Forever a Lady. Delilah Marvelle

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СКАЧАТЬ your whore of a mother,” the man seethed, “that I want me money and I want it now. She owes me fifteen cents. Fifteen!”

      “She don’t have it!” the boy wailed, grabbing at his head.

      Matthew jerked to a halt beside them, his pulse roaring. He tried to remain calm, lest this turn into a brawl the child didn’t need to see. “Let him go. I’ll pay whatever his mother owes.”

      A sweat-sleeked, sunburned round face jerked toward him. The stench of rotting cabbage penetrated the stagnant air. The man shoved the boy away and stepped toward him, that rather well-fed thick frame towering a head over Matthew’s own. “She owes me twenty cents.”

      The bastard. “I heard fifteen.” Matthew dug into his waistcoat pocket. “But here is what I’ll do.” Matthew held up the quarter his father had given him. “I’ll give you an extra ten cents to leave off this boy from here on out. You do that, and this is yours.”

      The man hesitated, then reached out a calloused hand. Grabbing the quarter, he shoved it into his own pocket. “That be fine with me. He’s got nothing I want. His hag of a mother be the problem.”

      “Then I suggest you take it up with her. Not him.” Matthew veered toward the child, bent down toward him and nudged up that small chin. “Ey. Are you all right?”

      The boy pedaled back, tears still clinging to those flushed cheeks. He nodded, touching his small hands to his head.

      The man grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him back toward himself. With a smirk, he fluffed Matthew’s white linen cravat. “Rather fancy and all, aren’t you? I know I’ve always wanted me one of these.”

      Matthew jerked back, out of reach, and narrowed his gaze. “I suggest you leave.”

      The man lowered his unshaven chin and tightened his own penetrating gaze, those fuzzy red brows creeping together. Raising a thick hand, the man now tilted a sharp blade toward Matthew’s face, the metal glinting against the sun. He leaned in and tapped its smooth edge on Matthew’s cheek. “Are you going to take it off? Or would you rather I slice it off?”

      It was unbelievable. Barely twenty minutes in these parts and he was being robbed for assisting a child. Fisting both hands, lest he jump and get sliced, Matthew offered in a low, even tone, “Put away the knife and we’ll talk.”

      A full-knuckled fist slammed into his head. Matthew gasped in disbelief against the teetering impact.

      The man casually tossed the blade to his other thick hand, announcing that the worst was yet to come. “I say what goes. Now take it off, lest the boy sees something he oughtn’t.”

      Shifting his jaw, Matthew grudgingly unraveled the linen. He wasn’t stupid. Sliding it off, he wordlessly held it out.

      The man snatched it away, wrapping it smugly around his own thick neck, and stepped back, tucking away his blade. “Next time, do as I say.”

      As if he was going to wait for a next time. Knowing the blade was out of the game, Matthew gritted his teeth and jumped forward, throwing out a straight-faced punch.

      The giant grabbed his fist in midair, causing Matthew’s arm to pop back from the swift contact of his large palm.

      That gaze threatened. “You’re dead.” A blow hit Matthew’s skull, jaw, nose and eye in such rapid fire, his leather boots skidded against the pavement with each teeth-jarring wallop.

      Matthew jumped forward again, viciously swinging back at the bastard, but only decked air as the giant dodged.

      The boy beside them swung his own small fists in the air, stumbling left and right and shouted up at Matthew, “Come on! Pound the dickey dazzler. Pound him!”

      A brick of an unexpected whack to his left eye not only made Matthew rear back, but made everything in sight fade to a hazy white. Jesus Christ. He caught himself against a lamppost, his bare hands sliding against the sun-warmed iron.

      “Enough!” a man boomed, stilling the boy’s shouts.

      No blows followed.

      Drawing in shaky, ragged breaths, Matthew squinted to see past the sweltering pain pulsing through his face and skull.

      A broad figure with long black hair tied in a queue, garbed in a patched great coat, held a pistol to the side of Matthew’s assailant’s head. “Give this respectable man his cravat, James,” the man casually offered in an educated New York accent that was laced with a bit of European sophistication. “And while you’re at it, give him your blade.”

      The russet-haired oaf froze against the barrel of that pistol set against his head. His grubby hand patted and pulled out the blade, extending it and the cravat to Matthew.

      Pushing away from the lamppost, Matthew tugged his morning coat back into place, trying to focus beyond the heaviness and blur that clouded his one eye. He reached out, his arm seemingly floating and slid the scrap of linen toward himself.

      “Take the blade,” the man with the pistol ordered.

      Matthew didn’t want the blade, but he also didn’t want to argue with a man holding a pistol. In his opinion, they were all mad. He blinked, trying to refocus. Though he could see where the men stood in proximity to him, an eerie dense shadow lingered, making him feel as if he were seeing the world on an angle. Matthew took the blade.

      Pressing the pistol harder against his assailant’s temple, the man gritted out, “If you touch either of them again, James, we go knuckle to knuckle over at the docks until one of us is dead. Now, brass off.”

      James darted, shoving past others, and disappeared.

      The man jerked toward the child. “Away with you, Ronan. And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.”

      The boy hesitated. Meeting Matthew’s gaze, he grinned crookedly, his brown eyes brightening. “I owe you a quarter.” Still grinning, he swung away and thudded down the street in those oversized boots.

      Matthew huffed out a breath in exasperation. At least he got the boy to smile, because he doubted he’d ever see that quarter again.

      Lowering the pistol and methodically uncocking it, the man before him adjusted his billowing great coat. Piercing ice-blue eyes held his. “Where the hell did you learn how to mill? At a female boarding school?”

      Matthew self-consciously stuffed the cravat into his coat pocket, his hand trembling at the realization that the dense shadow in his eye remained. “Where I come from, boxing isn’t really a requirement.” He fingered the wooden handle of the blade still weighing his hand. “I appreciate your assistance.”

      “I’m certain you do.” The man waved the pistol toward Matthew’s embroidered vest. “Nice waistcoat. Sell it. Because fancy won’t matter for shite when you’re in a grave, and I’m telling you right now, it’s only a matter of time before you get robbed of it. Now, go. Off with you.”

      Matthew hesitated, sensing this man wasn’t like the rest of these rumpots. He held out a quick hand. The one that wasn’t holding the blade. “The name is Matthew Joseph Milton.”

      The man shoved his pistol into the leather belt attached to his hips. “I didn’t ask СКАЧАТЬ