Epilogue
The weeks of running, getting hit in the stomach, and sparring until she thought she might cast up her accounts on the gymnasium floor had not prepared Genevieve for the pain of razor-sharp teeth slicing into her shoulder.
“For fuck’s sake, Bear,” Franny yelled.
“Stop the fight, ye useless blighters,” Josie hollered. “Disqualify ’er!”
Genevieve would appreciate it if her coaches ceased insulting the umpires and referees since she was up against the ropes with a cannibal attached to her person.
“Let go, Meg,” Bear said.
The woman snarled. Actually snarled, and with Geneveive’s flesh clenched between her teeth.
“I’m not telling you again, Meg,” Bear said. “You agreed to the rules. Irish fighting style. No kicking, weapons, hair pulling, direct hits to the mouth, or biting.” He grabbed Meg’s jaw and squeezed until she let go of Genevieve’s skin.
With a feral growl, the mad hurricane stepped back. Blood stained her lips. Genevieve looked down at her stinging shoulder. A red patch marked her once pristine, ghost-like tunic.
“Boo,” the crowd yelled.
Genevieve’s mental anguish stung more than being bitten, and that wasn’t exactly pleasant. She must face the truth; although she was athletic, she was no warrior.
“Disqualify her!” Franny and Josie took turns yelling at the umpires and referees who gathered around Bear.
Meg’s shoulders caved forward as she eyed Genevieve with murderous intent.
Someone should probably remind the lunatic that this was a competition, not a battle to the death.
However; chances were high that only one of them would be standing in the end.
Wincing, Genevieve reminded herself that it was too late to let that thought make her squeamish.
Meanwhile, Genevieve tried to catch her breath. She hadn’t realized how little air she would have because smoke from a gazillion cheroots and the odoriferous stench of the great unwashed hung heavy in the ring.
Jonathan caught her gaze from where he stood amongst the throng. Since she didn’t want him to worry, she threw her shoulders back confidently, even though the only way she would win this mill was if Meg got disqualified or tripped over her own two feet, knocking herself out.
Bear grabbed Meg’s shoulder and stared into her eyes as if she were a cobra and he a skilled snake charmer. A bold confrontation indeed, since she looked as though she might bite off his nose.
Ignoring her hiss, he shook her. “Pull yourself together or I’ll take you back to that hellhole I found you in. Remember what that was like? The hunger? The beatings? The filth? The hungry rats?” He turned to her scowling coach, and yelled, “Get your fighter under control.”
Her coach glared at her. Her eyes wide, Meg stared at him, and then at Bear.
“Do it again and you are disqualified.” Bear swung his finger toward the stairs. “I’ll drag you up them myself. Do you understand?”
Meg nodded as if she was completely sane and in control of her faculties, when Genevieve suspected it was the threat of the horrible conditions making her behave.
“Good.” Bear said. “Toes on the lines.”
Genevieve cautiously placed her toe on the line and settled into her stance, one fist protecting her chin, the other poised to strike.
The bell dinged.
Instead of jabbing to gauge her distance, Genevieve moved out of range. She needed to assess Meg’s aggressive and un-sportsman-like conduct before choosing a new strategy.
Meg threw a series of predictable jabs. Genevieve pivoted, then quickly slid back and away.
Meg followed her, her movements slow and heavy.
Interestingly, their pause seemed to have energized Genevieve, while the reprimand had taken the edge off Meg’s aggression.
If Genevieve tired her out, she could prolong the fight and at least salvage a bit of dignity before getting knocked out.
A defensive strategy was better than no strategy.
Genevieve conserved her punches, but her footwork was fast, forcing Meg to keep pace with her.
“Ghost is afraid of her own shadow,” the hecklers yelled.
“Throw a white feather,” someone screeched. “Coward.”
She’d heard all of the insults before. She blocked out the jeers and moved even faster.
Meg’s breathing grew labored and her footwork became increasingly sloppy until she reminded Genevieve of a hippopotamus running on sand. Hah! She might not be able to knock Meg out, but she could force her to stumble about until she passed out from exhaustion.
And then, the hippo unexpectedly charged, bringing the strength of a bloat with her. Genevieve flew backward into the rope.
Bam, bam, bam. Whop! Genevieve’s arse hit the floor with a resounding thud.
“One. Two.”
Her vision blurred.
“Three. Four. Five.”
On your feet! She reached for the rope but grabbed air.
“Don’t let her win, Ghost.”
“Six. Seven.”
“Gen, I love you. You can do it.”
Jonathan. She had to do this or he would worry. She reached for the rope again, this time gripping it.
“Eight. Nine.”
She hoisted herself upward and then steadied herself as the crowd roared.
*
Jonathan rushed to Gen’s corner and leaned through the ropes. Coach Valentine had gotten there before him and was dispensing advice. Meanwhile, Gen sat on Franny’s knee, and Josie held a cup under her nose.
“Boxes like she was raised by starving wolves who had to fight each other for food,” Coach Valentine said. “Violent, but too undisciplined to be a genuine threat to you. You can beat her, Gen. Keep doing what you were doing. She doesn’t have much left.”
Nodding, Gen sipped.
Or Gen could forfeit and take up a safer sport. Jonathan swallowed his words, and clamped his lips together. “You are doing great, darling.”
She rolled her eyes.
The bell signifying the end of their thirty-second rest dinged. As Gen strolled to the center of the ring, Jonathan’s heart sat heavy in his chest.
Coach Valentine guided Jonathan away from the corner. “My lord, have faith in her. Gen is going to win this. Now, I have to go talk to The Stone.” Then, he left Jonathan alone in the packed, stifling room.
Coach was correct. Whether she won or lost—and she would do both over time—as her husband, sponsor, lover, and best friend, he needed to support her and love her unconditionally. He should be her most enthusiastic fan in that audience. He needed to have faith in her.
The bell rang, and he fought a wince. “Go, Ghost, go,” he called.
Meg’s fist shot out. Gen pivoted and backed away. And the chase began.
“Who is afraid of the Ghost?” someone yelled.
“No one,” a blighter answered.
Bloody hell. Jonathan needed to start another cheer before this one caught on, demoralizing her. “Who is too fast to touch?” he called over the naysayers.
“The Ghost,” familiar voices chorused, as friendly hands jostled him.
Nicolas, Griffendale and Edward Robinson, damn fine blokes that they were, surrounded him.
“Who is too fast to touch?” Jonathan yelled.
“The Ghost,” his mates yelled.
And just like that, Jonathan rallied a cheering section for his fast-moving, but hesitant-punching wife.
“Strike and vanish,” he sang, clapping with each syllable.
His cheer caught on, and soon the chant filled the space.
“I think boxing is in Gen’s blood,” Griffendale called over the cacophony. “She is damn good.” He pointed.
Jonathan cut his gaze from his friend to the ring. Meg was hunched forward gasping, and Gen was closing in on her.
“She did it,” Robinson said. “She tired Meg out.”
“Strike and vanish,” echoed.
Gen’s fist shot out, slamming into Meg’s shoulder.
“Well, struck, Ghost,” Jonathan called.
Gen pivoted so quickly she was a blur. It seemed she’d heard the audience, and was now striking, then vanishing.
She lunged into Meg’s space, pummeled her with a rapid combination, and was halfway across the ring in a flash.
Gen did not allow her opponent to catch her breath, before gliding on ghost feet and landing in a low, predatory stance.
She let loose, pounding on Meg—jabs, crosses, hooks, and uppercuts, all of them so fast, Jonathan wouldn’t be able to repeat the order even if his life depended on it.
Meg stumbled backward, lost her footing, and then crashed to the ground. The countdown began, but Jonathan couldn’t hear it over the deafening crowd. Meg tried to climb onto her feet, but her knees buckled beneath her. Bear held Gen’s hand high.
Jonathan attempted to push through the crowd to get to the ring.
Instead of moving forward, it was as if he were caught in a rip current and was being pulled backward into the sea of bodies.
Irritation obliterated his patience. He wanted to hold her right this second, but he couldn’t even see her because the back of bobbing heads obstructed his view.
But then, as if by divine intervention, the crowd quieted. “Please let my husband through,” Genevieve said.
Hell and damnation, she must have borrowed Bear’s speaking trumpet.
The crowd parted, clearing a path to the ring. Gen was pointing in his direction. He met her gaze, his heart thudding wildly.
She held the speaking trumpet to her mouth. “Jonathan,” she said, her beautiful voice amplified. “I love you.” Two months ago, she couldn’t speak. Tonight, she was confessing her love for him in front of hundreds of people. His silent pugilist had definitely found her voice.
He formed a trumpet with his hands. “I love you, Lady Genevieve Davenport of the beautiful eyes and lethal fists.” He could not care less if the men in that crowd thought him sentimental.
He was the one going home with the brave beauty in the ring, and they were stuck here in a smoke-filled, overloud dungeon.
It was as if the sun found its way into the dingy space when she smiled at him.
Hands slapped his back and congratulated him as he sauntered along the path created just for him.
She met him at the ropes. He climbed into the ring and wrapped her in his arms. The crowd continued to cheer as if they were watching a fight. Maybe they appreciated his wife’s grit and determination? Lord knows, he did.
“Will you take me home now?” she whispered in his ear.
“Of course.” Anything she wanted.
“I wouldn’t mind being carried. I am quite tired.”
Jonathan swept her into his arms, cradling her as if she were the most precious cargo in the world—because she was. Getting through the ropes was awkward, but somehow he managed to hold onto his giggling wife. Once again, the crowd parted, creating a walkway for them.
Genevieve wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tightly as he carried her through the wildly clapping Fancy.
The End