and eat. He wasn’t looking forward to taking the baby down to the taproom, but what choice did he have? ‘Let me hold him while you get ready,’ he offered.
She gave him a tired smile of thanks. Eating in public didn’t appeal to her any more than it appealed to him, but perhaps for different reasons. ‘Thank you. I will just be a minute.’
Preston kept a hand firmly and obviously at Beatrice’s back as they navigated the taproom, letting everyone see that she was clearly with him, clearly under his protection. There was a knife in his boot if he needed it. He hoped he wouldn’t. But not that hopeful. The room was just as bad as he’d anticipated, noisy with the excitement of tomorrow’s horse sales and full of the odours that come with a room filled to capacity with wet, muddy men unaccustomed to washing.
The innkeeper caught sight of the baby in Bea’s arms and ushered them to a quieter table in the corner, a small blessing. At least if there was a fight, he’d have a wall at his back, a far more preferable arrangement to being surrounded on all sides.
‘We’ll take wine if you have it,’ Preston told the man, helping Beatrice to sit before taking his own seat that looked out across the crowded room. Most men were just in high spirits, but two tables worried him. The one near the door looked to be trouble in general, spoiling for a fight with anyone. It was only seven o’clock and they were already drunk. The table closer to them was a more immediate concern. That would be personal trouble. The big man had been eyeing Beatrice since they walked in despite his hand at her back, despite the baby on her lap and the bold gold ring on her finger. A man who didn’t respect such signs was trouble indeed if he decided to do more than look.
* * *
The first part of the meal went better than expected. The rough inn had an excellent cook. The innkeeper had taken a look at Beatrice with the baby on her lap and had not hesitated to supply the table with the best his kitchen had to offer, perhaps as an apology for not being able to serve them privately. After a day filled with unmet expectations, the excellent meal was more than welcome. The rabbit stew was tasty and seasoned, the bread freshly baked, the wine a nice complement to the meal—so nice, in fact, Preston wondered if it was smuggled. He always wondered. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He and Beatrice were able to exchange a little conversation underneath the noise surrounding them. Baby Matthew was entranced by all the activity around him and was behaving. They were small blessings, like the moment upstairs, when just for a second, everything had been right.
After the day Bea had endured, he wished he could give her more, give her better. Maybe it was that desire to give her more than a rough night out that prompted his decision when the innkeeper had leaned close and whispered there was bread pudding available for dessert for his more discerning customers. Preston had seen Bea’s eyes light up at the mention and he couldn’t say no. He rationalised dinner had gone well enough so far, what would a few more minutes be?
He should have quit while he was ahead. They’d no more than taken two bites of the bread pudding when the big man a few tables over decided to make trouble. ‘What about the rest of us? I want some dessert, too,’ he bawled at the innkeeper. ‘You’ve been sending the best to their table all night long.’
The innkeeper, well used to rough clientele and a burly man himself, was not daunted. ‘Dessert’s for patrons who pay their bill, Burke.’
But Burke wasn’t done. Getting no satisfaction from the innkeeper, he turned his attention to Preston’s table. ‘Maybe I want something else for dessert.’ His eyes passed over Beatrice. Preston readied his fists. There was a fight coming. It was nearly unavoidable. He’d give the man one chance to retreat.
‘My wife doesn’t care for your attentions,’ Preston said firmly, drawing the man’s gaze away from Bea.
‘Your wife is pretty. I’m just wanting a little kiss, we don’t get such pretty ladies in these parts.’ The man was drunk, Preston could smell the alcohol on him, and the man was sizing him up, weighing Preston’s leaner build against his own bulk and coming to certain, rather violent conclusions. Big men always did. Big men thought sheer strength counted for everything, they forgot about other elements like speed and height, and reach and athleticism, and that wasn’t even counting what Preston did for a living. While most of the smugglers were unsophisticated sailors, there were arms dealers who’d been a good deal more dangerous. One drunk man in a tavern didn’t worry him.
Preston rose, exposing his full height up close. ‘Go back to your table before someone gets hurt. My wife doesn’t want to kiss you.’ He was aware that Matthew had begun to cry and the sound of the baby’s distress angered Preston in measure equal to his desire to protect Beatrice from this scum. What sort of man made a baby cry? What sort of man came after another man’s wife?
‘Who do you suppose that someone would be?’ Burke leered. ‘Perhaps you should be the one sitting down if you’re worried about getting hurt.’ Burke reached for Beatrice. Preston swung.
‘No!’ Beatrice yelped and leapt back reflexively, clutching Matthew to her as Preston’s fist smashed into the big man’s jaw. The blow knocked the man sideways and Preston was on him, landing another hard blow before he could recover.
‘Take your hands off of her, you bastard!’ Preston’s voice was a guttural roar, his fists landing hit after hit, but not without some retaliation. The bully regained his feet and struck back, a meaty fist burying into Preston’s stomach. Preston doubled over from the force, but came charging back like a bull, taking Burke in the midsection and ramming him into a sturdy table, spilling plates and ale. It was all the provocation the rest of the taproom needed to join in.
Chaos was everywhere; tables tipped, chairs flew along with fists; tankards and plates became weapons and shields. Beatrice had never seen this much violence up close. She ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She ought to find a way out, but she didn’t. She felt quite safe in the corner. Preston stood between her and disaster and every other man in the taproom. Never mind there were forty of them to his one. Preston slammed Burke’s head into the table and the big man fell unconscious to the floor.
‘Bea!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Stay behind me!’ He grabbed her hand and pulled, tucking her in behind him, his body her shield. ‘Come on!’ They moved fast, ducking and darting through the melee, Preston’s fists clearing a path towards the stairs, felling one man and then another without hesitation, his face a stoic mask of intensity, his eyes fixed on the next opponent and the next. At the stairs, he pushed her ahead of him, his hand at her back, urging haste. ‘Go, go, go!’ His eyes were fixed over his shoulder on the taproom.
Bea gained the landing before she was aware Preston had stayed behind at the base of the stairs. She looked back in time to see Preston swing at a tall, bulky man with thick arms who didn’t go down. ‘You knocked out my friend. I don’t think I like that,’ he growled, something glinting dangerously in his hand.
‘Knife!’ Beatrice screamed out of an instinctive need to warn Preston, never mind her voice was one of many, sucked up in the chaos of the taproom.
Preston bent to his boot and came up in a fluid motion, a blade flashing in his hand, already swiping at the man’s arm, catching it. A trickle of red showed on the dirty shirt. Beatrice clutched the baby tighter, making him squall. The violence had suddenly become much more real now. Preston was fighting defensively, careful not to maim or worse beyond what was needed. She wasn’t sure the other man was taking such ethical consideration with his punches. The bleeding scratch had the man angry. He wanted blood of his own.
‘Bea, get in the room! Bar the door,’ Preston yelled, not breaking his concentration. Blood or not, she didn’t want to leave him. It was
