The Fighter and the Fallen Woman by Pamela Cayne

first.
    Now he was at the market with a couple of whores, one older, one younger, and he found himself smiling. The older was looking at him like he would steal the gold from her teeth, but the way the younger was looking at him made it all worthwhile.
    After the women completed their shopping, Mrs. Nesbitt shoved the full basket at him and King reflected that he’d received softer blows to his gut from Brutus the other night. He grabbed it and quickly fell in step with Lady, Mrs. Nesbitt falling several paces behind.
    “That’s enough to last you two several days.” King poked at the vegetables but avoided touching the goose wrapped in butcher paper.
    “Nessie was determined to celebrate today and I can’t refuse her.”
    “What’s the special occasion?”
    “She had a reason, I suspect.” Lady looked at him thoughtfully. “Why? Do we need a reason to celebrate?”
    King walked slowly and gave it serious thought, thought about the precarious situation both women were in, and felt something heavy settle on his shoulders. “No, I guess you don’t.”
    Lady matched her pace to King’s, both of them strolling along the shops. King was fine with the silence, but he could tell Lady was still weighing something in her mind. Her brow was furrowed and twice she glanced back at Mrs. Nesbitt. King was trying not to watch her outright because he knew she’d stop, and he was a little amused at her obvious consternation. If she started biting her lip he wouldn’t be surprised.
    At that image, a blaze of heat raced down King’s chest and gut to settle lower. He forced himself to think of hits to the face, blows to his middle, getting into the ring with Nessie—anything to clear his mind from such an arousing thought, but the more he told himself not to think of Lady tangled in his sheets, her hands on his shoulders as he tasted her... He shook his leg to readjust the apparent state of his thoughts and shifted the basket from his left hand to his right to cover the evidence.
    “Are you all right, King?”
    “Fine. Just an old injury.” She looked down at his leg as though she could discern the old ache, and King frantically cast about for something to get her attention away from that area.
    “How long have you known Mrs. Nesbitt?”
    “Twelve years now.” She fell quiet for a few steps. He’d caused her more distress when his aim was to brighten her mood. “I don’t know what I’d do without her,” she said.
    “You’d survive.”
    “Why do you say that?” She was looking at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
    “I may not be smart or good with people, but I do know survival. You’ve got it.” He shrugged his shoulders. His answer either satisfied her or she chose to let it go, because she turned forward again and her face smoothed into a gentle blankness. But something was still troubling her. He didn’t know what, but that expression she was wearing was a mask as sure as he and Jonathan would eventually face each other—in the ring or out of it.
    “Do you know what I think about sometimes?” she finally asked.
    “No, but I’d like to.” More than his next breath.
    After a few silent steps, Lady continued, “I think about a home. One on a bluff overlooking the water, with nobody around for miles.”
    King looked at her, and he could tell she was seeing this place rather than the dingy street stretching out ahead of them. “Not even Mrs. Nesbitt?”
    “Well, her, of course. I couldn’t leave her to this fate.” Then, in the same, offhand tone, Lady knocked the wind from him better than any fighter he’d ever faced. “And there’d be room for one more.”
    She wasn’t talking about happy places thought of during dark times, close-your-eyes-and-dream type of places, she was talking about actually running. She was talking about running with him. King had an urge to stop and grab Lady’s hand, make her look at him when she said something as explosive as those seven little words, but he