A howl of pain reached him. Kit jumped clear. His arm ached, the ache becoming a relentless throb within seconds. He cradled it to his chest and felt for fractures he hoped he wouldn't find. Then his attacker staggered back from the wall.
Aw, nuts....
The Welshman.
"Coward!" Kynan Rhys Gower spat at him. "Filthy dog!"
The Welshman came at him again, mallet raised over his head in a classic attack position. Kit, one arm all but useless, saw no other choice. He threw a sidekick straight into the onrushing Welshman's hips. The blow caught him just above the pubic bone. Kynan Rhys Gower folded up with an ugly sound The mallet whistled just above Kit's back.
Kit recovered his balance while the Welshman struggled to regain his feet.
"Can't we talk about this?" Kit gasped, using Kynan's native language. Where in hell did he get a croquet mallet?
For answer, Kynan swept that damned mallet up and sideways. Kit couldn't get out of the way in time, although he twisted into a pretzel trying. He felt ribs crunch. The whole Commons greyed out for a moment while his voice did some creative sound effects.
Fortunately, Kynan Rhys Gower was still off balance and staggering from that blow to the hips. That allowed Kit to recover while the Welshman was still drawing the mallet back for the next try.
Okay, that's it ....
Time for a quick coup de grace to end this nonsense.
Kit attacked first. In one swift motion, he swept the mallet back with one arm then threw a shoulder blow into the Welshman's ribcage. His whole weight hit just below Kynan's raised arm. He felt ribs crack again, but this time they weren't his. A shock of pain jolted through his own broken ribs anyway. Kynan howled and tried to fend him off with the mallet.
Kit grabbed the heavy wooden head and pulled sharply, then slammed Kynan's straightened elbow and shoved back on the mallet. Kynan gasped in pain. Then, with a circular sweep, push, and snatch, Kit simply jerked the makeshift weapon away.
Kynan was left blinking in pain and surprise, disarmed before he quite knew what had happened.
"Now look," Kit wheezed, "I don't know what your problem is ... and I'm not a vindictive guy..."
Kynan started to spring at him, fingers curved into claws ready to gouge whatever they found.
"...ut this has got to stop...
Kit swept the croquet mallet around and hit Kynan's ankle on the "funny spot" just hard enough for the desired effect, but without the force to break it. Kynan gave out a strangled gasp and grabbed for his ankle. Kit shoved gently on his chest. He went down with a sound like a hurt child.
"Oww ..."
Kit held the mallet in an easy grip, standing near enough to strike a lethal blow if he wanted. Kynan sat on the concrete floor, holding his ankle, trying to hold his ribcage, and met his gaze. Clearly, he knew he was at Kit's mercy
Equally clearly, he expected to die.
Pity swept away Kit's rage. He drew several deep, calming breaths. "Do you yield?" he asked quietly
Surprise flickered through Kynan's eyes. He blinked uncertainly. But he didn't answer.
"I'd like to know why you tried to murder me."
That prompted an answer. "No man laughs at Kynan Rhys Gower and lives! You've taken my honor, my soul .... Curse you! Take my life and let this hell end!"
Try as he could, Kit couldn't recall anything the Welshman might have construed as being laughed at. "What are you talking about? When did I rob you of your honor? When did I laugh at you?"
Kynan's glance might have sent another man back a step. Kit held his ground, prompting Kynan to drop his gaze.
"You permitted the woman to humiliate me," he muttered. "Then you grinned like the gibbering blackguard you are when I was helpless against four!"
Kit was utterly baffled. He'd come in on the very tail end of that fight-how could he have allowed anyone to humiliate this man, when he hadn't even been there? In fact, he could identify only one instant Kynan could possibly be referring to. When realization sank home, Kit very nearly swung the mallet at his thick, medieval skull. If his ribs hadn't ached so fiercely, he might have.
"That woman," he hissed, "is my grandchild. You tried to kill her-after she was wounded trying to save a child from that damned French warhorse! I was not laughing at you! I wasn't even thinking about you! I .was smiling in sheer relief because she would not lose the use of her leg."
Kynan Rhys Gower looked suddenly doubtful, which was small consolation considering how close he'd come to killing Kit.
Kit tapped Kynan's chest with the mallet. "Is it not bad enough you attacked a lady? Now you take offense where none was given and try to murder a man who has been wronged in his own kin by you!"
"Shut up and listen! I didn't `permit' anyone to humiliate you, much less Margo. I wasn't even there when you attacked her. You had better get used to a few new ideas, Kynan Rhys Gower. And the first one is this: women here are perfectly capable of protecting themselves when knaves rush at them with war hammers."
Kynan compressed his lips. "Knave, is it?"
Kit swore under his breath. "What would you call a man who attacked a girl barely eighteen. a girl already cut so badly her leg had to be sewn together-then tried to break a man's skull rather than call him out fairly to ask satisfaction-or at least an explanation?"
Kynan didn't answer. Not that Kit actually expected him to, but Kit always tried reasoning with people whenever circumstances permitted. Unfortunately, some people simply wouldn't be reasoned with. Kit was abruptly disgusted with the whole situation, including his own anger. If he'd dared trust the Welshman, he'd have left Kynan sitting on his backside in the middle of the Commons.
Fortunately, station security arrived on the scene. Mike Benson took one look and hauled Kynan to his feet. Benson cuffed the Welshman's hands behind him, then, in a quick maneuver that was anything but gentle, put him face-down on the floor and hobbled his legs. A strangled sound of pain escaped him.
"Better have someone look at him," Kit sighed. "I think I broke some of his ribs."
Mike Benson grimaced. "Serves him right, I'd say. Where'd this bastard get a weapon?"
"Hell if I know." Kit handed over the croquet mallet. "I'd check the outfitters' stores, see if any of 'em are missing part of a set."
Robert LI spoke up from the doorway of his antiquities shop. "I think he stole it from a group of grad students practicing for the spring garden parties in London. I heard a couple of them talking about a mallet missing out of their set the other day." He glanced at Kit. "I'm sorry, Kit. I had no idea the theft would turn out so serious. I just thought it was part of a practical joke or something. You all right?"
Kit nodded. curtly. "I'm fine." Hell would freeze before he admitted to broken ribs. He'd bribe Rachel Eisenstein, if necessary, to keep it quiet.
Benson ordered his men to take Kynan to a holding cell. The Welshman looked as though he'd considered struggling, then glanced at Kit and settled down to trudge away in his hobbles.
"You're standing mighty funny, Kit." In his late fifties, Mike Benson was solidly built, with thinning grey hair and cold blue eyes that had seen everything, sometimes twice. "How're your ribs?"
Aw, held...
Without asking, Benson peeled back his shirt. "Hmm ... Better have these x-rayed. I think he broke a few."
"I'll take care of it," Kit grated
"What was that guff he was giving you when I came up?"
Kit explained.
Mike Benson ran a hand across his short hair and gazed into empty space as though considering the wisdom of speaking. He glanced at Kit's ribs and spoke anyway. "Kit, that girl's been nothing but trouble since she got here. No offense, but she's a magnet for disaster."