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Adelaide set a hand to his sleeve, feeling the tight muscled cord of his arm. “Not now.”
“Why not?” He looked to her, and she liked the fire in his eyes, as though the idea of doing nothing was anathema to him.
“Because there are other ways to deal with men like this,” she said. “Ways that are quiet. And effective.” Ways that would send this man into the night and see him never darken the door of the Hungry Hen again. Because they couldn’t afford the kind of notice they were about to receive, with half the place already looking and the other half turning to do so.
“Oy!” The shout came from across the bar. The enormous man was scowling at them—at Clayborn, who came to his full height then, because how could he not?
“I also know ways that are effective, Miss Frampton.”
Before she could reply, the drunk continued. “Wot are you lookin’ at, toff?”
“Dammit, Clayborn,” Adelaide muttered beneath her breath. They had to get upstairs. Quickly. “Say nothing.”
For a moment, she wasn’t certain he’d heard her. And then, raising his voice, he said precisely that, in the most superior tone Adelaide had ever heard.
“Nothing.”
The brute across the room didn’t mistake the insult, coming to his feet, fists balled like boulders.
“Dammit, Clayborn!”
“Outside!” Mary shouted, pointing at the drunk. “I’m tired of your shite, Billy.”
“Outside then,” came the reply as Billy started pushing people out of the way to reach Clayborn.
Adelaide did her own pushing then, trying to get Clayborn to the door. If they hurried, they might get to the carriage before the horses were unhitched.
But Clayborn had turned to stone. Immovable.
Adelaide looked to him, riveted by the man who advanced. “You can’t fight him.”
“I wish you would stop that,” he said, in a voice filled with calm.
“Stop what?” Dammit. She was going to need her blade. She reached into her pocket, searching for the opening within, for the blade strapped to her thigh.
“Stop insisting that I’m no good in a bout.”
The enormous man drew closer, and Clayborn wasn’t even watching. Adelaide protested, “Six years of fighting at school isn’t—”
“Stand back,” he interrupted.
She blinked at the cool instruction. “You can’t think to—”
“Over there, by the stairs.”
“Deliver me from men and their insistence on fighting without sense.” She shook her head, her gaze tracking his opponent. “No. We have to go.”
“For once, you’ll listen to me, you absolute harridan. By the stairs. Now.”
The command was sharp and unyielding, and somehow, though she’d never understand why, Adelaide followed it, backing away.
Just as he knew she would, as he did not wait for her to follow his command, instead turning to face the foe already reaching for him.
The brute never had a chance.
Clayborn’s fist flew with uncanny speed, straight into the larger man’s face, dropping him like a sack of flour, directly to the floor.
“That will do!” Mary shouted, sounding half delighted and half relieved.
