Chapter 5
Rory rubbed his thumbs over Malcolm’s knuckles again. If he was to protect Malcolm from further harm, he needed to keep him out of the ring. Guilt tightened his gut; stopping the fight was in his best interests too. He didn’t want anyone to see him incapable of facing his worst fear, and as soon as he’d seen the tremor in Malcolm’s hands, he knew it gave him the perfect excuse too.
“I thought the only way someone can lose a title is to die. Are you about to die?” Malcolm’s gaze became assessing, and Rory’s breath hitched. For a second he’d thought Malcolm meant his boxing title of Champion and he was going to agree but thankfully he realised that Malcolm meant his title of Laird.
“No. Only the English titles are tied to the person. Scottish ones are tied to the land. If I lose my land, I am no longer Laird Cockburn, and merely a Mister. The new occupant becomes the Laird.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“It is a peculiar difference between the two nations.” One that many wars had been fought over. “The simplest explanation is that Englishmen own the land. They can trade it if they want although some properties are entailed to the titleholder and are essentially stuck to the person. For me, the land owns me. I am but a guardian of it.” And he was failing in his duty. Englishmen who embodied their titles marched over his land in the Lowlands, disposing the Lairds who were left with nothing until his ancestors had fought back. Over centuries the different approaches had led to many conflicts, including Bennington’s Salt Act which had bankrupted his father. The English couldn’t beat his people by fighting, but they could beat him with paper.
“If you are the guardian of your land, what brings you to London?”
Rory closed his eyes for a moment. It was the time for one of his truths; well, Malcolm already knew his other truth. Every boxing enthusiast in the world knew that story. It’d been a news sensation as he’d been dragged to court and afterwards, when it was all done, he’d gone to the Continent for several years to escape the press. “It is a long story.”
“We have time.”
“But do we have a destination?” Rory had followed Malcolm into Lord Bennington’s carriage without listening to the instruction given to the driver.
“Yes. I asked the driver to take us to the Duck and Egg Hotel. There is an old publican there who I trust to help us.”
Rory blinked. “I assumed we were going to Gentleman Jackson.” The pugilist coach was probably the only boxer in England with more fame than the two of them.
“No. I’d rather the whole world didn’t know about this.”
Rory nodded. “Smart thinking. Once people start talking, it’ll be harder to avoid this.”
“Impossible. I wanted us to get some advice and have some options.”
Rory’s admiration for The Colossus, for Malcolm, grew. “I appreciate your forethought.” He bowed his head and kissed Malcolm’s knuckles. It was a huge risk. Malcolm’s breath hissed and Rory jerked his gaze upwards to check if he’d messed up.
“Keep going.” Malcolm’s growl sent a wave of heat flushing across Rory’s skin, and then Malcolm pulled one hand away and traced a shaking finger over his cheekbones.
“You are flushed.”
“Yes. Damned Scottish skin shows all my emotions.”
Malcolm’s plush lips stretched in a slow smile. “My blush is obvious to those who know me too.”
Damn. Yearning rushed through Rory’s veins. He wanted to know Malcolm like that, well enough to discern small changes in his expressions. He leaned closer, and Malcolm closed the gap between them, until the met in the middle of Bennington’s carriage for a brief kiss. The touch was perfection ... and oh so brief as the carriage came to a halt and the outside world filtered into their space. Someone tapped on the door, giving Rory the tiniest of moments to lean back in the seat and place Malcolm’s hands back onto his thighs, before the door opened.
“Duck and Egg Hotel.” It was time to face his fears and step into the realm of Malcolm’s ... boxing mentor? He hadn’t been clear. Or maybe he had, and Rory was too stuck in his own worries to have paid attention.