Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(56)
Author: Tessa Dare

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to teach you to throw a punch.”

She laughed. “You want me to punch your brother?”

“No.” He pushed a settee toward the wall.

“Then I don’t understand why this is relevant.”

“I know you don’t. But give it a chance. The time for politeness is over. You need to get meaner, Clio. Understand the power in your body and how to harness it.”

“Power?” She lifted her delicate arm for his appraisal. “Do you see any power in this body?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You mean the power to draw a man’s gaze, perhaps. Apparently that never worked on Piers.”

“I mean strength. It’s in there, just waiting to be unleashed.” Having cleared the last of the furniture, he came to stand before her. His gaze homed in on hers. “Trust me.”

Clio wanted to trust him. However, she suspected this entire exercise would only make her look like more of a fool. Her, throwing a punch?

But she had to try. Rafe claimed he wanted to settle his debts with Piers. She knew his yearning went much deeper than that. He needed a family. Lasting connection. And if he was to have any chance at it, Clio couldn’t ask him to fight her battles. She needed to learn to take swings of her own.

“Very well. What do I do?”

“First, you need to loosen up.”

He took her wrists in his big, roughened hands and shook out her arms as though they were a pair of eels he meant to clobber. She felt ridiculous.

“Good.” He released her wrists and circled to stand behind her. His hands moved to bracket her skull. “Now roll your head back and forth a bit. Stretch out your neck.”

She did as he guided, looking from side to side, and then to the ceiling and floor. She bounced back and forth, transferring her weight from one foot to the other. “When does the punching start?”

“Patience, patience. Stand with your feet apart, about the breadth of your shoulders. Shoulders down, arms loose. Find your center of balance.” His splayed hand settled low on her belly. “Here. You feel it?”

How could she not feel it?

If the goal was loosening her up, he’d achieved it. The warm, possessive weight of his hand on her belly, coupled with the low, rumbling voice in her ear . . .

Oh, he made her feel all sorts of loose.

“I . . . I think I’m ready now.”

“Then show me a fist.”

She made a fist and held it up. “Here.”

He tsked. “No, not like that. You’ll break your thumb.” He unfolded her fingers and balled them up again, this time placing her thumb on the outside.

Then, molding his arms around hers, he guided her into a fighting stance. Right leg slightly back, both fists up in a posture of defense. The broad, solid heat of his chest worked like an iron, smoothing all the tension from her back.

“The first punch you learn is a jab,” he said. “Step forward with your left foot, and push your left fist straight out. Let your body weight propel it forward. Quick and sharp, like a bee sting. Then retract. Like this, see?”

Clio made her joints limp and allowed him to move her through the punching motions as though she were a marionette.

“Then you follow with a right cross.” He guided her right fist forward. “Can you feel your torso twisting behind the punch?”

She nodded.

“That’s where the force comes from. It’s not your arm, it’s the rest of you.”

When he threw their combined fists forward, she could feel the sheer bulk of him backing the blow. Sheets of muscle bunching and flexing beneath his skin.

With Rafe behind her, she felt as though she could topple mountains. But it was all borrowed strength. He could flick his fingertip and send a man flying, if he wished.

“Now it’s your turn.” He released her and plucked two firm, upholstered pillows from the divan. He held the cushions in either hand, the flat side presented to Clio at approximately shoulder height. “Have a go.”

“You want me to punch the pillow?”

“Why not? You need a target.” He lifted the pillows. “And these stupid things need a purpose.”

She bit her lip. “They make me feel less alone.”

His brow wrinkled. “What’s that?”

“The pillows. That’s their purpose. The reason why I keep so many of them everywhere. They’re soft and warm, and they stay in one place. They make me feel less alone.” She sniffed. “I suppose you’re right. It is stupid.”

Lowering the pillows, he moved toward her. “Clio . . .”

“I’m fine.” She stepped back, balling her hands in fists. “I’m ready to punch.”

“Fists up,” he told her. He held out the pillow on her left. “Try a jab.”

Her first few attempts were embarrassing. The first time, she failed to connect with the pillow at all. On her second attempt, her “jab” was more of a nudge.

But Rafe didn’t laugh at her attempts. He kept at her, encouraging and teasing by turns, and taking breaks to correct her form. After a few dozen attempts, she threw a punch that seemed to land with something that resembled . . . force.

“There,” he said. “Felt good, didn’t it?”

“Very good,” she said, breathless. But “very” was too polite a word. This was bare-knuckle boxing, after all. “Damned good. Bloody good.”

He smiled. “Don’t tell Bruiser, or he’ll start angling to get you in a ring.”

She cocked her head. “There are female prizefighters? Really?”

“Oh, yes. Very popular with the crowds. Mostly because they often end up bare-breasted.”

The shameless devil. She sent a right cross that hit the pillow with a satisfying oof. “I’m starting to understand why you like this.”

“Then maybe you can understand my true secret now. The one none of those other women wanted to believe.”

“What’s that?”

“That I don’t need to be saved from fighting. Fighting saved me.”

Clio lowered her fists and regarded him. She did believe it. The tone of his voice as he explained these simple motions . . . It was imbued not only with authority but something that almost sounded like love.

Prizefighting was more than brute violence or rebellion to him. It was a craft he’d worked years to master. Perhaps even an art.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking time to teach me.”