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malicious glow. “Lake is a sore loser. Can’t measure up in any way, as a player, as a fighter, or as a man.”
    Lake’s eyes darted to Mary again before turning to her mother. “Mr. Janson made a few rather obnoxious comments about…some things…and the fight broke out. You can ask the other members of my team.”
    He pointed at a number of downed players, none of whom looked coherent enough to confirm or deny his statement.
    Janson laughed, his expression hard and resentful. “Ask any of the members of our team, Mr. and Mrs. Wicket, and you’ll find the story to be much different. Just ask Donald.” He pointed to the man who was pushing himself up from where Christian had laid him out twice.
    Kate’s small hand returned to rest comfortingly on Christian’s back.
    Christian’s kicking instinct quieted. Donald Desmond. He thought he had heard someone callout the name earlier. The man had dark hair and dark eyes and looked to be on par with his bully friend, Janson. Desmond shot Christian a hard, cold look that promised retribution. He was obviously not the kind of man who took well to being beaten.
    Unfortunately for him, his look of retribution, especially after being soundly thrashed, just made him look silly.
    “Julius made a casual comment and Lake lunged across the table, much as he did just a few seconds ago,” Desmond sneeringly corroborated. He sent a calculating look toward Mary. “Very violent man, Mr. Lake. One can never be too careful around him.”
    Christian sensed Lake’s deepening anger. The man seemed to be holding himself by a thread. Perhaps it was outrage over the two men’s statements combined with the glaring fact that if he continued to fight it would just lend credence to their arguments. The bruiser also seemed to realize that sheer will alone was holding Lake from pouncing, and the hand on Lake’s shoulder tightened.
    “Mr. Lake, you will come with me.” The innkeeper’s wife turned and wagged her finger. “And you, Julius, should know better!”
    Julius assumed a hangdog expression. “Yes, ma’am, I’m terribly ashamed.”
    The innkeeper huffed next to his wife. “There now, Julius is full of spirit. I know sometimes the mood strikes. Just not in the taproom, man!”
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Wicket, sir.”
    Mr. Wicket smiled. “Can’t have our best player injured. Mary would be devastated, of course.”
    All heads turned to the doorway to look for confirmation, but Mary had disappeared.
    The innkeeper puttered around the room chastising the men for fighting and possibly hurting themselves so close to cricket season. Christian raised a brow. Cricket season was a good five months away.
    The small, comforting hand dropped from his back. Kate stepped forward and gave Christian an unreadable look, then frowned in disgust at the combatants, who were in various states of awareness.
    Daisy came breezing in to help clean up the mess. “I can’t believe how men love to fight. Just look at them.” The men were sheepish as they began to sort themselves out. “The blacksmith, the cobbler, and the cobbler’s son all in a pile.”
    “Yeah, and I’m the baker,” groaned the man who had taken a wild swing at Christian earlierand then ended up attached to the wall. He was looking sheepish as he apologized profusely to Christian and the innkeeper.
    “So what do those two do for a living?” Christian asked, nodding to Desmond and Janson.
    “Not much, I hear,” Kate muttered under her breath.
    Daisy picked up a mug. “Donald Desmond’s the son of a well-to-do family, and Julius Janson is the squire’s son.”
    The hierarchy was soon apparent as the combatants tidied up. Janson ruled their side of the cricket divide, with Desmond sneering next to him.
    Christian turned to Kate as Daisy moved away. “And you, Mr. Kaden? What were you doing in this fine taproom while a fight ensued?”
    “Some of us have to earn our way. We can’t just be inveterate gamblers and taproom brawlers, Mr.