“You’ll have to take his place,” the Weasel answered and took a step toward the boy.
Suddenly, Mr. Campion rose from the bed. Nudging Lyssa aside from the window, he leaned out. “Touch that boy and I will break every finger in your hand.”
The Weasel squinted up at their window. “And who are you to talk to us this way?”
“I’m the man who is going to teach you some manners.”
“I’m ready for my first lesson,” the Weasel countered.
“I’ll be down to teach it.” Mr. Campion pushed away from the window. He paused at the door. “Don’t you admire the Scottish?” he asked derogatorily. “They get a little whiskey in them and they become so charming. My rule still stands—don’t open this door to anyone.” He started down the hall.
Lyssa followed him. “Wait! What are you going to do?”
“Set matters right. It’s the only way I’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“Alone?” She took a step after him. “You can’t take all of them on alone.”
“Watch me.” He took a step, then stopped. “Get back in your room and keep the door closed.” He disappeared down the stairs.
Lyssa hovered between charging after him to talk sense or running to the window to see the fight.
She ran to the window.
What she saw made her blood boil.
One of the other bullies had taken the boy and thrown him into the trough on top of his father. They all laughed uproariously at their own mean-spirited humor, and Lyssa doubled her fists in anger.
And then Mr. Campion walked out.
The pack didn’t notice him until he spoke. “I told you to leave the boy alone.”
They faced him. Lyssa could see they were impressed by what a big man Mr. Campion was. Still, the Weasel took a cocky step forward. “And who might you—?”
Mr. Campion’s fist shot out so fast, Lyssa could have imagined the movement save for the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the way the Weasel practically flew back into the arms of his comrades.
A cheer went up from the other inn guests and Lyssa’s chest swelled with pride. He’d done it!
But then, at a snarled, “Get him,” from the Weasel, the gang of drunks fell onto Mr. Campion all at once. Fists flew and there were grunts of pain.
Alarmed, Lyssa called out to the other guests, “Please, someone, help him.”
No one moved. Instead, they started making wagers on the winner—and the odds were not on Mr. Campion.
Lyssa could stand by no longer. Turning from the window, she reached for the ironstone pitcher and flew out the door, heading toward the steps.
Ian thought he was holding his own very well. He understood bully boys. They weren’t that hard to beat once you got the first punch in.
One lad was down and out or faking it; it really didn’t matter. Another joined him in short order. Still a third was backing away. Ian’s final trick was to pick up the lightest of the remaining three and toss him like a caber into his fellows, which included their ill-tempered leader. The three of them tumbled down, and before Ian could pick up the little one to do it again, one man held up his hand, a sign that he’d had enough.
Ian stepped back. “I think you’d all best leave now.”
“We’re going, and too sober for our own good,” the Weasel admitted. He turned to help pick one of his friends up off theground. The others stumbled off toward the road to the jeers and calls of the inn’s guests, who had witnessed their humiliation.
Ian turned to the innkeeper and his son. They’d both climbed out of the horse trough and were shivering wet in the night air. “Come, let us get you both a toddy and return to our beds.”
“Thank ye, sir. They are a rowdy bunch and I tell ye I am glad to see them get a bit of their own back. Ye’ve been in the ring, haven’t ye?”
“A bit,” Ian answered. He was tired. He needed sleep. Unfortunately, the innkeeper was in even worse shape. The poor man lost his balance and fell against Ian, who held his elbow to steady him.
