Page 48 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
He did so, folding his rangy body to fit it into the narrow chair, and then planting his elbows on the table. Despite his cheerful mien, lines of tension bracketed his mouth, as if something troubled him.
“How fortuitous to see you again,” she said with a gentle smile.
“We were supposed to be at Sandimas University yesterday but were waylaid by the storm. Should reach there today and give my paper tomorrow, although,” he continued, shooting a wary glance toward the bar behind her, “some of my more combative colleagues are here now.”
She shifted in her seat to see three men of scholarly appearance gathered at the bar, all of them casting surly and belligerent looks in Mr. Rowe’s direction. Turning back to him, she said, “What precisely do they object to?”
“They’re displeased with my paper’s thesis, which is that England’s political history is less sterling than many would like us to believe, and that it’s not a linear movement toward progress.”
“Though I agree with you, I can see how that hypothesis might ruffle some feathers.” Her brow lifted.
He shrugged. “Cannot be helped when one speaks uncomfortable truths.” Glancing around the room, he asked, “Has McCameron abandoned you?”
“We’ve had an accident with my carriage, and so he’s looking into securing spots for us on the mail coach. Everyone emerged safely, incidentally. But where’s Mr. Curtis?”
Stains of rosy color appeared on Mr. Rowe’s cheeks. “Still abed. We had a late night.”
His phrasing gave her pause, but she did not know either Mr. Rowe or Mr. Curtis well enough to push for a deeper explanation.
It was difficult to concentrate on what Mr. Rowe had said, though, when the nearby argument about the cricket match became louder, more insistent.
Mr. Rowe said evenly over the growing noise, “Your trip to Nottinghamshire—”
“Rowe,” someone called snidely from the bar. “Isaid,Rowe.” One of the scholars detached himself from the group and stalked up to Mr. Rowe. His face was already splotchy with anger, and he puffed out his chest.
“Spare me your boorish, nationalistic platitudes, Gable,” Rowe said on a sigh, his posture indolent, perhaps deliberately so.
Yet the man did not back down. He prodded a finger into Rowe’s shoulder. “You’re truly going to spout your revolutionary, subversive drivel to the esteemed panel? You don’t deserve a place amongst the finest minds of England. You ought to be clapped in irons and transported.” He jabbed at Rowe again.
Beatrice jumped when Rowe’s hand snapped up and grabbed hold of his aggressor’s wrist. His tone light, but his gaze intent, Rowe said, “Do that again, Gable, and you’ll be wiping your arse with your neckcloth.”
The scholar blanched and seemed on the verge of retreating, but he shot a glance toward his companions hovering at the bar. Apparently goaded by having them witness his humiliation, Gable moved to shove his fingers once more into Rowe’s shoulder. “You’re a traitor to the nation.”
With far more speed than Beatrice would have believed possible, Rowe was on his feet. His chair fell backward, hitting the floor. He knocked his knuckles into the other man’s chest—more of a shove than a punch. “That’s enough.”
Gable stumbled and fell right into the group of menarguing about cricket. As he did so, two quarreling opponents collided, sputtering with outraged indignity.
The room detonated into chaos.
Beatrice did not fully understand how a taproom in a perfectly respectable inn could turn into a swirling mass of brawlers, but it did. She crouched low as men threw punches, tankards, and plates at each other. Rowe exchanged punches with a man who appeared to be entirely bald.
The few women in the room scurried out in a panic. Beatrice tried to do the same, but her path was blocked by two burly men trading blows. She ducked to one side as one of the men staggered, on the verge of falling right on top of her.
And then the man was gone, flung aside by Duncan.
He made an impressive sight—his eyes blazing, fists and body at the ready. He was a weapon. Every other role he’d played was merely that: a role. First and foremost, he was a soldier.
He stepped to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—”
There was no time to finish her sentence as a man in a coarse coat hurled himself at Duncan.
But Duncan gripped his lapels and held him at bay, dodging punches. Through his teeth, Duncan snarled, “Be nice.”
“To hell with you, Scotsman,” Coarse Coat spat. He tried to kick Duncan in the thigh, but the strike was dodged.
Duncan’s expression was impassive, and then he exploded into motion.
