exclaimed.

Leo didn’t look at the vicar, his eyes firmly fixed on Pembury, who wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth, but he was aware the vicar had dragged Vi to the corner of the room and laid her head on a cushion. Was she really all right? How hard had Pembury’s elbow hit her?

“Look out, there!”

Leo cursed, realising he had been distracted and narrowly escaped a blow to the kidneys that might have doubled him up. This needed to be over so he could get to Vi. He delivered a right that Pembury evaded but followed up with a left that connected and a right to Pembury’s midsection that made the man gasp and stagger backwards.

“One, two, oh, a peg, good, good! Pay away, now, Hunt, pay away!”

Leo registered the advice from Harbottle, who was standing to the side, fists raised, commentating on the match and bobbing and weaving as Leo did. The boxing speak, suggesting he finish the job with a series of rapid blows, seem an excellent idea to Leo, who was quite happy to do as he suggested. He bore down on Pembury, whose fists came up to protect his face and Leo delivered several punishing blows to his guts and kidney. As his fists lowered to protect his battered body, Leo drew back his right and hit him with all he had.

“A facer!” Harbottle cried in delight, watching as Pembury swayed and then crashed to the floor. “Floored! I say, Mr Hunt, you are a Broughtonian and no mistake. Well, done, well done indeed!”

Leo ignored the praise, caring nothing for the battered man at his feet or for Harbottle’s admiration. He ran to Vi, falling to his knees beside her, and viewing the nasty lump rising on her forehead with anxiety.

“Vi? Vi, love?” he whispered, stroking her beautiful face as a fear held his heart in a vice.

Good God, this was why she didn’t want to marry him, because he brought chaos and disaster in his wake. One full day in his company and look where it had got her, unconscious on the filthy floor of a disgusting hovel in the company of men who ought never be allowed within ten miles of her. He lifted her carefully, pulling her into his lap and cradling her head against his shoulder.

Vi groaned, her hand lifting to her bruised head.

“Darling!” Leo exclaimed. “Sweetheart, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Vi blinked dazedly, struggling to focus. Finally, her gaze settled upon him, her eyes fixing upon his.

“Vi, darling, are you all right?”

A small frown tugged at her brows.

“All right?” she repeated faintly, before she gathered herself, her expression darkening. “All right?” she repeated, a different tone to her voice now that boded ill.

“Love?” Leo said, stroking her cheek gently.

Vi smacked it away. “No, I am not all right, Leo,” she told him furiously. “How dare you! How dare you go off and leave me all by myself, coming here and getting yourself in God knows what trouble. He had a gun. A gun! Just like I told you he would, you great, ignorant, pig-headed, stupid, stupid, stupid, man!”

Leo stared at her, never having seen Vi roused to such heights of passionate fury before. But then her face crumpled, and she threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly and sobbing hard.

“I’m sorry,” Leo said, his voice unsteady with remorse. “Vi, I’m… I’m so very sorry.”

“Shut up!” she told him.

So Leo shut up, pressing a handkerchief into her hand and just holding her until the sobs became uneven gulps and finally subsided.

“A good cry always makes them feel better, Mr Hunt, don’t worry,” Harbottle whispered confidentially, whilst he made a surprisingly neat job of tying Pembury up. “My dear wife would always feel much calmer once she had shouted at me and then had a good cry, God rest her beloved soul. It clears the air.”

Leo nodded, hoping Harbottle was right, but miserably aware he’d likely messed up his last chance with Vi. Even if he’d had the nine lives he’d wished for, the events of the past day and night must have used up every one of them. She’d want nothing to do with him now, and he couldn’t blame her for it either. If he couldn’t keep her safe, what kind of husband would he make her? Perhaps she really was better off without him.

Then it occurred to him that Harbottle had called him Mr Hunt, not Mr Huntington.

Hell.