Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,34

walked around him, studying the Titan, seeking any weakness or vulnerability and making the Titan crane his neck to see what he was doing.

A hush fell over the crowd. The Titan held out his hand. Gordon shook it and then let go, signaling the start of the match.

The Titan immediately lashed out with his longer arms. Fists up defensively, Gordon leaped back. Fortunately he was light on his feet—certainly lighter than a man the size of the Titan would be. Yet he mustn’t assume that would be a winning advantage, not when the man had that long a reach, plus strength and experience, as well as no qualms at all about breaking his opponent’s nose and probably any other bones, as well.

The Titan’s right arm shot out again. Gordon ducked and moved in for a quick jab at the area of the man’s kidneys. He hit the Titan hard, but the fellow barely seemed to feel it.

Gordon danced backward. The Titan followed, moving with more speed than Gordon expected. He nearly got hit in the face, only avoiding the blow by instinct. He dodged another rapid strike, then lashed at the Titan’s jaw.

He didn’t connect, yet the way the man reared back gave Gordon sudden hope. Some men could endure blows anywhere but the jaw, and a strong punch there would knock them flat.

The only trouble was landing a good, strong punch to the more easily defended face.

If he could tire the Titan, Gordon reasoned, he would be less able to defend himself. That meant he had to keep the man moving.

And Gordon had to stay on his feet.

That wasn’t easy, not when the Titan kept him bobbing and weaving to avoid his massive fists.

The Titan moved him back to the edge of the ring. He lunged and struck Gordon’s right shoulder. Gordon fell backward, landing hard on his rear.

“End of round!” Robbie shouted.

He and a lad of about sixteen rushed toward him, helping him to his feet and toward their corner. He was especially glad to have the chance to sit and catch his breath, and take a long drink of cold water from the ladle Robbie held for him.

“You’ve got him, Gordo,” Robbie whispered in his ear. “Man’s as slow as a turtle.”

Had Robbie actually been watching?

“He can’t keep up with you for much longer!”

Gordon wasn’t sure he could keep up with the Titan much longer, either.

“Watch his fists,” Robbie added.

Gordon didn’t bother to respond to that unnecessary advice. He scanned the crowd, seeing no familiar faces and certainly no female ones.

He glanced up at the sky, trying to judge the time. About two in the afternoon, he made it, so it would get warmer yet.

As he lowered his gaze, he saw something that made him think he was hallucinating, despite not having been hit in the head. Either that, or someone wearing Lady Moira’s bonnet was lying on the roof of a shop on the other side of the green.

He blinked and wiped his face, but before he could look again, Robbie shoved him to his feet.

And a new round began.

“Oh, surely it can’t last much longer, can it?” Mabel Hornby cried.

Still lying on the roof, Moira wondered the same thing as she watched the two men circle each other yet again. The bout had already lasted at least an hour, to judge by the changing shadows. Both Gordon McHeath and his opponent were bleeding and bruised and had been knocked down more than once, although Mr. McHeath had been on the ground less than the man she knew only as the Titan of Inverness.

The Titan was huge, seemingly all brawn. Fortunately, Mr. McHeath was faster on his feet and often deftly eluded the blows. He also managed to make his fewer strikes more effective.

By now, though, both men were showing signs of wearying and she feared McHeath would soon be too tired to avoid a crushing punch from the Titan’s beefy fist.

Nor should she stay here much longer, lest her father start to wonder where she was. But she didn’t want to leave until she knew who had won the fight.

She hoped it would be Mr. McHeath—because he seemed so outmatched yet was holding his own, or so she tried to convince herself.

“Papa told me of a boxing match that went for fifty rounds,” Sarah Taggart said, her voice quivering with excitement, as if she wanted to see this fight go at least as long.

“Oh, dear!” Mabel Hornby replied. “I do hope—”

Whatever she hoped was lost