Highlanders' Reckless Wives (Tales Of Highland Might: The Collections #2)

Prologue

The sound of the crowd was a cacophony. London was a civilized part of the world; at least, that was what the nation of England boasted.

It was a place for kings and queens and nobles to hunt and feast and hark back to the days of old when the world was pure.

It was the jewel of the rising Empire, a vast thing that would stretch its fingers across the expanse of the world, and would always be reaching for more.

In faraway lands, the word London conjured up feelings of nobility and majesty, of wonder and awe.

There were tall statues and lofty buildings that spoke to the age of culture that seized the city, but this image was not entirely accurate.

Anyone living in London saw the grimy, sleazy side of the city, the side that was ignored and avoided by those people who wanted to claim that London was the epicenter of purity.

This was filled with the scent of beer, with the cry of bloodthirsty drunkards who wanted to escape the drudgery of their meaningless lives for a time.

Women of the night hitched up their skirts, leaning against the wall in an alley, waiting to catch the eye of a man who was too loose with his coin and too eager to embrace sin.

It was a world that lived in the shadows, where the common people eked out whatever small enjoyment they could find for themselves, and Trevor Whitehall was no different than them, although he certainly liked to think that he was.

Trevor still considered himself a young man, although the years were slipping by at an alarming rate, and he had already seen many of his friends die. He knew the Reaper was hunting him as well, especially when he gave himself to such a vicious vocation as fighting.

Trevor was a tall man; he shrugged off his shirt, revealing an expansive body that was taut with muscles and layered with various scars. His hair brushed against his shoulders, and a thick beard wrapped around his jaw.

“Trevor, are you sure you wish to do this?” Catherine said, placing a hand on his arm.

Her eyes were wide and liquid. She looked far too pure for a world such as this, and for a moment, Trevor regretted ever bringing her down into his world.

Her face was pale, her dress white, and her wary gaze darted around the area, unable to trust anyone.

Trevor could barely hear her words over the raucous cries of the crowd, who lusted for blood.

They stamped their feet and clapped their hands together, waiting for the main event to begin.

“I told you from the beginning: this is who I am!” Trevor barked at her.

“But there’s so much more out there for you. There’s a better world. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to prove anything, not to me.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Trevor said. He knew his words were cold. He didn’t mean to wound the poor girl’s heart, but he also couldn’t change his nature.

“Trevor, if anyone should find out that you do this… What are they going to think? It’s not right that a man of repute should sully his reputation by spending time in places like…

like this.” She turned up her nose in revulsion and drew her arms across her stomach as if to erect a barrier around her body.

Trevor smirked. “If anyone should try and speak out against me, then I shall simply have to show them what it’s like to fight. If I can beat these men with my fists, then I shall have no problem in the legal arena. These arenas have more in common than you think.”

“But I’m worried about you,” Catherine gasped, lowering her voice to a whisper.

Trevor hardened his heart and pressed his lips together.

Catherine was very affectionate, but he didn’t entirely think he deserved her love.

There was a part of him that assumed she could do better; she simply hadn’t realized it yet.

She was so delicate, so gentle, while he was a brute who spent his nights in taverns brawling for some extra coin.

It wasn’t just the extra coin that kept pulling him back, though.

It was the thrill of testing his strength against another man.

It was the vigor that ran through his blood whenever he was locked in battle.

There was something primal and savage, as though a beast was awoken within him whenever he fought with his bare knuckles.

He would not admit this to her or anyone else, but these nights were the moments when he felt most alive.

“If you want to worry about anyone, then you should worry about him.” Trevor nodded to the other side of the fighting arena as he spoke, gesturing toward his opponent.

The man’s name was Frank, the son of a butcher.

Rumor had it that he trained by punching the flanks of cows.

His hands were like two slabs of meat, and his skin was leathery.

Still, Trevor had no doubt that he could emerge triumphantly.

“I don’t care about him. I care about you,” Catherine said, but the words bounced off his heart like a stone against the mountain.

“Then that is your first mistake,” he said.

He turned from her as the fat man, Albert Ramsdale, announced that the fight was to begin and everyone should get their last bets in.

Beer was swilled and drops of the dark liquid splattered onto the ground, perhaps foreshadowing the outpouring of blood that was sure to follow.

More bets were cast, more wagers made, and Trevor heard his name being called out many times.

He stretched out his arms and tilted his head side to side, feeling the sinews and ligaments stretching.

His broad shoulders glistened under the soft glow of the lanterns.

The moon was hiding her face tonight, perhaps unwilling to witness the feast of destruction that was going to be displayed.

Albert retreated out of the arena, leaving it to the two men.

Frank, the butcher’s son, was a tall, meaty man packed with layers of flesh.

He grunted as he moved. Trevor raised his fists and bowed his head slightly, taking the measure of his opponent.

He watched and waited for a flicker of movement.

The butcher’s son thrust out a reaching jab.

Trevor ducked and felt the air rush over his head.

He countered with a swift jab into the man’s midsection, doubling him over.

Breath was taken from Frank’s lungs, and he staggered back, trying to compose himself.

Trevor gave him the opportunity. He wanted to give the people a good show, after all.

The butcher’s son was enraged that Trevor had managed to land a hit on him, so he came forward like a rampaging giant.

He stomped his feet against the ground; his steps were so heavy that he almost shook the earth itself.

Trevor never let his gaze waver from his opponent.

He followed every movement, shifting his weight between his feet, waiting for the moment to strike.

The butcher’s son repeated the movement, but just as Trevor was about to move out of the way, he noticed that Frank was bringing his other fist around.

Ah, Trevor thought, the butcher’s son isn’t as stupid as he seems. Trevor tensed his muscles and braced himself for the blow, but it didn’t stop it from hurting, as though he had been hit by a boulder.

Frank drove his fist through his body, and now it was Trevor who staggered back.

Frank followed his strike with a fist to the face, and Trevor felt the warm taste of blood filling his mouth, swimming over his tongue.

It was a sensation that Trevor was perhaps too familiar with, but he could feel the thrum in his mind and the song in his heart, and suddenly the world became a brighter and more vibrant place.

There was a gleam in his eye that Frank hadn’t seen because the butcher’s son was too busy enjoying the blow he had landed on Trevor, assuming that it was enough to end the fight.

It may have been enough to defeat a lesser man, but not Trevor Whitehall.

Trevor shook the stupor away and spat out a glob of blood.

He smiled, knowing that his teeth were stained crimson.

There was a loud roar from the crowd as they witnessed how he had been unaffected by the blow.

It took a couple of moments for Frank to catch up.

At first, the butcher’s son thought the crowd was chanting for him before he turned and saw Trevor standing there.

Enraged at this humiliation, he thundered forward and waved his fists about like heavy clubs.

Trevor ducked and dodged, and it was all easy for him.

He lifted his fists and blocked Frank’s mighty arm, feeling the impact reverberate through his body.

He slammed his fist into Frank’s stomach, which made the man double over once again.

Trevor wasn’t done there, though. He allowed the strength to gather in his legs and then jumped up, striking Frank in the face with his knee.

There was a sickening crunch as his knee crushed Frank’s nose.

Frank’s neck snapped back, and he toppled over like a falling tree, sending up a cloud of dust as he landed.

Trevor lifted his fist in triumph. There was a roar of approval from everyone who had bet on him, while those who had bet against him rued their mistakes. He sauntered away and gave a slanting smile to Catherine.

“I told you that there was nothing to worry about,” Trevor said, although Catherine wasn’t looking at him. He turned to follow her gaze and saw that a crowd had gathered over the fallen fighter.

“I think he’s dead!” someone called out. There was more consternation as people went to inspect Frank. Someone called for a doctor. Trevor turned to face Catherine again. There was a different look in her eyes than usual.

“You’re a monster…” she gasped, turning to run through London, returning to the soft and gentle world in which she belonged. He was about to chase after her before he wondered if there was any point. Trevor shook his head and went into the bar, ordering himself a beer.

He was deep into his second beer when he noticed a presence come to sit beside him. It was Albert, who placed a sack of coin onto the bar.

“Your winnings for tonight,” Albert said, although the fat man wasn’t as happy as he usually was. Trevor snatched the sack and drained the last of his drink.

“What’s wrong with you? Usually when coin is involved, I can’t stop you from smiling,” Trevor said.

Albert frowned. “A man almost died tonight, Trevor—at your hands. Do you know how bad for business that’s going to be?”

Trevor shrugged. “There are always people willing to fight.”

“Not when their lives are at stake. You’ve been getting more and more brutal.

The last thing I need is for the coppers to be nosing around my business.

I’m lucky enough they turn a blind eye, but if people start dying…

” He shook his head, feeling glum. “You should be worried too. Do you want to be locked up?”

“They can’t get me for murder,” Trevor said, incensed. “Anyone who steps in that ring knows the risk they’re taking.”

“And only madmen are going to want to step into the ring with someone who is capable of killing them. This has to stop here, Trevor. It’s been a good run, but all good things have to end. We need to lie low for a little while until the heat settles.”

“You can’t do this, Albert. What about all the money we’re making?”

Albert let out a dry chuckle. “There’s no point making money if you can’t spend it.

I want to live well, Trevor, not watch the world from behind bars.

Besides, you should take stock of what you want as well.

I saw that pretty little thing you were with.

I’m sure you could think of better places to spend your night than in these ratholes.

Anyway, don’t you understand what you did tonight?

You almost killed someone. You almost took a life. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

The question hung in the air. Trevor pressed his lips together and hardened his heart.

He felt the weight of the coin in his palm and enjoyed the lingering taste of beer in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure how to answer Albert’s question, for he couldn’t be sure that there was anything that meant something to him.

“I’ll be seeing you, Albert,” he said, turning away from the man and the tavern, disappearing into the shadows of London.