Fighting For His Lady

by Christi Caldwell

  “There should have been,” Edwin cried.

  She made herself be absolutely calm in the face of his rage. “No debts were owed, Edwin.” Even when she’d gone to him… she’d known that to be true.

  A sound of disgust escaped her brother, and he slashed a hand dismissively across the air.

  And yet, she only spoke the truth. Oh, when she’d gone to him, she’d spoken to Godrick about a ‘debt to be paid’. She’d, however, used it as a way of saving pride. And how she despised herself for having been unable to just ask Godrick for help; seeing now how very much of Edwin’s obstinance lived in her. When she’d gone to him, when he could have sent her away, he’d instead agreed to help Sam. Agreed when the boy’s own brother hadn’t. “Godrick Gunnery offered our family a small fortune.” With every word spoken, her fury grew. She took a step toward him. Then another, and another, until only a hairsbreadth of space separated them. “He owns one of the premier fighting salons in London and took Sam in and trained him each day. And expected nothing in return.”

  Edwin scoffed. “Except a place in your be—”

  She shot her palm out, and it connected solidly with his cheek, whipping his head back and silencing the remainder of his vile words.

  Edwin cradled that flesh, reddening with the lingering imprint of her palm. “You Storms,” he seethed, glancing between his sisters. “You all always chose Gunnery. But just as he didn’t deny he’d wronged you before”—he jabbed an unsteady finger back and forth between them—“hiiis flight from here is proof of what ahhh say.” With that, Edwin stumbled away and, tripping over himself, stormed from their rooms.

  He slammed the door so hard it shook in its foundation.

  Patience stood there as the moments ticked by. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Edwin’s damning accusations lingered in the tension-laden air.

  “I don’t believe him,” Ruth said solemnly. “And neither do you. Godrick wouldn’t do that. Not without reason and certainly not intentionally.”

  Patience let her sister’s words roll around her mind.

  No, Godrick wouldn’t have hurt Edwin. She worried at her lower lip, and yet, he’d rushed off anyway. Leaving only questions in his wake.

  He’d come professing his love and been about to tell her something more before Edwin’s interruption. Pressing her fingertips into her temples, Patience rubbed hard, trying to make sense of it all.

  What secrets had Godrick kept from her this time?

  Chapter 9

  The whole of London was there. The din of the crowd, comprised of lords and sailors and soldiers and beggars, filled every available space for the fight of the century. It was utter rot and rubbish for the title of a fight, given the century was only fifteen years young. But the fighting world thrived and flourished from the grand theatrics surrounding it.

  And the purse a man could win.

  Even through the raucous din, the clinking of coins as bets were placed pierced the noise.

  In times past, the crush of spectators and swell of excitement would have energized Godrick. Fueled him for the fight. Now, he stood beside his student, the young man chosen to lose the match to King, empty inside. Focus, man. I’ve wronged this family enough. I owe it to Sam Storm to be the trainer he needs.

  Giving his head a shake, he gripped Patience’s brother by the shoulders and gave a faint squeeze. “You are ready,” he said somberly, willing the boy to understand it and more… believe it.

  Sam ducked his head around the doorway and glanced out at the crowd. “There are so many people here.” With his green pallor, he looked ready to cast up the contents of his stomach.

  Memories slid forward of himself, not many years older than the boy before him now. He’d been turned out by Patience and derided and jeered by his then betrothed. Such rage and regret had filled him that he’d wanted the fight. Wanted the match to unleash every emotion until he was free of feeling.

  Even for it… the moment he’d faced his first sizable event, he’d hurled the contents of his stomach into a chamber pot before he’d gone out and fought his opponent.

  “You don’t hear them,” he said, recalling Tom Storm’s advice of long ago. “Where do you live during a match, Sam?”

  Wordlessly, the boy touched his forehead.

  “That’s right. Don’t let him in. Don’t let them in.”

  Sam knocked his fists together and then stretched his arms out. While the younger man proceeded to loosen his muscles for the battle to come, Godrick looked around the tent erected for the fight; the space filled to overflowing.

  His gaze immediately went to the lone woman present amongst a sea of lords in the coveted front seats. Ailesbury, at Godrick’s request, sat at her side. For, of course she’d be there. When he first met her, she’d been a young lady just arrived in London, his mentor’s daughter, there to care for her family. Then, she’d been no older than Ruth, and yet the weight of taking care of her siblings and even her father had fallen to her shoulders. Until he’d met Patience Storm, he’d never before known a woman of such strength. The ladies of the ton, his own mother and sister included, had lived lives of near royalty. They’d never worked with their hands, or even cared for their kin. Those tasks and roles had fallen to servants and nursemaids and tutors.

  As such, the woman she’d always been and always would be would not miss this match. No matter that her brother was slated to fight one of the greatest fighters in England… and was predicted to lose. No matter that she would be the only woman present.

  Even with the distance between them, he saw her wring her hands, the worry seeping from her eyes. And he wanted to take all that worry away. To make it his own. But more, he wanted to go through life with her at his side. His chest tightened. Following her brother’s return and Godrick’s own flight, he’d not seen her.

  And after tonight, there would be no reason to see her again.

  Focus, man… Focus…

  Sam depended on him tonight, and he’d disappointed enough Storms in the whole of his life that he’d not let this man down now.

  He shifted his attention back to where it belonged—Sam and the upcoming battle against King. Gentleman Jackson himself, chosen to announce the fight, walked through the hall. As he passed, the noise of the crowd roused to a fever pitch. Then he stopped, and the spectators fell quiet. Their previous chatter rang still in the now deafening silence.

  “Tonight, you are here to witness the greatest battle in bare-knuckle-fighting history.” Whispers stirred among the men assembled. “The Emperor.” The revered fighter swung his arms toward where Sam and Godrick waited. Their announcement was met with the requisite boos, cheers, and hisses afforded Sam as the chosen loser of the match.

  As those calls died down, Sam’s audible swallow reached his ears. Godrick gave his shoulder another slight squeeze. “It’s all rubbish, Sam. Remember that,” he said under his breath. “Worse than a poor Punch and Judy show, and if you remember that, to those people, this is nothing more than entertainment, then their calls mean nothing to you.”

  Sam gave a shaky nod and then angled his head left and then right, stretching his neck muscles.

  “The Emperor.” Gentleman Jackson directed the crowd’s attention to where the younger man stood.

  “This is your moment, Sam,” he said quietly. “Own it.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Patience’s brother started forward. Focus, Sam. Focus. It was a litany inside Godrick’s head. Not taking his gaze from the path he walked to the roped-off fighting arena, Sam gave no indication that he heard the jeers being called out to him. After he’d reached his place at the center of the ring, Godrick marched the same path and claimed a spot at the front of the tent where he could direct Sam as needed.

  Gentleman Jackson proceeded to announce King. “And now, one of the greatest fighters England has ever seen, who this evening will triumph in the Waterloo of matches and surpass the record held by”—he paused and glanced down at Godrick—“Lord God.” Through the
nonsense of King’s grandiose introduction, he smiled wryly. Early on in his own fighting career, it had been the first time in the whole of his life that being a duke’s son had been met with nothing but derision. The spectators then had wanted to see nothing more than a lofty lord get beat down by a member of their own station. Until he’d begun to win. And win. And then how very easily those same men who’d bet and cheered against him came to court his favor instead. “And now I give you… the King!”

  The arena erupted into a deafening cheer as the mountain of a man stalked in at a brisk clip, the hurried pace saying much about the fighter’s style. Shifting closer to the ring, Godrick motioned Sam over. The boy danced back. Worry shone from his eyes. “Don’t let him in here,” he reminded, tapping Sam’s left temple. “Did you see his entry?”

  “He’s a monster,” Sam muttered, his skin ashen.

  “I’m not referring to his size. We knew he was a beast.”

  Sam glanced over at his opponent once more. Hands clasped, King danced about the roped-off area with his arms aloft. “He’s arrogant,” the boy said with a dawning understanding.

  “He rushed out to the fight. He’s eager, Sam. He’s going to come out swinging right away, and he’s going to fight fast. But he’s big.” Godrick shot his final advice, quick and furious, imparting everything he could before he turned Patience’s brother over to London’s most lethal fighter. “You need to out dance him. Stay out of his reach. Move in only for the occasional blow. Wear him down.”

  Gentleman Jackson motioned Sam forward, and with measured steps, Sam met King in the middle.

  And the match began.

  *

  In the course of her eight and twenty years, Patience had observed too many fights to count. Some had been orchestrated lessons delivered in her father’s studio. Others had been actual matches her father and then the sons he’d left behind had fought. Never had her stomach knotted with this panicky dread.

  King was a monster.

  Coward that she was, she wanted to close her eyes and look away from the towering, golden-haired giant who advanced on her brother. King moved with a rapidity that was staggering for his size. She sat motionless on the bench, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. She’d witnessed many of Sam’s fights before, but never with a man of King’s caliber and build.

  Just then, King took a swing, and she surged forward in her seat, in time to the crowd’s loud cheers. But Sam angled back, and the blow missed him. A loud collective groan of disappointment swiftly followed.

  Ruthless bastards.

  King tossed another fist, catching Sam in the nose. Her brother’s head shot back, and blood sprayed from the appendage at the force of the blow. Fear knotted low in her belly.

  From where he stood directly across from her, Godrick called out something. Sam’s nod was indiscernible. Some of the tension left her shoulders. Godrick was here, and there was something so very reassuring in that. As though he’d followed her unspoken thoughts, he glanced her way and offered her a little wink before turning his entire focus back to the pair of fighters.

  Her heartbeat accelerated.

  He’d always possessed a natural calm and ease, so very much at odds with her own volatile kin. It had been one of the reasons she’d loved Godrick Gunnery.

  Love… For all that had come to pass, she loved him still.

  King charged forward, interrupting her distracted musings, and she jumped to her feet along with the crowd. Sam ducked left and then slammed a fist into King’s midsection. Through the boos and hisses, she let out one of the lone cheers. Patience reclaimed her seat alongside Godrick’s friend, the Marquess of Ailesbury. She tried to focus on the match at hand and not the fact that she sat beside a fancy lord, a man very much a part of Godrick’s world.

  Feeling his stare, she looked over.

  Through the din of the crowd, he spoke loudly. “I’ve no doubt as to your brother’s success, Miss Storm,” he vowed. “Four weeks with Godrick is far more valuable than all of King’s fights combined.”

  She mustered a smile for his benefit. Then, that was the confidence Godrick had always inspired. Her father had seen it in him the moment he’d met him. Another roar went up amongst the crowd, and they both whipped their attention forward.

  King cuffed her brother on the chin, snapping his head left. Sam went flying back several steps and landed hard on his buttocks.

  Patience sank her teeth into her lower lip and pressed her palms to her mouth. Fear threatened to swarm her senses. Oh, God. She’d been so selfishly fixed on their family’s need for the purse and Sam’s future as a fighter, she’d not allowed herself to contemplate the perils of him fighting King. Not fully anyway. He’d taken a blow that would have killed many men. The moderator of the fight leaned over and said something to her brother.

  Please, don’t get up.

  They didn’t need the monies at the expense of his life.

  Godrick shouted something indiscernible.

  Sam struggled to his feet. Giving his head a shake and dislodging drops of sweat, he lifted his fists into position.

  A murmur of appreciation filled the tent, earning a glower from King. The man wore his arrogance like a garish cloak.

  “His arrogance will be his demise,” Lord Ailesbury said at her side.

  For the young marquess’s confidence, however, the fight raged on with King quickly advancing and her brother spending more time dancing out of the other man’s reach. She alternated between following his every move and parry and looking to Godrick to gauge his confidence.

  With a piercing intensity, he assessed her brother. He angled his body in time to her brother’s steps.

  King lunged and arced his long right arm out. Sam ducked and propelled his fist into the other man’s belly, again and again. Pulse racing, Patience joined the crowd on their feet as Sam continued his ruthless assault, driving King back.

  The taller fighter stumbled.

  “Now, Sam,” she breathed.

  “Now, Sam,” Godrick thundered over the roar of the spectators.

  Her brother shot a fist out, catching his opponent square in the nose. Blood gushed from the broken appendage. King faltered, then slid unevenly to his knees and pitched forward on his face.

  The room descended into a brief, thunderous silence as the moderator glanced about, uncertainty in his every movement. He faced the crowd and then grabbed Sam’s hand, holding it aloft. “Winner.”

  Wild cheers went up.

  Crying out, Patience lifted her hands in victory as the hall shook. Dazed, Sam looked about, and Godrick climbed into the ring, rushing to his side. Her brother hurled himself into his arms.

  Tears sprang to her lashes, and she blinked them back as the two spoke, Sam nodding periodically. Then Godrick turned him back for the adulation of the spectators. Grinning like a boy of nine, and not a young man of twenty, her brother searched the crowd and then found her.

  “We did it,” he mouthed.

  She shook her head and pointed at him. “You,” she returned.

  His grin widened, and he turned his focus to the praise bestowed, basking in it.

  Sam had done it. He and Godrick. This had all been because of him.

  By the terms she’d laid out and the agreement reached, there was no reason for them to be together any longer. Her smile withered and died, and she stood amid the room of laughing strangers, aching for what had never been fated to be.

  Chapter 10

  The roar of the crowd lingered in Patience’s ears long after every last observer had filed out of the tent. Long after she sought out her small apartments above the bakeshop, her ears rang.

  A cup of tea in hand, Sam off celebrating, and her sister now sleeping, she sat beside the window and stared out at the darkened London streets.

  Three thousand pounds.

  For the first time since he’d won the match against King, that realization settled around her mind. A smile turned her lips. To the Storms, those monies were a veritable
fortune that would see them comfortably established for years to come. Three thousand pounds was a mere pittance to a man of Godrick’s wealth and influence. An amount that he’d offered to hand over to her, times three, and after nothing more than a request on her part.

  And yet… all these weeks spent with Godrick, through the fight earlier that evening, not once had she thought of that purse in anything more than in passing. Rather, she’d mourned what would be the end of their time together.

  I love you… I want a future with you…

  The teacup trembled in her hands, and she set it, half empty, on the sill. Then froze. She blinked several times, but when she opened her eyes, the sight remained.

  Of course he should be there.

  Godrick stood below. The moon bathed him in a glow. He inclined his head. His lips moved in a silent greeting. “Hello.”

  A little fluttering danced in her belly as she waved. Since the moment she’d arrived in London all those years ago and found him visiting her father, he’d caused this dangerous riot inside. One that had only deepened as she’d come to know him. The regard he’d shown her father. The gentle way he’d always been with her siblings. Treating them often as if they were his own. Even Edwin, who’d been foul and miserable, he’d attempted to meet with kindness.

  Patience lifted one finger. Jumping up, she raced over to the door, quietly pulled it open, and made her way down the narrow stairs to the alley outside. She’d always hated making this walk at night. Attending Sam’s matches, however, had often merited her making out on her own or with Ruth. With Godrick waiting at the end of the alley, gone was the trepidation. When was the last time she’d felt this secure?

  She stopped beside him as, suddenly, she was brought back to the uncertainty of their situation. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.” And it had sliced open her heart and broken the fragile organ all over.