What could she have been thinking about, going off with Kit like that? She’d abandoned Livvy for nothing but her own pleasure. Hattie quickened her steps. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her boots seemed to pound out the words. Hattie reached for a handkerchief and covered her nostrils.
‘What’s your hurry, my dear?’ A rough hand grabbed her elbow. Her captor sported a purple scar stretching from the corner of his right eye to his nose. Two more men stood behind him, egging him on. ‘We can have some sport with this one.’
‘I am not your dear.’ Hattie drew herself up to her full height and gave her most imperious stare. The last thing she wanted to show was fear, particularly not to a man who looked the worst for drink. It was all a misunderstanding. ‘Unhand me and allow me to go about my business unhampered.’
‘Pardon me for breathing.’ His hand loosened. He said something in an undertone to his loathsome companions.
A nervous trembling filled Hattie’s limbs. It was that easy. Mrs Reynaud was right. A positive attitude could work miracles. Her virtue was her shield.
She started to move on, slowly and sedately, but purposefully. The men were drunk. They’d leave her alone. Once she’d returned to Stephanie, she was never going to hanker after travelling or adventures again.
‘Give us a kiss. Proud lady.’ Another hand caught her upper arm. The stench of sour ale and tobacco filled her nostrils. This time she was pulled back against his fat chest.
‘Let me go.’
Kit let Hattie walk away into the crowd. It had all gone wrong when she’d mentioned the name Reynaud. Stupid, really. There were hundreds of people with that name. It wasn’t Hattie’s fault that his mother had abandoned him for a Frenchman named Jacques Reynaud. The woman in question was probably another innocent caught up in the mess his mother had left behind.
He’d taken the crude and insulting way out, using his seductive voice to make suggestions, making her unsure. He’d known that she’d leave. Coward that he was. And all because of a name from the past that should no longer have any power. He was a man, not a youth who had been teased endlessly about his mother and her morals. Disgust filled him. He knew the proper way to act in society. But it was better this way. Their friendship had to end before … before he started to care.
He curled his hand about the jumping-jack and regarded the various faces of the farm labourers and other men. The noise from the ale tent had increased. Hattie might think that she didn’t need his help, but he was not about to abandon her. Not when it was his fault to begin with.
He watched her take a wrong turning and then followed a few paces behind. Once she was back with her family, he’d relax and she’d cease to be his problem.
He lost sight of her when she rounded the gypsy caravan. Kit went down one aisle and then another, but nowhere did he see Hattie’s back. He started to circle around towards the ale tent, ignoring the shorter route by the cock and bear pits. Hattie with her strict sensibilities would never go there.
Let me go.
Her voice floated on the air.
Kit broke into a run. Near the cockpit, he saw her, surrounded by a group of farmhands who were the worse for wear with drink. Several of them gave coarse laughs and called out obscene suggestions.
Hattie’s hand beat against the largest one’s chest. Her straw bonnet had slipped off her head and lay abandoned in the mud. Kit cursed. Her predicament was all his fault.
He knew the dangers that a fair could bring and he’d been the one to allow her to wander about on her own. His mistake and he always owned up.
He glanced around. Four against one. The odds were not good, but he refused to stand by. Going and fetching the parish constable was not an option. But if he started something, others would join in and lend a hand.
‘Unhand that lady!’
‘Mind your business. We are having a bit of sport.’
Kit clenched his fists. His eyes flickered from face to face, memorising their features. He’d lost count of how many fights he’d experienced, but he knew how to fight and he was sober. ‘I doubt that is possible. She is with me. I look after my own. Unless you want to be seriously injured or worse, let her go now.’
The mountain of a man loosened his grip on Hattie. The primitive urge to tear him limb from limb filled Kit. He struggled to keep his temper. Cool and collected won fights—giving in to anger resulted in errors. He’d learnt that back at Eton when he’d tried to defend his mother’s name.
‘Who will stop me? You? On your own? I have won my last six bouts in the ring.’
A would-be pugilist who had had far too much to drink. Kit stifled a laugh. It was going to be easier than he thought.
‘It is a serious mistake to doubt my ability. My pugilist ability is renowned in London. Ask at any pub about Kit Foxton and see what they say.’
The mountain scratched his nose. ‘It ain’t known up here.’
‘We could have a bare-knuckle fight if you wish, but allow the lady to go about her business,’ Kit said in a deadly voice.
‘And you think to come from London and tell us our ways.’
‘You should respect your betters.’ The blood pumped through Kit’s veins. He looked forward to the fight. To do something. ‘Shall we have at it, here and now?’
The mountain shoved Hattie away from him. Kit breathed again. ‘If you wish.’
‘Kit …’ Hattie was suddenly very afraid ‘… he has a knife.’
‘Go, Hattie. Get help. This shouldn’t take long.’ He turned his head slightly and felt the first punch graze his temple. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t mind a fair fight, but not an unfair one. We start when we start and not before.’
He landed a punch squarely in the fat farmhand’s middle, brought his knee up and connected again. The man countered with a wild stab, but the knife missed by a hairbreadth. Kit punched again, harder, and the man collapsed on the ground. When the man was down on the ground, Kit stamped on his wrist and the knife dropped from his grip. Kit kicked the knife away.
‘Playing with knives can get you hurt.’ Kit picked him up by the lapels. ‘Are you ready to begin our fight?’
The man grunted and wildly flailed his arms. Kit landed a blow on the man’s jaw. The man gurgled slightly and lay back. Kit lowered him to the ground. It was easier than he thought. Kit dusted down his breeches and turned his back on the prone man. ‘Does anyone else have a quarrel with me?’
The three men looked at each other and began to back away. Cowards.
Kit gave them a look of utter contempt. ‘Next time, give the ladies more respect.’
‘I ain’t finished yet, Londoner.’ A fist came out of nowhere, landing in the middle of Kit’s back.
Kit crouched and began to fight in earnest as blow after blow rained down on his head. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of a parish
