As Garret headed through the foyer, over the black and white checkered floor, the man’s Scottish butler did not even bother to give him a quick hello. For he was accustomed to the duke’s comings and goings.
Garret vaulted up the stairs, anticipating the blow that he would soon feel, knocking all emotion out of him, leaving nothing but physical pain.
Argyle would hold nothing back.
So when he dashed into the man’s library, he called out, “I need a good facer. Don’t hesitate.”
Argyle laughed, winced, stood, and threw off his dark green banyan, revealing a naked torso ravaged with scars, his dark trousers, and booted feet.
Callum crossed the room without another word, hauled his fist back, and planted it against Garret’s chin before Garret could even ready himself.
As the earl’s hammerlike fist shook his bones, Garret swung round and made aim for Argyle’s back.
Argyle twisted away quickly, gave a sharp uppercut, and managed to bolt Garret right in the jaw.
This was exactly what he needed.
Garret knew that Argyle spent most of his days in combat with one of the masters that he had found throughout the world. It was the only thing that gave him peace.
Constant action, constant military movement, constant combat, even if it was one-to-one.
For the war inside Argyle was so great.
Now that force, that power was coming out at Garret, and he loved every moment of it as the world spun dark for a moment. As stars burst behind his eyes and his teeth clacked.
He swallowed and was careful lest he swallow his own tongue. Blood spurted into his mouth from his cheek crashing against his teeth. But he quickly pulled his fists up, found his balance, and gave blow for a blow.
Argyle let out grunts of pain as Garret pummeled him in turn.
But Callum did not relent. He kept his elbows in. He twisted and then, not at all to Garret’s shock, Callum swung round and, with a kick, swept Garret’s legs out from under him.
Callum was one of the few men Garret knew who used such tactics. It wasn’t wrestling; it was something else.
Callum used his legs as some men used their arms. They were weapons beyond that of a fist, and if one was not careful, one would have their legs sucked out from them and their head would crack upon the ground, leaving them dead.
Argyle was very careful about such things and grabbed Garret before he did exactly that.
Garret felt his life flash for a moment. He almost welcomed it because the events of the last twenty-four hours had left him spinning.
Argyle seemed to sense it too. He grabbed him by the lapels, stared him in the face, and said, “You’ve met someone.”
“I have not,” he countered, knowing Callum didn’t mean a mere acquaintance.
“Och, dinnae lie. You have, mon,” he said. “You have met someone that sent you here. They shook you to your core. It is the only reason why you would come in like this and demand to be pummeled.”
Garret snorted and tugged at his coat. “I like to be pummeled by you.”
Argyle turned away. “Yes, you’re a masochist. I know that. As am I.”
“You’re also a sadist,” he pointed out.
“Aye, I am,” Argyle agreed without hesitation. “I like pain. Pain distracts me from the prison of my existence and the memories of the past.”
Garret knew exactly that sentiment. He did the same, only not to such an extent, and he did not hide himself away because his face did not cause gasps of horror wherever he went.
“I did meet someone,” he finally relented.
Argyle nodded. “You see, you cannot lie to your friend.”