The man grabbed the hat pin and pushed it back toward her, even as she struggled to keep it pinned in him. It must have hurt, Griffith had to admit.

“Stay out of it,” the man interrupted without glancing at Griffith.

“I cannot,” Griffith said, stepping up and grasping the pin, yanking it out from the man’s hand. “I will see to the young lady. There is no need for you to bother yourself any longer.” Sometimes there was a benefit to forever championing the underdog in a lopsided fight. Now he could get a better look, see if she was as beautiful as he thought.

The man opened his mouth as though to argue, then looked up—and up—at Griffith’s height and obvious strength and apparently thought better of it. He nodded at his companions, all of whom lowered themselves slowly back down into their seats.

Griffith exhaled. It wasn’t that he was dreading a fight, but it would be a shame to waste some of his precious free time busting sailors’ heads. There was beer to drink after all.

“And who are you?” she asked, turning her gaze to Griffith. Unlike the man, she didn’t seem intimidated at all by his size. That was a surprise; most people at least blinked twice when they saw him. Plus, he had just rescued her from an unpleasant situation. The very least he could expect would be some gratitude.

None appeared to be forthcoming.

She was as beautiful as he’d suspected; her dark hair was swept up underneath her hat, a few enticing strands falling down around her face. Her eyes were dark also, with delicate eyebrows that were raised in question. Her nose was perfect, and her mouth—her lips were full and red, and she had a mole to the right of her mouth that seemed—to Griffith, at least—a visual marker for where his own mouth should start kissing her.

“I am your stalwart savior,” he said. He gestured toward the table. “Would you care to sit down and have a cup of this pub’s finest ale? Which, admittedly, isn’t very good. But I promise, the company is superb,” he added with a rakish grin.

She glanced toward the table, and Clark, and looked back, a wry expression on her face. “I’m not certain I should, if that is what happens after having some ale. Or is it that you are such a dull conversationalist that he’s fallen asleep rather than talk to you?” Her expression was teasing, and he admired how full of aplomb she was, given that she was clearly completely out of her element here. And yet was still holding her own.

“I am an excellent conversationalist. When I am not rescuing damsels in distress—” he began.