1727
Cornwall, England
"Hit 'em harder!"
Fourteen—year—old Dominic Greyville swung a fist at the large lout of a boy and snarled like a badger as he bared his teeth. There was nothing more exciting than fighting on a dirt road with a bastard who deserved a good punch or two.
"Look out, Dom!" Another warning sent Dominic diving out of the way. The lad he was fighting struggled and staggered back after his looming fist just missed Dominic's face.
Dominic kept his eyes on the boy but listened for his best friend, Nicholas Flynn, to warn him of another tricky move.
"You bastard!" His opponent lunged for Dominic, and the pair of them hit the dirt with a heavy thud. His ribs ached beneath the weight of the bigger boy. Dominic swung wildly, catching the other boy's jaw, and he grunted as pain shot up his hand and into his arm.
The boy slumped over onto his side, and Dominic rolled up onto the balls of his feet. His ears rang from the blows he'd already taken, and blood coated his split lip, but Dominic laughed in delight. Perhaps it was his mother's wild Spanish blood, but he couldn't resist a good fight, especially when a boy like this had been slapping a pretty young tavern girl around. Dominic had taken one look at her tear—stained face and launched himself at the wrongdoer. The lad had to be sixteen or seventeen, and his meaty fists were capable of great damage, but it was worth the risk to do what was right.
"Oi!" A deep bellow sent the small crowd of boys who had been watching the fight scattering away. Only his friend Nicholas dared to remain behind.
A burly man with gray—black hair marched up the lane toward them. "What'd I tell you about fighting, eh?" Judging by the looks of his apron and the overpowering stench of mead rolling off him, he had come from the tavern down the road.
Dominic's opponent got to his feet, one hand clamped over his gushing nose.
"Little shitter hit me, Pa!" The lad pointed at Dominic with a bloody hand.
The lad's father slapped a paw of a fist on his chest. "I said, if you fight, you better finish it. Go on! Kill the little rat." The man pointed to Dominic, urging his son to kill him. For a second Dominic was shocked that a man would urge his son to kill another boy, but the hateful look in the man's eyes warned him that he meant it. There was no way around it—Dominic would have to win the fight because the stakes were suddenly higher.
The lad eyed Dominic with open hatred that mirrored his father's. He lunged for him. Dominic danced sideways and swept one foot out, tripping the boy. He fell face first so hard into the ground that he groaned and went limp.
"Bloody useless fool." The rotund man spat on the boy's prone body and glowered at Dominic and Nicholas. "Off with ye, brats!"
Dominic didn't need any further urging. He and Nicholas took off running down the road and only stopped when their lungs were burning for air. Pressing his palms to his thighs, he bent over double and let loose a surprising laugh, and Nicholas did the same. In that moment he felt invincible, as though he could conquer the world.
His eyes caught his friend's, and Nick grinned through his panting, as though he too sensed the magic of the moment. There was something about this time of day when the sun was not quite set and the world glowed a soft burnished gold. It was Dominic's favorite time of day, when he felt anything was possible, and yet a hint of the evening's melancholy floated in the air, making the moment almost bittersweet.
"That was a close one," Nicholas said once they caught their breath. "I thought he had you for a minute there. I was about to jump in and help."
"I was doing just fine," Dominic replied.
Nicholas snorted in clear disagreement.
Nicholas was the better behaved of the two and rarely fought, unless it was clear Dominic was about to have his arse beaten. As the son of the Earl of Camden, Dominic's behavior ought to be above reproach, but he had a knack for getting him into scrapes. Those scrapes had the tendency to drag his best friend into the problem. Nick was a squire's son and legitimately tried his best to be properly behaved, but Dominic often lured him into temptation.
"You and your pretty skirts, Dom. Always ready to throw a punch for a dainty ankle or a sparkling smile." Nicholas shook his head, his sandy—blond hair tousled by the wind as he climbed the short stone wall near where they stood.
Dominic joined him, and they studied the fields and distant woods. The roof of a manor house, built when Henry Tudor ruled England, was barely visible above the tops of the trees. Camden House. Home. He adored it and yet wanted to escape it at all costs. Whenever he was home, his father constantly reminded him of his duties as the future earl.
Home was a short distance away, beckoning him, but Dominic couldn't help but cast his gaze back toward the tavern and beyond, toward the dockyards and the sea. The clouds towered above the distant water, promising storms, but it didn't scare Dominic. His hands itched to curl around the rigging of a vast frigate or a sleek sloop. For as long as he could remember, he'd listened to stories of pirates braving the wild seas. It was even rumored that back in the fifteenth century, the Duke of Cornwall, whose estate was not too far from Camden House, had been a great and fierce pirate.
"Nick, you ever think of going to sea? Buying a commission, I mean?" The thought of going to sea had always intrigued Dominic, and on more than one occasion he'd threatened to run away and board a ship whenever he and his father fought.
Nicholas's gaze moved toward the ocean behind them. "Out there? Not unless you went. I'd go anywhere with you. Even the farthest horizon."
Nicholas's words made Dominic flush. They'd grown up side by side, getting into mischief all their lives. They'd become blood brothers long ago, having spit upon their cut palms and clasped them together, swearing undying loyalty to each other under the harvest moon. He couldn't imagine going anywhere without Nicholas either.