Free The Match of the Century by Cathy Maxwell

moment. She ran for Ben.
    It had been quite awhile since the dice had rolled in Ben’s favor. Tonight, it was almost as if he couldn’t lose, and that was a heady feeling, especially among this lot.
    His mates around the table were grim and grimy. They were adventurers and former soldiers with perhaps unsavory pasts, and Ben adored them.
    There was Hooknosed John, Big Roger—he thought that name particularly clever—and Nate. “Just Nate,” the man with a patch over his eye had growled at Ben when he’d wondered if he didn’t have a more colorful name.
    I’m Whit, Ben had told them, taking his cue from “Just Nate,” and no one had asked for more. Every man served himself; every man kept to himself.
    He had fallen into step with them while attending a fight in Sheffield. He’d been at loose ends for some time, and these mates appealed to him. They did odd jobs here and there, honest ones, to replenish the coin they lost to gaming. Hooknosed said they’d had enough of being afraid for their necks, but that could change. One never knew what to expect on the road ahead.
    Ben had no doubt that each of his new companions had done unsavory things. He wasn’t the only man in the room with a knife in his boot, but he wasn’t uncomfortable with them. He’d rubbed shoulders with rough characters during his military days and preferred them to the entitled arrogance of his brother and his sort.
    At least with these gents, Ben felt useful. He liked using his muscles and being so tired at the end of the day that he could think of nothing but sleep. The hot anger that had trailed after him since that night he’d severed ties with his brother had begun to fade, and he was finding a measure of peace.
    Nor was it bad living hand to mouth. He had no responsibilities and answered to no one but himself.
    And he rarely thought of Elin Morris.
    He’d finally managed, once again, to tuck her away into a distant memory, a youthful foolishness. He no longer brooded over her as he’d last seen her. She’d been walking by his brother’s side as she’d followed her mother’s casket, so lost in grief she was oblivious to Ben’s existence. It had been Gavin’s hand she’d gripped for comfort.
    Love was for poets, not men of the world like Ben. He didn’t have a need for her or any other bit of muslin.
    Oh, the ladies always fawned over Ben . . . but after a time, he grew tired of substituting what he didn’t want for what he wanted.
    Pulling the pile of coins on the table over to join his other winnings, Ben called to the innkeeper, separating a small stack of coins from the others, “Osprey, we are all in need for another round of your good ale.” That offer brought grins to the faces of his brothers of the spirit.
    “Aye, the good ale,” Nate instructed, “and not the piss water you’ve been serving us.”
    A heavyset man with a smattering of hair on his pate, Osprey left the bowl of stew he’d been eating and slid the coins from the table right into his pocket. “You’ll take what I give you. Are you including them?” With a nod, he gestured to the local lads sharing a corner of the bar. One was tall and beefy, the other his exact opposite.
    “Include them,” Ben said, feeling generous.
    “Thanks,” the short man said.
    “Speaking of piss,” Hooknosed said with a grin, “if Roger doesn’t come back, I’ll be drinking his share of your largesse. I swear that man goes like horse—”
    The tavern door flew open in a blast of chilled air that made the flames in the hearth dance. Ben looked up, expecting to see Big Roger lumber in through the door.
    Instead, a young woman, her dark hair curly and wild, her dark blue cloak flying behind her, stood framed in the doorway for barely a second before she launched herself into his arms, practically flying into the room.
    “Ben,” she said in a voice that had haunted his dreams. “Help me. You must help me.” Elin Morris then threw her arms around his neck, almost