Chapter 2 #2
So that no one might ever look at him the way his father had done that day, as if he had been less than nothing. A disappointment. A fool for wishing to…
He looked away, down the dark alley, part of him longing to run. But he couldn’t. He could never run. Not from something like this. Hawthorne couldn’t know, could he? There was no way he could know that something like this would push him so entirely into a corner.
No, Hawthorne just couldn’t resist the idea of dragging him home for Christmas and seeing him squirm. A perfectly normal thing for men to do to each other.
“Yes. All right,” he said. “You wish me to prove myself. It seems like I must every day of my life. Today is no different.”
Hawthorne eyed him for a moment, a hint of regret darkening his eyes, but then he gave a nod. “Let’s to it then.”
Hawthorne exchanged an odd look with Hartigan Mulvaney.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “You’re not usually like this. Why are you so insistent that I—?”
“I’m full of the Christmas spirit, old boy. I want you to come to the estate of my uncle, the Duke of Westleigh. And I’m determined to find the Christmas spirit in you too.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Hawthorne’s mouth tightened, but then he blurted, “Because you’re turning into a dried-up orange peel.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mulvaney threw back his head and laughed. “Laertes does have a way with words. Now come inside, the two of you, before you both get your throats slit.”
After that rather cryptic statement, they headed into the dark halls of the place and went upstairs. It was a long, empty room.
“Where’s the boxing arena?” Oliver asked.
“We don’t use one of those.”
“Why?” Oliver demanded. “Isn’t that the whole point of—”
“There are no Queensbury rules here, Your Grace,” Mulvaney stated as he rolled up his sleeves, revealing formidable forearms. “Take off your coat. That is the only concession I will give you in our endeavor, and then you will stand and face me and see how your boxing training has prepared you.”
Oliver gave him a nod and a slight, mocking bow. “Of course, sir, but I will say I am concerned for your age. I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“Very kind, Your Grace,” Mulvaney said merrily. “I appreciate that.”
But as soon as Oliver had his coat off and turned to Mulvaney, the man gave him the scariest and most devilish of grins and said, “Ready?”
Oliver lifted his fists and nodded. “We shall make this short work. I have somewhere to be this evening. A lady is awaiting me.”
“You won’t be seeing her,” Mulvaney said.
“Why?” he asked.
Mulvaney gave him a cheeky wink. “Your face. It’ll be grim.”
And the next thing Oliver knew, Hartigan Mulvaney darted to the side, had him in a quick hold from behind, and knocked him to the ground by sweeping Oliver’s feet out from under him. And as he stumbled, his face made contact with Mulvaney’s fist, a fist which hit him like a hammer.
His teeth clacked.
He was shocked.
He could not think.
When he hit the ground, with Mulvaney shockingly cradling his head so he did not hit it on the floor, air whooshed out of his lungs.
He let out a gasp, blinked, saw stars, gazed up at the mad Irishman, and said, “What the devil was that?”
“Real fighting, Your Grace. Battle fighting. My kind of fighting. Would you like to learn?”
Oliver gasped, trying to suck air back into his tortured lungs, and then he started to laugh. A full, deep sound, and it was the best he had felt in years. “Yes,” he said.
Mulvaney smiled down at him and offered his hand. “Good lad.”
He took the Irishman’s hand and hauled himself to his feet. “What the bloody hell have I been learning?”
“Performance,” Hawthorne said from the sideline, leaning against the wall, clearly relieved that Oliver was taking this as he had hoped.
“Boxing is well and good,” Mulvaney said, unrolling his sleeves, “but it isn’t really for a fight when life or limb is on the line.” Mulvaney paused. “I’m glad to know that you actually do like to learn. I’m always happy to have a new pupil.”
“Bloody hell, Hawthorne, what sort of trick was that?” Oliver asked as he adjusted his jaw. He loved the pain and was quite excited by the idea of learning something outside his usual purview.
Hawthorne grinned. “I had to do it.”
“Why?” Oliver asked.
“Because it’s the best gift you’ll ever get.”
Oliver blinked. “What?” he said.
Hawthorne tsked. “Now, now, you mustn’t back out.”
“Fine,” he sighed, picking his coat up from the floor and hauling it onto his shoulders. How bad could Christmas with the Briarwoods actually be? Besides, he could just hide in whatever room they gave him for most of it.
Hawthorne cleared his throat. “But there’s one more condition.”
Oliver stilled. “How can there be another condition?”
“There’s always another condition,” Mulvaney said. “That’s life, Your Grace.”
“You need to pretend that you’re actually enjoying yourself.”
Oliver let out a groan. “I should have just gone and found a new mistress rather than risk your company.”
“Perhaps,” replied Hawthorne, “but this is going to be so much more fun.”
Fun? Oliver thought. He had no idea how the devil he’d allowed Hawthorne to do this to him. He had been a ridiculous fool for indulging his friend. But he knew why. It had never been about his friend.
It had been about that little boy who needed to prove himself when challenged. Who would always need to prove himself. And that would never be Hawthorne’s fault.
“You look so innocent,” he said to Hawthorne, “but you’re an absolute devil.”
Mulvaney grinned. “It’s another part of fighting,” he said.
“Best thing ever is to trick your opponent by making them think that you’re not as capable.
What did you think when you saw me? Old.
That’s what you thought. Well, my boy, all the youth and vigor in the world don’t mean a thing if you don’t know what’s coming next. ”
“And that’s what you’re going to teach me?” he challenged, hardly daring to think such a thing possible. “What’s coming next?”
“Yes, and we can begin over Christmas,” Mulvaney said. “The duke has invited me as a guest and to arrange an exhibition of sport.”
“Marvelous,” Hawthorne declared. “This will be a Christmas to never forgot. One of the best, I’m certain.”
Oliver didn’t doubt it, but he would forget. He’d forget it as quickly as he could. As he did every Christmas.
Gift. That’s what Hawthorne had said. That Christmas with the Briarwoods be a gift.
And Hawthorne had accused him of arrogance.
How could it be a gift if he had to pretend that he even liked it? And there were no best Christmases. All Christmases were to be endured. That was all.
“Right,” he said. “I will confess to my own pride, and underestimating Mr. Mulvaney here, has gotten me into this, but I am a man of honor and will not back out of this wager. I will go with you both. I will even pretend to like it because I don’t want to offend your family,” he said.
Hawthorne grinned. “Good.”
“But I will not forget this bit of trickery, Hawthorne.”
Laertes smiled at him, just as a good friend should, before adding, “Oh, I do hope not.”
There was no tooth to Oliver’s warning, because he knew in his heart Hawthorne was trying to help him, to save him, to make him as naive as Hawthorne was about the world. He was touched.
But whatever Hawthorne was trying to accomplish? The poor fellow was going to be very disappointed indeed.