“I see no reason to apologize,” Phoebe said. “He was cheating. I was right.”

“Neither of you owes this man a damn thing,” Rafe growled, taking a handful of the scum’s shirtfront and twisting it in his grip until he’d hauled the man up on his toes. “I’m going to give him what he’s got coming.”

The man’s face paled in a most satisfying fashion.

All around them, the tavern customers’ excitement reached a new pitch. Men cleared the tables and chairs to the edges of the room. Wagers were being made. And the reeking filth he held dangling in his grip . . . well, he had to be hearing how few of those bettors liked his chances.

Rafe was getting hungry. And he didn’t mind who saw it. He had earned this brutish reputation, and it was his to use as he pleased.

A soft touch landed on his shoulder. Clio’s voice broke as she whispered, “Rafe, please. Don’t do this.”

“Oh, I’m doing this. And I’m going to enjoy it. Just as soon as I set down my drink.”

With that, he drove his right hand forward, crashing his tankard into the limewashed plaster of the tavern wall, just six inches from the man’s blanched, ugly face. Beer sloshed the floor.

When he withdrew his hand, the tankard stayed there, embedded in the plaster. As though he’d made it its own little shelf.

“Still eager to fight me?” Rafe asked.

The man flicked a glance toward the tankard stuck in the wall, no doubt picturing it embedded in his teeth. “I . . . That . . .”

“Didn’t think so.” Rafe released the man, and he dropped to the floor and lay there. Just like the scum he was.

Before the onlookers could catch their breath, Rafe had both Clio and Phoebe under one protective arm.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he told the crowd. “No fight today.” To Clio, he murmured, “Let’s be on our way. Now.”

Rafe didn’t have to ask her twice.

Clio was only too happy to leave the place.

The three of them walked out of the village without stopping or speaking, all the way until they reached the country path.

When they came to a stile, Rafe stopped and turned to them. He swept them both with a concerned glance. “Are you both well? Not harmed at all?”

Clio shook her head. “We’re not harmed. Just rattled a bit.”

“That was my fault, wasn’t it?” Phoebe’s delicate dark brows knitted in a frown. “I made him angry.”

“No,” Clio said. “He was a drunkard and a cheat, and you did nothing wrong.”

“But I did. I did.” She tugged at her hair. “I’m always doing or saying the wrong thing. I know I’m odd.”

“Phoebe, darling. You’re not odd. You’re special.”

“Why make the distinction, as if they aren’t the same thing?”

Clio moved to comfort her with a pat on the shoulder.

Her sister brushed the touch aside. “If you’re worried I’m going to weep or go into hysterics, don’t. I never do either. That’s what makes me odd. Or at least, it’s part of it. You can’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t think or behave the way others do. There are things that are important to me that no one else seems to give a fig about. And then there are things everyone else seems to prize, and try as I might, I can’t understand the fuss. Daphne teases me. Clio, you’re too polite, but I know you’re worried. I’ve heard you discussing it.”

“We both love you,” Clio said.

“And I don’t understand that, either.” Phoebe clambered over the stile and strode away.

Clio moved to rush after her, but Rafe held her back.

“Let her go,” he said. “She knows the way home.”

“But she’s upset and hurting. I can’t abide it.”

“You don’t have a choice. Because she’s got it right. She’s not like other girls.” He silenced her objections with a touch to the arm. “I may not be brilliant with numbers like Phoebe, but I know something about being troubled at sixteen. Trust me on this. From time to time, she’ll need the space to sort things through. It’s all right to let her walk away. Just make certain she knows she can always come back.”

Clio suspected he was right, but that didn’t make it any easier.

To distract herself, she tilted her head and looked at his hand. What she saw made her wince. “You’re bleeding. You must have scraped your knuckles on the plaster.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Let me see to it anyway.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and lifted his hand into the sunlight for closer examination. “If I’m letting Phoebe walk away, I need to fuss over someone.”

He relented, leaning against the stile while she dabbed at his wounds.

With his free hand, he reached into his pocket. “Here. Use this. It’s good for all manner of aches and pains.” He withdrew a small, disc-shaped tin, smaller than a snuffbox. “Bruiser swears by it.”

“Bruiser,” she repeated, taking the tin and tracing its circumference with her thumb. “So he is your trainer. I thought as much. Wherever did you find that man?”

“I don’t recall. It’s been years now. And I’d taken some strong blows to the head that week.”

She smiled.

“I can make him drop the Montague act if you like. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”