“Me.” The deep voice cut through the crowd as a large, burly fellow stepped forward.
Mr. Yorke’s brows went up, a flicker of misgiving on his face. “Ah. Jago.” He cleared his throat. “Very good.”
Caroline stared at the competitor with apprehension. He was many inches taller—and wider—than Mr. Yorke.
She took Mr. Yorke by the arm, and he turned toward her, a hint of surprise in his face.
“I do not think it wise of you to do this,” she said in a low voice. “There is no need for it.”
“On the contrary, my lady,” he said. “I gave these men—and you—my word that I would wrassle them.”
“What in the world possessed you to do such a thing?”
He smiled, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you worried for my safety, my lady?”
She let out an incredulous laugh and released his arm. “Only your sanity. If you do not regard the value of your life, I certainly shan’t.”
His smile grew, and he took a step closer until she could see the little grains of sand on his cheeks and in his brows. “Your concern moves me, my lady. I shall endeavor to allay your fears with my performance.”
“Are ’ee comin’, Mr. Yorke?”
His mischievous gaze held hers for one more moment, then he turned away.
“A rare man he is,” Eliza said, shaking her head with an appreciative smile.
“Thank heaven for that.” Caroline watched him don one of the jackets with her pulse thrumming in her veins.
The jacket, which wrapped and tied at the front, was large on him, where his challenger, named Jago, barely fit into his.
They tied their jackets and faced one another in the circle drawn in the sand. The two of them circled one another for a moment, their gazes intent, though Jago wore something very near to a smile that struck another quiver of nerves through Caroline.
And then they were grappling, hands gripping each other’s jackets, heads down as they continued turning. Jago bore forward suddenly, and Mr. Yorke stumbled backwards. He adjusted quickly and dug his feet in.
The audience was quiet, the fiddler’s instrument and bow resting at his side as he watched intently.
Mr. Yorke twisted suddenly, wrapping his leg behind Jago’s knee. He may as well have done it to a boulder.
Caroline’s fingernails dug into her palms.
Jago grunted, then wrenched Mr. Yorke upward. His feet left the ground as he rose into the air, suspended for a moment. His arms released Jago, flailing as though seeking purchase anywhere that didn’t intend him harm. The next moment, his back hit the sand with a thud that made half the crowd suck in a breath through their teeth.
Caroline’s hand flew to her mouth.
Mr. Yorke’s head was turned to the side, concealing his face from her. He lay still for a moment that stretched an eon.
“Should we help him?” Eliza asked.
Caroline grasped her skirts and hurried over, her throat strangled until Mr. Yorke began to stir.
Jago put out a hand, and he took it.
Caroline winced at the strength with which Jago pulled him to his feet, as though Mr. Yorke had not just been beaten like a rug.
“Well done,” Mr. Yorke said, shaking Jago’s hand with a slight wince.
Jago grunted, then waited for his next opponent.
Mr. Yorke turned away, took a few steps, and swayed slightly, blinking quickly as though the world was unsteady.
