“My boon,” he said, a tingle racing down his spine, “is an update on my sister after our tea.” He’d decide how Emily’s well-being factored in to his own plans later. Her answer in the carriage had been vague at best, and he’d not been able to press with everyone about.
He could confess that after years of being her caregiver, he was not just worried about her. He might also be having trouble letting go of his duties…
But he’d leave on his tour of Europe if he could gain the assurance that she was well. And if she wasn’t…he’d travel north with Emily and Ace. Which only made him wonder: Would Mirabelle be going on the journey with her eldest brother or staying in London? He gave her a sidelong glance. Did going north with her hold more appeal than France and Italy with Somersworth and Upton?
“Good choice,” she murmured as they stepped into the busy inn. Even in the summer, a fire crackled in the hearth, a pot of some stew, by the aroma, hanging on the hook just over the flames.
The common room was full of guests as Ace requested three rooms and the use of a private dining room.
Mirabelle’s fingers flexed against his arm as her brothers and the other two lords stepped in behind them.
“Why are you forever on that man’s arm?” Gris growled behind her. She looked over her shoulder long enough to see him push his hair back from his forehead, his eyes a bit bleary.
“How can you still look like that after two days? How much did you drink at the wedding?”
Boxby softly cleared his throat from next to her. “They roused themselves yesterday and promptly began draining my wine cellar again last night.”
Mirabelle spun on her heel then, facing her brothers like a small general as her brows drew together in a formidable line. “Honestly. We can’t take the four of you anywhere.”
But Gris didn’t answer his sister. Instead, he gave Boxby’s shoulder a thump. “Don’t be sharing that with her.”
Boxby turned too, his spine growing straighter as he stared at Gris. “I beg your pardon?”
“You should…” Gris took a definitive step toward Boxby until their noses were nearly touching. “You should absolutely beg. And when I’m done with you, you’ll never touch my sister again.”
“Gris,” Mirabelle’s voice crackled as she stepped closer, but it was a beat too late. Out of nowhere, Gris’s fist was flying toward Boxby’s face.
He ducked back but Gris’s beefy knuckles still grazed his cheek. Hard enough that the skin was sure to bruise.
Still, his hand came up as well, as he shifted his weight onto his back leg and landed a solid punch directly in Gris’s eye socket.
He heard the man’s grunt as satisfaction coursed through him. That hit was also sure to leave a nice purple mark. Some good swelling.
But he only had a moment to bask in his victory before Gris was on top of him, sending them both crashing to the floor.
Distantly, he heard the screams of other guests, but he was busy trying to keep Gris from pummeling him as they scrambled on the old floorboards.
And when Upton appeared next to him, Tris on top of him, he nearly laughed to realize that they were in a full-on tavern brawl.
Until Gris landed a gut punch that had him doubling over, his chin bashing into Gris’s shoulder as the other man sat on his legs.
He tried to catch his breath and gather the strength to hit back when a wooden stick came flying through the air, landing across Gris’s shoulders.
“Ah,” Gris cried when just as quickly, the sharp bristles of a broom poked his face.
“That is enough,” Mirabelle choked out with a final swat at his face before she stepped around them and did the same to Tris, who promptly ceased pummeling Upton. He watched the other man, a boxer and so thickly muscled that he’d likely crush anything in his path, swat ineffectively at the broom as his sister jabbed the bristles in his face again.
It was only then that he noted that Fulton was under Somersworth. Mirabelle paused over them, the broom’s handle knocking twice on the ground next to Fulton’s face. “Don’t make me hit you, my lord,” Mirabelle said as she stood over Somersworth. “I will if I have to.”
Somersworth ceased batting at Fulton long enough to look up at Mirabelle and mutter. “I don’t take orders from women.”
It was only after Ken let out a growl that he realized that Gris and Tris had made nearly the same noise.
Gris gave him a raised eyebrow stare as Ken pushed Gris off him and rose, coming to Mirabelle’s side. Grabbing the broom from her hand, he brought the handle down hard, directly on Somersworth’s back side.
The other man promptly shot up. “What the hell was that for? I was defending you.”
Ken stepped closer. His face throbbed and he’d run out of patience. “Apologize to Mirabelle.”