A Bride for the Prizefighter - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,97
to the door and turned to make her escape. She almost collided with a solid figure standing there. It was one of the prizefighters who had stepped into her path.
“Careful, miss.” He laughed, throwing his hands up. “No need to flee before us. We’re not as scary as all that I hope!” He looked her up and down. “You’ll be Ivy’s replacement, then?”
“No, I—”
A second boxer stepped forward. “I remember you,” he hailed her cheerfully. “You were here last time. You came into my room, then ran away before we could get acquainted.” He grinned at her.
Mina’s eyes widened with surprise. “I’m sure I did no such thing!” she denied promptly. Then she frowned, for now she looked at him, it did seem to stir some hazy memory. All at once, she recalled him sprawled out on a mattress on the floor, waiting for Ivy to finish with the occupant of the next room. “Oh,” she said uncomfortably, raising a hand to her lips.
“You remembered me now?” he asked. “Few people could forget this face,” he boasted with a wink, displaying his profile obligingly for her. He was good looking, she acknowledged with his tanned face and nut-brown hair. “You should have stuck around. I never object to passing the time of day with a pretty woman.”
Mina looked frowning from one to the other. They looked remarkably similar with their long, lean builds and twinkling hazel eyes. “Are you brothers?” she asked.
“That’s us, I’m Jack Toomes and this here’s my brother Frank.”
“We’ve another brother fights too, but he couldn’t make it here tonight,” said Frank stroking his sideburns. “He’s—er—indisposed.” From the gleam in his eye, Mina guessed the third brother was up to something even more reprehensible than fighting.
“’Ere, you boys,” interrupted a villainous-looking old woman from a few tables away. “You blind? That ain’t no doxy.” She gave a toothless cackle that seemed to echo in her memory. “You’re wastin’ your time trying to sweet talk this one, she’s took,” she said, knocking back a large glass of gin.
Frank and Jack’s heads whipped around. “What you talkin’ about, Ma?” Jack demanded.
“We’ll see who’s wasting their time,” said Frank. “You workin’ the bar tonight?” he asked, turning back to Mina. “What time do you finish your shift?”
“I don’t actually serve behind the bar,” Mina started to explain. “You see—”
“What the bloody hell’s going on here?” roared Nye from the other end of the bar. He had just come through the other door with a large barrel over his shoulder. “You pair of bastards step away from her and Mina—get back in the kitchen this minute!” he bellowed.
Mina’s face flamed scarlet. Thanks to Nye’s yelling and bawling everyone had turned to look at her with interest. “Don’t you speak to me like that, William Nye!” she replied, her spine stiffening with outrage.
“Mina!” cried Effie, standing up from her table. “How are you, my darlin’?”
“Bloody hell, I didn’t expect her to last more’n a week at most!” someone else observed loudly nearby.
“I’m very well, thank you, Effie,” Mina replied with as much dignity as she could muster. “How are you?”
“Never mind that!” Nye boomed. “You have no business being in here—get out!”
Mina gasped, turned on her heel and hurried back out of the room, blinking back tears. Before she even knew it, she had rushed out of the front door and was hurrying across the courtyard as fast as her legs could carry her. Dimly, she heard the door burst open behind her and someone in boots striding across the cobbles behind her. She had just reached the gatepost when strong arms closed about her from behind.
“Oh no, you don’t my girl,” Nye said lividly, as he lifted her off her feet. “What the hell is it with you and taking off running?” When she started struggling, he swung her around so she faced back toward the inn, then did a double take when he saw the tears streaking down her face. “Mina!”
“Leave me alone!” she flung at him, dragging her forearm across her face, and trying to barge her way passed him back toward the inn.
He seized her about the waist again, hauling her against him. “Why are you crying?” he demanded roughly.
“I’m not speaking to you!” she told him shakily as he placed two large hands on either side of her face.
He lowered his face to hers. “You know, I didn’t mean it like that!” he said in a low, compelling voice. “I just meant the taproom, not—”