Lady Meets Her Match by Conkle Gina

Author:Conkle, Gina [Conkle, Gina]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc
Published: 2015-01-14T08:00:00+00:00

Nine

Besides, you are a woman: you must never speak what you think; your words must contradict your thoughts, but your actions may contradict your words.

William Congreve, Love for Love

Sawdust bit his back, tiny stings to his hot skin the same as when he had laid down in a field as a boy and red ants nipped him. The pain was minor compared to his throbbing cheek, where a cut stung deep. Blood trickled from the spot where he’d been hit hardest, but the murky world behind his eyelids promised to spare him further agony with heavy sleep.

Because he was felled. By a woman.

His chest moved with steady breaths, a chest on which a small hand tenderly stroked the flesh over his heart.

Claire.

“Mr. Ryland. Are you awake?” her voice called to him. “It’s Miss Mayhew.”

Another heave of his chest brought robust, life-giving air, as sweet as the feminine thumb stroking his breastbone.

“Of course it’s you.” His lids opened halfway with sluggish fortitude, a lazy smile forming. “The Swede wouldn’t dare caress my chest.”

Her hand stiffened over his heart. “I’m not caressing your chest, Mr. Ryland. Someone needed to take care of you, and that oaf who hit you wouldn’t do it…though he did bring a bucket of water.” Amusement touched her voice. “He wanted to douse you.”

“I’m sure he did.” Cyrus let his lids fall shut again. “And since your hand is on my bare chest, we can dispense with proprieties. Call me Cyrus.”

If he had to be flat on the ground, why not surrender to her hands on him? He could get used to her tending him. Hands and cloth moved with gentle touches, cleaning him. Near his head, water dribbled on water. A cool, damp cloth wiped the sweat from his forehead again. She leaned over him, and he smelled cinnamon on her clothes and skin, something far better than the rest of the crowd.

The crowd…

Cyrus raised his head, squinting as facts sunk in. His last fight, a lost fight. Men loitered around crates and barrels, a hum of noise on the perimeter. The ringmaster set to work coiling the ring’s heavy rope with another man assisting him.

The Swede was nowhere to be seen, probably at the Fox Tail, raising a victory pint. Just as well. His opponent had seized a moment of weakness and took his shot when Cyrus let his defenses down. He would’ve done the same.

He shut his eyes and stole the luxury of quiet seconds, nursing his bruised pride at the loss. He was favored to win despite having more than a few years on the Swede, but once again, he’d been stunned—floored it would seem—by a particular woman, this time amidst a rough mob instead of his refined West End home.

“Do you take joy in leveling me, Miss Mayhew?”

She hadn’t given him leave to call her Claire. Best he played this safe. The cool cloth brushed his forehead. Her tender care was a pleasure he would milk as long as possible, even if he had to stay flat on his back in sawdust.

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