“How is his short-range hook?” His deep baritone washed over her, warming like the hot London, summer sun.
“H-His weakness.” She prayed he’d not detected that faint stammer.
“Like Edwin,” he murmured.
“Like Edwin,” she agreed. Her eldest brother, however, had been weak in many ways… long before he’d lost vision in his right eye.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and she parted the curtains. Patience puzzled her brow.
“It is warm,” he explained. “I thought we might be better served meeting outside.”
In Hyde Park. At Kensington Gardens. It had been the first place he’d escorted her when he’d begun courting her all those years ago. Only, she’d been too naïve and in love to see that a gentleman with honorable intentions wouldn’t have escorted her at night, when the moon hung in the sky and the ton sought out their evening’s pleasures. Not wanting him to know that this park mattered to her for the time they’d spent here, she reached past him and shoved the door open.
His driver stood in wait and handed her down.
Patience’s feet settled on the ground, and to give her hands something to do, she snapped her skirts. Side by side, they entered the park. The lingering light of the day battled for supremacy on the horizon with the night sky. As they walked, she let the fragrant scent of summer blooms fill her nostrils. Calming.
In the end, it was Godrick who broke the silence. “You should have come to me.”
She stumbled a step and quickly righted herself. For a moment, she considered pretending that she didn’t understand his meaning. “Why would I do that?” she asked, her voice containing a plaintive thread. “We’d had one year together.” Patience bit the inside of her lower lip, hard. “And even that was built on lies.” Had he expected that she would have gone to him and pleaded for help after they’d lost all?
He flinched. “I deserve that.” Damn him. Why couldn’t he be the cocksure nobleman who expected the world was his due? Because he’d never been that kind of man… Men born to the peerage didn’t build a fortune in fighting or open clubs to train other fighters. They did, however, marry proper English ladies. Not women such as she.
They needed to have this out between them. If they were to help Sam and be in each other’s company over the coming weeks, it all needed to be said. Needed to be said, too, if she wanted to survive these next weeks, unscathed.
“I want to talk of us,” he said quietly.
Their thoughts had always moved in a synchronic harmony. “There is no us,” she whispered.
His face spasmed, and he gently cupped her shoulder. “There could have been.” Could have been. Not could be.
Where had that silly thought come from? Of course there could never be anything. Not with the lies and the station divide. “No, there couldn’t. Because duke’s sons do not marry seamstress’ daughters. Or fighter’s kin.” It was one thing to be a champion fighter among the shopkeepers and men dealing in trade. It was altogether different with the nobility. They might as well have orbited in different universes.
With an infinite gentleness that threatened to shatter her, Godrick guided her around to face him. “I never cared about your station.”
She drew back, hating him for rousing every insecurity she’d ever carried for her birthright. “There is no point in speaking of it.” What did he want of her? Forgiveness? A future together? She cringed. Where had that come from?
“Sam,” he murmured.
She blinked slowly. Sam?
“Do you believe he can beat King?”
Of course. That was the purpose of their being together. “No.” Patience shook her head. “Not as he is now. Edwin taught him to throw as hard as you can, as fast as you can.” Their eldest brother had never been about finesse in battle. “He broke his knuckles three years ago for that guidance.”
Looping his arms at his back, Godrick nodded contemplatively and strolled forward.
She hesitated and then quickened her stride to keep up. “He’s not hopeless,” she hurried to reassure him, lest he change his mind. The most sought-after instructor in London, he had reason to be wary of taking on a mere boy picked to lose the biggest fight of the century.
Godrick gave her a sideways look. “Do you believe I’m more worried about my own reputation?”
“No?”
At her denial that was more a question than anything, he snorted. “A man is not defined by his connections to another. That goes for nobility and fighters.”
Admiration pulled at her. The men in her life, including her late father, had worried about their reputations more than anything. The late Tom Storm had ingrained into them that it was all a person had. In the streets of London and in the ballrooms she’d never step foot within, it governed a person’s existence. The gentlemen her father had trained, however, had always treated the Storms as inferior. Lesser people for their lot.
Suddenly, Godrick stopped, and she drew to a quick halt. He stood, staring down at a cluster of buttercups. The whisper of a memory flitted forward.
I’ll know all your secrets, Miss Storm… beginning with… whether or not you are a lover… of butter…
The long-ago laughter trilled around her mind. Fiddling with the latch of her cloak, she glanced over her shoulder. “W-We should return. I…” Godrick sank to his haunches beside those small, fragile yellow blooms. He plucked one, and her throat worked. Please do not… Do not wake any more remembrances than you already have…
“How much has changed in ten years,” he murmured, more to himself. A lifetime had passed since they’d parted. Through it, so many heartbreaks that he’d not been part of. Godrick continued to eye that flower, turning it over in his gloveless palm as though the bud contained the answer to life. He came to his feet. She didn’t know how to account for this peculiar melancholy when he set aside the flower. “It was not all a lie, Patience,” he said suddenly, unexpectedly. “Surely you know that?”
The wounds cracked open, as fresh now as they’d been ten years earlier. “How could I know that? I gave you my heart,” she whispered, touching her hand to her breast. “My body.” The muscles of his face twisted in a mirror of her own pain. “And all along there was another.”
Godrick turned his callused palms up. “A woman I hadn’t even met.”
“But you were bound to her,” she exclaimed, and her voice carried in the empty grounds of Hyde Park. What had become of the young lady who’d shown up at her home and introduced herself, vitriol in her eyes and words of mockery on her lips?
With a remarkable crack in his usually unflappable composure, Godrick dragged a hand through his hair.
And she braced for his argument.
“You are right. Then and now. I was a boy,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t pardon what I did. I didn’t mean to enter your family’s home and fall in love with you. But every day we were together, I did, more and more. I convinced myself that once I told Lady Constance of you… of my love for you, she would free me of any archaic arrangement our families had reached when we were mere children.”
He spoke of a world she didn’t understand. One where noble connections dictated unions and superseded happiness. Unlike her existence. Where women worked alongside their husbands and established marriages based on love and fondness, as Patience’s own parents’ union had been testament to. “What do you want?” she asked tiredly, feeling vastly older than her eight and twenty years.
He swept his gaze over her face. “I want us to strike a truce,” he said solemnly. “I want us to help Sam together, and”—her breath snagged in her chest—“when we are finished, I hope you can live without hatred of me.”
That was what he wished? His request was an honorable one, and yet, once more, how… hollow she felt that it wasn’t more he wished for. She forced herself to nod. “Of course.”
Godrick held out his palm, and she eyed those outstretched fingers for a long moment. Then she took his hand.
He immediately f
olded her palm in his larger one. There was such a comforting strength and power to it. A hand that had felled some of the greatest fighters England had ever seen and yet capable of such infinite tenderness. There’d always been a tenderness to it.
She stared at their interlocked digits as the heat of his touch burned her flesh.
How she’d missed him.
Chapter 6
Ten years earlier, Patience had accused Godrick of being the most selfish bastard in all of England.
Now, after three weeks together, having settled into a truce, she was proven correct once more. For even with the truce struck, he wanted more with her. He wanted the laughter and teasing.
And more… he wanted her love.
In the absence of those gifts, he’d take her as she was just then—on the edge of the ring, assessing his latest lesson with Sam.
With the young man standing at the center of the ring, Godrick carefully studied him. Patience had, of course, been accurate in her assessment. “Arms bent at ninety degrees, Sam,” he schooled and displayed the proper angling. Twenty-one days of instruction, and the boy stubbornly held on to his rigid posture and stance.
Sam stretched his forearms and then placed them up.
It was hard to teach a fighter who’d already had the lessons of another ingrained. Where Tom Storm had been skilled and patient and capable, that skill had not passed down to Edwin Storm. The brash man had been his father’s opposite in every way. The damned brother who’d let the care of his family fall to Patience.
He glanced briefly over to where she took up the same spot, a sentry of sorts, that she had since Godrick began Sam’s lessons. Her creased brow and intent eyes spoke to her focus. Yes, she was the only woman in the realm who’d enter his club and not only watch a fighting lesson, but dole out advice. He grinned.
With the softness of her turquoise eyes, she was so very different from the wary, snapping young woman to storm his salon almost a month ago. Godrick held his palms up. “Now jab. Hit my open fist. Left. Right.” He let his instructions fly, fast and furious.
Panting, Sam alternated quick jabs to Godrick’s open palms. The slap of flesh striking flesh filled the empty club.
“Too hard, Sam,” she called out.
Her brother shot a glance back, and Godrick instantly dealt the younger man a forgiving, if potent, punch as a reminder.
Sam grunted. “Damn it, Patience. You aren’t supposed to call out to a man when he’s training.” Blood trickled from his nose, and he blotted it with the back of his hand.
With every day that passed, there was an increasing ease in Patience’s presence around Godrick, but with it, there was also an increasing tension. An unease revealed in her eyes. She was worried about the fight. That much was clear with her growing restlessness during Sam’s lessons.
“You need to focus, Sam,” he said for the boy’s benefit. “Yours will be the most attended fight in decades.” The young man paled. Yes, Patience was correct. Her brother loved fighting, but where some men thrived off the adulation and crowds, Sam Storm was clearly not his father’s son in that regard. And yet, Godrick wouldn’t do the young man any favors by coddling him, and not speaking on exactly what was to come. No… if Godrick failed to let Sam know precisely what he’d be facing, then he’d be failing Patience’s brother. “You’re going to have men of every station in the audience. Lords and sailors. Soldiers. It will be so loud that you won’t even hear the sound of your strike.”
Sam jutted his chin, and Godrick could all but see the worry parading through the other man’s eyes. “My usual fights are smaller,” he confided.
That willingness to share his vulnerability marked Sam Storm so very different than the other Storm brother: rash, brash, and arrogant. Edwin would have always been too proud to reveal any hint of ‘weakness’.
Godrick took Sam by the shoulders and squeezed. “Your father once told me that none of this”—one hand still on his student, he gestured to the empty club—“matters. Only what happens here”—he pointed to their feet—“and here”—he motioned between them. “But most importantly”—he thumped a fist against his chest—“here.” Feeling Patience’s gaze on him, he looked over.
Emotion spilled from her eyes. “Thank you,” she mouthed, and it was a testament to the hold she’d always have on him that his heart quickened as it had in their youth. She smiled at him and nodded at Sam. Jerking his focus back to her brother, he slapped him on the back. “Let them go, and focus on everything within your control.”
There was a visible easing of tension from the smaller man’s lean frame. Godrick put his fists up. “Let us go again.”
With Patience periodically calling out instructions, they proceeded to fight. Breathing heavily, Godrick shot a fist out, catching Sam in the solar plexus. His student hissed, but quickly drew his arms close, protecting his midsection from another attack. “King’s a monster.” He panted, ducking Sam’s blow. He held up a hand, staying their match. “He’s taller than I am by two inches.” At six feet, four inches, Godrick would never be considered short by anyone’s standards. “I want you to keep your posture more upright,” he said, demonstrating the unconventional stance.
Sam instantly adjusted his wiry frame and put his palms up.
Patience made a sound of protest. “That isn’t proper form.”
Godrick didn’t take his attention from his student. “He’s going to need a longer reach.” He assessed Sam. “Strike.”
The younger man shot his palm out.
“Keep your weight forward,” she called. With hands on hips and a fierce set to her mouth, she could have been the owner of Godrick’s club. “Palms down, Sam,” she commanded. “You have just one more week—”
The younger man threw his arms up. “Damn it, Patience. Doesn’t feel natural.” He brushed his forearm over the blood still leaking from his injured nose.
“If it doesn’t feel natural, then palms up,” Godrick instructed, patting him on the back.
From the side, Patience sputtered. “But he’s going to break his—”
“You’re not my damned teacher,” her brother cried out. Red splotches colored his cheeks as he shouted his frustration. “You spent years instructing me, and how well have I done with your lessons?”
She recoiled. Hurt and regret glittered in her expressive eyes. The sight of her suffering speared Godrick. Those same sentiments she’d worn all those years ago. Ones that haunted him to this day. “We’re done here for the day, Sam,” Godrick said quietly. He squeezed his shoulder. “You’re ready.” Sam’s fighting style was unlike any and every fighter he had fought or trained, but it was his own, and one week out from the fight, he’d have him confident in that style.
A protest sprung to the boy’s lips, and he glowered at Patience. “Go,” Godrick repeated for his ears alone. “I’ll speak to her.”
With a growl, Sam stalked off and hurried into his garments. “Sam…” His sister came over, jacket in one hand. He shrugged off her touch and stormed from the club.
Silence lingered in his wake.
Godrick strolled over to her, and she whipped her eyes up to his. “He’s going to get kill—”
“He’s ready,” he continued over her.
“—ed,” she finished. She began to pace. “He’s going to be killed. We should have addressed his palms weeks a—”
He touched his fingertips to her lips, silencing her. Her breath caught in a soft inhalation. “It’s going to be fine.”
Patience caught her lower lip. Doubt warred in her eyes. “It won’t,” she said hoarsely, and the hint of desperation hit him harder than any blow he’d been dealt. For it spoke to her need for those funds and the struggle she’d known. She deserved more. So much more.
“Come with me,” he said quietly.
“What?”
Taking her by the hand, he guided her over to the fighting ring and parted the ropes.
She looked from them to him. “I don’t under—?”
He tilted his head. “Get inside.”
Narrowing her eyes, she didn’t take her gaze from him as she surprisingly complied.
“Hands up,” he instructed.
Patience touched her hand to her chest. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. Your father instructed you how to…”
Her lips pulled up in a smile. “Oh, hush. You know what I meant.”
“You talk more than any fighter I know, Miss Storm,” he teased.
“I’m not a fighter.” She looked at the tips of her boots.
“Don’t be silly. Of course you are. It’s in your blood. It’s why you instruct Sam and why you come here every morn for his lessons. It’s why you observed my sessions with your father and every other gentleman to come to Tom Storm’s club.” That promptly silenced her. Did she believe he didn’t know that about her? Godrick tapped his fists together and held them aloft. “Arms up and in position.”
She folded those long, graceful limbs at her chest. “You and my father were of an opinion that a lady had no place taking part in your lessons.” There was a challenge there, and she was right for it. When he was twenty, he’d been full of such arrogance it had destroyed him. He’d believed himself capable of disentangling himself from a childhood betrothal and maintaining happiness with Patience, keeping her unawares—until it had been too late.
“Yes,” he concurred. “But I was young and foolish.”
Did he imagine the smile hovering on her lips? “And now you are old and wise?”
He winked. “Just the latter, love.”
A laugh bubbled past her lips, the husky contralto washing over him, and he joined in. How very good it felt to simply laugh again. After he’d lost her from his life, his had been a driven one. From the moment Patience had vowed never to see him again, he’d dedicated all his efforts, energies, and thoughts to fighting. Brokenhearted by mistakes for which only he was to blame, he’d found purpose in building his empire here. Attaining wealth and power because the alternative would have been to go mad.
Her smile fell.
Fighting For His Lady Page 6
