A short while later, oblivious to her maid's protests, Jessica stood on the balcony overlooking the inn's courtyard.

"My lady, I beg you to come away," Bridget pleaded. "It isn't a fit sight for Your Ladyship. You'll be ill, I know you will, and on your wedding night, too."

"I've seen fights before," said Jessica. "But never one on my account. Not that I expect they'll do much damage. I calculate they're evenly matched. Dain is bigger, of course, but he must fight one-armed. And Ainswood is not only well built, but drunk enough not to feel much."

The cobblestoned yard below was rapidly filling with men, some in dressing gowns and nightcaps. Word had quickly spread, and even at this late hour, few males could resist the lure of a mill. Not just any mill, either, for the combatants were peers of the realm. This was a rare treat for boxing aficionados.

Each man had drawn a circle of supporters. Half a dozen well-dressed gentlemen were gathered about Dain. They were offering the usual loud and contradictory advice while Dain's valet, Andrews, helped his master out of his upper garments.

Bridget let out a shriek, and scuttled back against the balcony door. "Heaven preserve us- they're naked!"

Jessica didn't care about "they." Her eyes were upon one man only, and he, stripped to the waist, took her breath away.

The torchlight gleamed upon sleek olive skin, over broad shoulders and brawny biceps, and spilled lovingly over the hard angles and flexing curves of his chest. He turned, displaying to her dazzled eyes a smooth expanse of back, gleaming like dark marble and sculpted in clean lines of bone and rippling muscle. He might have been a marble Roman athlete come to life.

Her insides tightened, and the familiar heat coiling through her was a thrumming mixture of yearning and pride.

Mine, she thought, and the thought was an ache, bittersweet, of hope and despair at once. He was hers in name, by law both sacred and secular. But no law could make him truly, fully hers.

That would want a long and dogged battle.

The drunken Ainswood, she thought ruefully, stood a better chance of winning than she did. On the other hand, he did not seem overly intelligent, and her struggle wanted brains, not brawn.

Jessica did not lack brains, and the mouthwatering sight below constituted more than sufficient motivation.

She watched one of the men secure Dain's left arm in a makeshift sling. Then the two combatants stood up to each other, nearly toe to toe.

The signal was given.

Ainswood instantly made a fierce rush at his opponent, head down and fists flailing. Dain, smiling, retreated, carelessly dodging the shower of blows, simply letting the duke come on as hard as he could.

But hard as the man came, he got nowhere. Dain was light on his feet, his reflexes lightning-fast- as they must be, for Ainswood was surprisingly quick, despite his insobriety. Nonetheless, Dain led him a merry chase. Blow after blow that seemed certain to connect struck only air, infuriating the duke.

He came on harder yet, throwing more power into the assault, trying every angle. One blow glanced off Dain's arm. Then there was a blur of movement and a loud thwack! And Ainswood staggered backward, blood streaming from his nose.

"A conker, by gad," Jessica muttered. "And I never saw it coming. Nor did His Grace, to be sure."

Bloody but undaunted, Ainswood laughed and bounded back for yet another dogged attack.

By this time, Bridget had returned to her new mistress's side. "Mercy on us," she said, her round face wrinkled with distaste. "Isn't once enough to be hit?"

"They don't feel it." Jessica turned back to the fight. "Until it's over, that is. Oh, well done, Dain," she cried as her lord's powerful right slammed into the duke's side. "That's what he wants. To the body, my dear. The oaf's head is thick as an anvil."

Fortunately, her cries could not be heard over the shouts of the assembled onlookers, or Dain might have been distracted- with unfortunate results- by his dainty wife's bloodthirsty advice.

In any case, he'd evidently worked out the matter on his own, and one- two- three- brutal body blows at last brought Ainswood to his knees.

Two men rushed forward to haul His Grace up. Dain backed away.

"Give it up, Ainswood," someone in Dain's circle shouted.

"Aye, before he really hurts you."

From her vantage point, Jessica could not be certain how much damage Dain had done. There was a good deal of blood spattered about, but the human nose did tend to bleed profusely.

Ainswood stood, swaying. "Come along, Big Beak," he taunted, gasping. "I'm not done with you." Clumsily he waved his fists.

Dain shrugged, strode forward and, in a few swift motions, knocked the flailing hands away and planted his fist in his opponent's gut.

The duke folded up like a rag doll and toppled backward. Fortunately, his friends reacted quickly, catching him an instant before his head could hit the cobblestones. When they'd pulled him up into a sitting position, he grinned stupidly up at Dain. Sweat mingled with blood trickled down the duke's face.

"Apologize," said Dain.

Ainswood took several heaving breaths. "Beg pardon, Beelz," he croaked.

"You will also take the first opportunity to apologize to my lady."

Ainswood sat, nodding and breathing hard for a long moment. Then, to Jessica's chagrin, he looked up toward the balcony. "Beg pardon, my lady Dain!" he called out hoarsely.

Then Dain looked up, too. Damp black curls clung to his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his neck and shoulders.

His eyes widened briefly in astonishment when they lit upon her, and an odd, pained look crossed his features. But in the next instant, the familiar, mocking expression was in place. "My lady," he said, and swept her a theatrical bow.

The crowd cheered.

She nodded. "My lord." She wanted to leap down from the balcony and into his arms.

One-armed, he had fought his own friend, because of her. He had fought cleverly, splendidly. He was magnificent. She wanted to cry. She mustered a tremulous smile, then turned and hurried through the door Bridget held open for her.

Not certain at first what to make of his bride's troubled smile, Dain took stock of the situation and his appearance, and ended by making the worst of it.

The smile and the cool composure, he decided, were for the audience's benefit. It was a cover-up smile, as so many of his own were, and he could easily imagine what she was covering up.

Her new husband was an animal.

He'd been brawling in an innyard like a common ruffian.

He was dirty and spattered with Ainswood's blood and sweating and stinking.

He was also half-naked, and the torchlights had given her a lurid view of what he'd intended to conceal in darkness: his gross blackamoor's body.

By now, she was probably clutching a chamber pot, casting up her accounts- if she wasn't bolting the door and helping Bridget push heavy furniture against it.

Dain decided against washing up in the room. Instead, he marched to the pump, deaf to his valet's warnings about the night air and fatal chills.

Not to be outdone, Ainswood joined him there. They silently doused themselves while their friends gathered round them to exclaim and argue about the fight.

When the two had completed their cold ablutions, they stood eyeing each other and shrugging their shoulders to conceal their shivering.

Ainswood spoke first. "Wed, by gad," he said, shaking his head. "Who'd have thought it?"

"She shot me," said Dain. "She had to be punished. 'Pardon one offense,' says Publilius, 'and you encourage the commission of many.' Can't have every female who feels vexed with me running after me with pistol cocked. Had to make an example of her, didn't I?"

He glanced round at the others. "If one female gets away with shooting Beelzebub, others might start thinking they can get away with shooting any male, on any trifling pretext."

The men about him fell silent. As they pondered this outrageous prospect, their expressions grew very grave.

"I wed her as a public service," he said. "There are times when a man must rise above his own petty concerns and act on behalf of his friends."

"So he must," said Ainswood. He broke into a grin. "But it doesn't seem so great a sacrifice to me. That is a prime- I mean to say, your lady is exceedingly handsome."

Dain affected indifference.

"I should say beautiful," said Carruthers.

"Quality," said another.

"Her bearing is elegant," another volunteered.

"Graceful as a swan."

While his chest expanded and his shoulders straightened, Dain managed to appear disgusted. "I give you leave to cudgel your brains, composing lyrical odes to her perfection," he said. "I, however, mean to have a drink."

Chapter 11.

Jessica's dinner appeared about twenty minutes after the mill. Her husband did not. He was in the bar parlor with some companions, according to the innkeeper, and had requested Her Ladyship not to wait for him.

Jessica was not surprised. In her experience, after trying desperately to knock each other's brains from their skulls, men promptly became the very dearest of friends and celebrated their intimacy by becoming cockeyed drunk.

She ate her dinner, washed, and dressed for bed. She didn't bother to don the red and black nightgown. She doubted His Lordship would arrive in a suitable condition to appreciate it. Instead she put on a less interesting cream-colored one and a pastel brocade dressing gown over it, and settled down in a comfortable chair by the fire with Byron's Don Juan.

It was long past midnight when she heard a trio of clumsy footsteps in the hall outside and a trio of drunken voices slurring over a bawdy song. She rose and opened the door.

Dain, who'd been leaning upon his two comrades, pushed himself off and lurched toward her. "Behold, the bridegroom cometh," he announced thickly. He flung his arm over Jessica's shoulder. "Go away," he told his friends.

They staggered away. He kicked the door shut. "Told you not to wait," he said.

"I thought you might want help," she said. "I sent Andrews to bed. He was asleep on his feet. And I was awake, reading, anyhow."

His coat and previously pristine shirt were rumpled, and he'd lost his neckcloth. His blood-spattered trousers were damp, his boots caked with dried mud.

He released her, and swaying, stared at his boots for a long moment. Then he swore under his breath.

"Why don't you sit down on the bed?" she suggested. "I can help you get your boots off."

He moved unsteadily toward the bed. Clutching the bedpost, he carefully lowered himself onto the mattress. "Jess."

She approached, and knelt at his feet. "Yes, my lord."

"Yes, my lord," he echoed with a laugh. "Jess, m'lady, I believe I'm castaway. Lucky you."

She began tugging at his left boot. "We'll see about my luck. We've only the one bed, and if drink makes you snore the way it does Uncle Arthur, I'm in for a ghastly night- or what's left of the night."

"Snoring," he said. "Worried about snoring. Henwit."

She got the boot off and started on the other.

"Jess," he said.

"At least you recognize me."

The right boot proved more stubborn. Yet she dared not yank too hard, lest he topple forward and crash down on her. "You'd better lie down," she said.

He grinned stupidly at her.

"Down," she said firmly.

"Down," he repeated, giving the room the same vacant grin. "Where's that?"

She rose and set her hands on his chest and gave him a hard shove.

He fell back, setting the mattress bouncing. He chuckled.

Jessica bent and renewed her struggle with the boot.

"Dainty," he said, gazing up at the ceiling. "Dainty Lady Dain. She tastes like rain. She is a great pain. In the arse. Ma com' e bella. Molto bella. Very beautiful...pain...in the arse."

She yanked the boot off. "That doesn't rhyme." She rose. "Byron you are not."

A soft snore answered.

"Behold the bridegroom," she muttered. "Thank heaven it's a large bed. My conjugal devotion does not extend to sleeping on the floor."

She moved away to the washstand. After washing the mud from her hands, she took off her dressing gown and hung it on a chair.

Then she walked round to the other side of the bed, and pulled back the bedclothes as far as she could. It wasn't quite far enough. The upper half of his body sprawled diagonally across the mattress.

She pushed at his shoulder. "Move over, you lummox."

Mumbling, he rolled first onto one side, then onto the other.