Page 57 of Outrageous

“It’s a—”

“I know what it is!” she hissed. “What I want to know is whether you can shoot to kill if you need to.”

“Kill. He never said anything about killing.” His eyes widened, the one behind the glass hidden by rain and fog, the empty frame showing a hazel eye that threatened to pop out of his skull.

Eva snorted, turning enough that she could keep an eye on the combatants, who’d commenced to moving carefully around each other, clearly struggling to find their footing in the deep mud that hid a multitude of ruts and potholes. “What do you think they will do if he loses?” she demanded. “Do you actually believe they’ll let us go?”

“Flynn promised. He said—”

“I heard him,” she snapped, wincing when the bigger man—Paul—jabbed faster than her eye could track, clipping Godric’s jaw when he didn’t move out of range quickly enough. Paul was stocky, but he was fast.

Godric’s left hand shot straight out from its guard position, which was the first time she noticed he was sinister. Her lips curled; how appropriate.

Paul bobbed and dodged his fist by only a hair. Eva chewed her lip as she weighed both men’s strengths and deficits: Godric had a better reach, but Paul was undoubtedly quicker—younger—perhaps as much as a decade younger. He also had pure rage on his side.

Paul threw a couple more jabs, probing Godric’s defenses, his style quickly readjusting to fight a left-handed opponent. He had good enough technique, but Eva couldn’t help noticing that he sometimes overreached, almost enough to allow his elbow to lock.

Godric’s style was, wisely, defensive and she admired his form as he danced just out of range of yet another jab. She’d known his body was magnificent from what she’d seen of it a few nights ago, but he looked even more virile stripped. His body was somewhere between lean and stocky. While his muscles were developed and defined, they were also compact and graceful. It was an aristocrat’s body—but an aristocrat who’d used his body hard. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and Eva could see the muscles of his ridged stomach and narrow waist flexing and stretching as he loosened and became more limber. She knew by watching his eyes that he was slowly becoming a purely physical creature.

She loved mills—loved to watch two strong male bodies pitted against each other, loved the sheer physicality of the fighting itself. Of course she also enjoyed looking at naked male torsos. Eva never told Gabe how often she’d dragged James with her to some country inn or farmer’s barn to watch fights. James tried to act like he didn’t want to go, but she’d recognized the look on his face when he watched. He was just as dangerously stimulated as Eva.

“I saw you box twice,” Paul said, his tone almost conversational, although anger pulsed just below the surface.

“Oh?” Godric easily dodged a rapid jab followed by a right cross, and then smiled as he flicked his head to toss his hair off his brow, sending a spray of water flying.

“Yeah,” Paul said, “MacNamara and Olsen.”

Godric grinned at some memory.

“You tore them both up,” Paul said, his jab missing Godric’s jaw and connecting with his shoulder.

Godric grunted at the hit but didn’t stumble.

The two were well matched for all that their strengths were so different. Godric made up the disadvantage of his years with superior science. What Paul lacked in skill he made up for with rage, bulk, and youth.

They traded punches, neither scoring a solid hit. Paul continued talking, his voice breathier as time went on.

“My brother was under your command,” he said after finally delivering a hit that connected soundly with Godric’s jaw and sent his head back with an almost audible snap.

Eva realized she’d bitten her lip so hard she’d drawn blood.

Godric staggered and leaned into a crouch, as if off balance, but then he came up under Paul’s guard with two furious uppercuts, the second slamming Paul’s jaws together so hard, Eva felt it in her own teeth. Godric then danced out of reach, easily avoiding Paul’s sloppy counterpunch.

Both men circled, catching their breath, and the muttering of Flynn’s men grew louder, their actions more restless—dogs scenting blood.

“Was your brother a cowardly deserter like—”

Paul threw a right hook that knocked Godric back at least three feet. Flynn’s men surged up behind him to box him in.

“Get back!” Eva yelled, taking several steps toward Flynn, the pistol aimed at his chest.

Flynn raised his hands in a staying gesture. “You ’eard ’er, boys. Back—step back from ’is lordship.”

The men grumbled but shuffled away from the brutally dancing couple.

When Eva turned, Godric had blood running from the corner of his grinning mouth as he gave her a quick wink.

She shook her head in disgust. Men.