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unprotected. Christian dropped him with a sharp blow to the gut, white-hot anger flowing through his veins. The man groaned and hit the floor a few feet away.
    Christian reached back and grabbed a section ofKate’s shirt without taking his eyes from the man on the ground or the ongoing brawl. Her squawk told him she was fine, and he let go. A small hand came up to rest lightly in the middle of his back. He pressed against it, warmed by the contact.
    The man on the floor had been bent on hitting her. Christian looked down at the crumpled figure and considered kicking him for good measure.
    Mr. Wicket bustled into the taproom wielding a broom and yelling, “Stop! Stop!” then promptly slipped on a wet patch of the now slick wooden floor. Flailing his arms, he tried to maintain his balance, but dropped the broom and toppled onto his back. Moments later a whoosh of air issued from his throat as a brute landed on his prominent belly.
    Christian looked from the pile to the dark-haired bastard he had felled moments before. The man was rising with a grimace, but with a no less determined expression. “No one hits me. I’ll beat you to a pulp, you cur.”
    The man started forward, his fists flying. The hand on Christian’s back knotted into his jacket.
    Christian lifted his foot and indulged his urge to kick, aiming straight for the man’s knees. The strike wasn’t as hard as it could have been, buttears welled in the man’s eyes as he fell bellowing to the floor once again.
    Two bruisers mopped up the fighters across the room, while two blond-haired men grappled in front of the fireplace.
    A well-built, expensively dressed man casually sipped his drink in the corner, seemingly unbothered by anything or anyone else in the room. The man turned and tipped his head to Christian, an amused smirk on his face, no fear or wariness in his gaze. The bruisers must have belonged to him. Either that or he was one peg short like Nicodemus Nickford upstairs.
    Kate’s hand released the death grip on his jacket and she stepped closer, her shoulder brushing the back of his arm as she peered around him. The bottom edge of her coat brushed his hand. He ran the thick fabric through his fingers, wondering when the rougher material had become more interesting than silk.
    The bruisers joined the lounging man at his table. Groans issued from the six, no seven, bodies on the floor and several draped over the tables.
    As if on cue, a rawboned woman came screeching into the room.
    “Aiiieeee!”
    Belying her scrawny frame, the woman pulled the only two still grappling men apart by the ears and hauled the blonds to one of the few benches that had remained upright.
    “Lawrence Lake, Julius Janson, you should be ashamed! What have you done to my inn?” She gave both men an evil glare. “Well, Mr. Lake? I’m waiting.”
    Lawrence Lake’s brown eyes narrowed dangerously upon Julius Janson’s self-satisfied face. Lake, the leaner of the two, wiped the back of his sleeve across his torn lip. Blood was running freely from the wound. “Ask Janson.”
    Janson shrugged. “Lake is just bitter about being such a half-arsed cricket player.”
    “Why you—” Lake lunged for Janson. The expensively dressed man in the corner tipped his head, and one of his two bruisers gripped Lake’s shoulder and shoved him unceremoniously back in his seat.
    The innkeeper’s wife narrowed her eyes at the large man, but refocused on Lake. “Mr. Lake, I must insist you behave yourself or you will be asked to leave. I may ask you to leave in any case.”
    Lake’s mouth opened, then abruptly shut as he looked toward the door. Christian turned and saw a number of servants scrunched in the doorwaywatching. The innkeeper’s daughter Mary, the epitome of the healthy country lass, was in front, her brows drawn together. Christian glanced back to see Lake’s pained expression. Ah, so that was the way the wind blew.
    Julius Janson’s smirk grew. His green eyes took on a