Marrying The Rebellious Miss

‘No!’ Beatrice yelped and leapt back reflexively, clutching Matthew to her as Preston’s fist smashed into the big man’s jaw. The blow knocked the man sideways and Preston was on him, landing another hard blow before he could recover.

‘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.

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