Page 101 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

With a feral growl, the mad hurricane stepped back. Blood stained her lips. Genevieve looked down at her stinging shoulder. A red patch marked her once pristine, ghost-like tunic.

“Boo,” the crowd yelled.

Genevieve’s mental anguish stung more than being bitten, and that wasn’t exactly pleasant. She must face the truth; although she was athletic, she was no warrior.

“Disqualify her!” Franny and Josie took turns yelling at the umpires and referees who gathered around Bear.

Meg’s shoulders caved forward as she eyed Genevieve with murderous intent. Someone should probably remind the lunatic that this was a competition, not a battle to the death. However; chances were high that only one of them would be standing in the end. Wincing, Genevieve reminded herself that it was too late to let that thought make her squeamish.

Meanwhile, Genevieve tried to catch her breath. She hadn’t realized how little air she would have because smoke from a gazillion cheroots and the odoriferous stench of the great unwashed hung heavy in the ring.

Jonathan caught her gaze from where he stood amongst the throng. Since she didn’t want him to worry, she threw her shoulders back confidently, even though the only way she would win this mill was if Meg got disqualified or tripped over her own two feet, knocking herself out.

Bear grabbed Meg’s shoulder and stared into her eyes as if she were a cobra and he a skilled snake charmer. A bold confrontation indeed, since she looked as though she might bite off his nose.

Ignoring her hiss, he shook her. “Pull yourself together or I’ll take you back to that hellhole I found you in. Remember what that was like? The hunger? The beatings? The filth? The hungry rats?” He turned to her scowling coach, and yelled, “Get your fighter under control.”

Her coach glared at her. Her eyes wide, Meg stared at him, and then at Bear.

“Do it again and you are disqualified.” Bear swung his finger toward the stairs. “I’ll drag you up them myself. Do you understand?”

Meg nodded as if she was completely sane and in control of her faculties, when Genevieve suspected it was the threat of the horrible conditions making her behave.

“Good.” Bear said. “Toes on the lines.”

Genevieve cautiously placed her toe on the line and settled into her stance, one fist protecting her chin, the other poised to strike.

The bell dinged.

Instead of jabbing to gauge her distance, Genevieve moved out of range. She needed to assess Meg’s aggressive and un-sportsman-like conduct before choosing a new strategy.

Meg threw a series of predictable jabs. Genevieve pivoted, then quickly slid back and away. Meg followed her, her movements slow and heavy. Interestingly, their pause seemed to have energized Genevieve, while the reprimand had taken the edge off Meg’s aggression. If Genevieve tired her out, she could prolong the fight and at least salvage a bit of dignity before getting knocked out. A defensive strategy was better than no strategy.

Genevieve conserved her punches, but her footwork was fast, forcing Meg to keep pace with her.

“Ghost is afraid of her own shadow,” the hecklers yelled.

“Throw a white feather,” someone screeched. “Coward.”

She’d heard all of the insults before. She blocked out the jeers and moved even faster.

Meg’s breathing grew labored and her footwork became increasingly sloppy until she reminded Genevieve of a hippopotamus running on sand.Hah!She might not be able to knock Meg out, but she could force her to stumble about until she passed out from exhaustion.

And then, the hippo unexpectedly charged, bringing the strength of a bloat with her. Genevieve flew backward into the rope.

Bam, bam, bam. Whop!Genevieve’s arse hit the floor with a resounding thud.

“One. Two.”

Her vision blurred.

“Three. Four. Five.”

On your feet! She reached for the rope but grabbed air.

“Don’t let her win, Ghost.”

“Six. Seven.”