by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
The air left him on a swift exhale. From across the two hundred paces separating them, the woman lifted her chin up at a mutinous angle and met his stare with familiar turquoise eyes that had haunted his sleeping and waking memories.
And the temptation to gaze at her was the kind of temptation that had seen Adam fall in that fated garden. Since the moment he’d first met her, she’d had an enigmatic pull. No one would ever look at her and see a typical English beauty, but for Godrick, her wide mooneyes, as he’d called them, and her pert nose marked her... unique. Different than all those English misses with their golden curls.
Nichols plowed a fist into Godrick’s jaw and knocked him square on his arse.
While stars danced in his vision, he heard his pulse race loudly in his ears.
By Christ, it was Patience Storm.
Chapter Three
* * *
According to Patience's late father, in any exchange—in a fight or in a business meeting—one must claim the upper hand. Always be in complete control of one’s wits.
By Godrick Gunnery’s rounded eyes, right before he’d taken a blow to the jaw, she had claimed that pivotal stance. And yet, God help her, even with him sprawled on his buttocks, she was reduced to the same awestruck girl she’d always been around him.
Her mouth went dry. He was magnificent. Even more so with the passage of time. Ten years earlier, he’d been lean and wiry. Now, he bore a warrior’s physique... and Patience hated herself for noticing as much. Hated that Godrick Gunnery had not become soft or bald or lazy, but powerful in every way. From his form to his fighting empire.
Thankful for the distraction that had cost him his footing, and a bruised jaw, Patience folded her hands before her and sought to gain control of the tumult in being this close to him.
In the same room.
Separated by two hundred paces.
When the only time she’d promised to ever see him again was if hell froze over.
Nursing his jaw, Godrick came slowly to his feet, all six feet, four inches of raw, masculine strength. That piercing green stare leveled on her shook the resolve she’d built these two days before coming here. She didn’t know what she’d expected of his reaction to seeing her again. When last they’d seen each other, painful barbs and accusations had flown that no couple could ever recover from. His gaze, even with the distance between them, glinted with the cynicism that came from life and age and hurt.
She bit the inside of her cheek and immediately thrust aside that futile, foolish thought. Gain control of your senses, Patience Storm. I sought him out. On a matter of business. Willing to set aside our broken past, in order to save my family and collect a debt.
It hardly mattered what they’d said to each other, or what they’d shared in that fleeting year together.
“Lord Godrick,” she called, the first to break the stretch of silence. With the handful of patrons gawking at her as though she were a Royal Circus oddity on display, Patience marched forward. How am I this calm? How, when her heart knocked painfully against her rib cage?
Ever the prizefighter, Godrick carefully followed her every movement until she stopped a handful of steps away from him. Mayhap he’ll send me away? Or worse, mayhap he’ll mock me for that long-ago pledge to sooner pluck out my eyeballs than set my gaze on him again. Except... he eyed her through thick, chestnut lashes. “Miss Storm.” He paused and arched an eyebrow. “That is, assuming you’re not—”
“I’m not married,” she quickly interrupted, stealing another glance at their audience. Stoic as stone, he gave no indication that her admission mattered in any way. And why should he care if she were a spinster, widow, or bride? Her fingers shook, and to hide their tremble, she clasped them at her back.
The three gentlemen watching swiveled their attention from her to Godrick and then back to her. Horror, fascination, and shock marred their faces in equal measure. But then it wasn’t every day a woman bold as she pleased entered this establishment.
She was not most women and certainly not a lady. The coarse fabric of her drab brown skirts and her gloveless, callused palms were physical proof of that. Patience scrabbled with her skirts. Long ago, she’d ceased to care what any member of the peerage thought about her. Or she’d believed she had. Only to be proven a liar before these strangers and the only man who’d ever mattered to her.
Godrick followed her gaze to the men standing as silent but rabid observers. “Gentlemen,” he called. “If you’ll excuse me? There is a matter of business I... must see to.”
A matter of business. That was precisely what her meeting here was this day. Business. A favor. She cringed, curling her toes into the soles of her slippers.
The gentlemen hurried out of Godrick’s path with a deference that no doubt came from not only his position as a duke’s son, but also as an esteemed fighter. With each step that brought him closer, his unyielding gaze remained on her face, and she damned him for that remarkable cool.
He paused before her, and she tilted her head to meet his gaze squarely. He was the only man around whom she felt small and diminutive. The sandalwood scent of years ago still clung to his skin, blended now with the hint of brandy and sage. She closed her eyes briefly, damning her response. Get control of yourself, Patience. She opened her mouth to speak, but Godrick held a hand up.
“The unexpectedness of this... reunion surely warrants a degree of privacy,” he suggested in hushed tones that barely reached her ears.
Patience glanced over at the trio still assembled, and they hurriedly looked away. “Yes, of course.” After all, what had brought her here was not a matter that could or would be resolved in just a handful of moments. Particularly not with the history between them.
Gesturing her forward, he fell into step with her. To calm her nerves, she evaluated his club. By the accounts she’d once read of him, he’d built a salon to rival Gentleman Jackson’s. The location of his establishment alone bespoke wealth. Kitted out as it was, the studio equipment demonstrated even greater evidence of his wealth.
This was what he’d done with his life and time. Where most noblemen would have lived in their lavish Mayfair residences, sustained by memories of their greatness and glory, Godrick had built not only a name but also wealth, with his own hands.
And I’ve come here like a beggar woman, pleading a favor...
Shame stung her mouth, and she choked it back. How very similar this meeting was to another long-ago day. She felt the same crippling humiliation of storming a different club—her father’s—to find out the depth of his treachery. Now, she’d come to beg that same man for a favor. She clutched her reticule close, hating this helplessness.
They arrived at Godrick’s office, and he motioned her ahead of him.
As soon as they’d entered, he closed the door, sealing them in. Alone. Her palms moistened as the realness of being here with him penetrated the shock of their first exchange after all these years. To give her fingers something to do, she fiddled with the clasp of her wool cloak.
He reached out to collect the garment. “May I?”
She quickly dropped her arms. Her reticule hung uselessly at her side. Letting him take her cloak would reveal the stitched and restitched again dress she wore. “No,” she said hurriedly, shame pulling that rapid denial from her. How very different her garments now were from the satins and silks she’d once donned. “That will not be necessary.”
He nodded. “Please,” he said solemnly. “Won’t you sit?” There was nothing warm or inviting in that request. He may as well have been a stranger. But then, that was precisely what he’d always been. She followed his gesture to the two red velvet upholstered chairs at the front of his desk.
Nodding jerkily, Patience claimed one of the indicated seats. Moving around his desk, Godrick sat and folded his hands before him. “I must confess to some surprise. Or has hell frozen over, Miss Storm?”
Having that long-ago vow hurled in her face sent further heat rushing up her neck. That final da
y together, hurtful words had been tossed. Hateful ones. Ones she’d given when the sting of betrayal had ravaged her heart. Ones he’d deserved, however. Then, she’d been young. Far less in control of her emotions and self. With smooth movements, she fished inside her reticule. Feeling his gaze, she struggled to retain her calm. She withdrew a single sheet and slid it across the desk.
“What is this?” he asked, making no move to take it.
“You might recall my father and your time spent with him.” It wasn’t a question but a mocking charge that earned a slight scowl from the gentleman. What did that expression speak to? Annoyance that she’d question him? Anger that she’d minimize the devotion shared between mentor and apprentice? As soon as the thought slid in, she shoved it back. Of course not. He’d demonstrated the depth of his caring years earlier. Enlivened by that reminder, she pointed to the sheet. “This is a detailed accounting of services my father provided you.”
That snagged his notice. He briefly dipped his gaze to the sheet. His expression, however, may as well have been carved of stone, and she damned that calm.
“By my accountings, not a single pence was paid for his s-services,” she faltered. With his love for Godrick, her father would be tossing in his grave if he heard his daughter now. He’d always been a fool in the ways that most mattered. Their financial straits were proof enough of that.
At last, Godrick picked up the page and worked his gaze over it. “What are you saying?” he asked, curiosity lacing the inquiry.
Patience drew in a deep breath and then, bringing her shoulders back, held his emerald gaze. “As payment was never issued, I’ve come to demand it in the form of your services.” Silence met her bold challenge, punctuated by the ticking clock.
He gave no outward reaction that he’d so much as heard her demand. And then... “Payment.”
The statement was so emotionlessly delivered that it rattled her already frayed nerves. For a year, they’d shared everything. There were now ten between them. As such, this man was not a friend. Nor lover. He was nothing more than a stranger with a shared past. She tipped her chin up and nodded once.
Stretching his legs out in front of him, Godrick reclined in his chair. “I see.” The tension spilling from his frame belied his casual posture. “Three thousand pounds?” There was a slight dryness underscoring the query.
She curled her toes into the soles of her boots and cleared her throat. “Indeed.” Patience gave a little flick of her hand. “Which is, of course, a vast sum. As such, payment may be rendered in the form of services to my brother Sam.”
* * *
Early in their parting those ten years ago, Godrick had entertained thoughts of again seeing Patience Storm. In those imagined meetings and exchanges, it was their love for each other that drove that reunion. It had been foolish to even entertain a reunion with her for any reason. At their last meeting, she’d told him hell would freeze over before she forgave him, and then she’d wished him a fiery, painful death.
Never, in all his imaginings, had he expected her to come and put a demand of payment before him. Hating that she’d unsettled him, he set down the paper and tapped his fingertips together.
She cleared her throat, as she’d always been wont to do, a telltale hint of her nervousness. And then she nodded. Good, so she wasn’t as unflappable as she let on. Given how she’d upended his world this morn, there came calm in knowing he was not alone.
To give his fingers something to do, he picked up that scrap once more. Three thousand pounds.
“It is an exorbitant amount.”
Despite his tumult, a grin pulled at his lips. It was a veritable fortune. To most. Leaning forward, Godrick drew open his desk drawer and fished out a page. He reached for his pen and dipped it into the crystal inkwell. The scratch of his pen was noisy in the otherwise quiet room as he wrote. Setting the pen aside, he sprinkled some powder on the ink to speed the drying and then blew on it. “Here you are, Miss Storm,” he said evenly, handing over the page. She could have asked for his club and would have been deserving of it.
Patience furrowed her brow, looking between him and the sheet. “What is this?”
“Three thousand pounds. I believe that was your request?”
She opened and closed her mouth. Those full, wide lips forced him back to a different time, and an unwanted hungering for this woman who continued to haunt his thoughts all these years later went through him. “But... but...”
“Did you not request payment?” He laid the page on his desk. “This is your payment.”
“In the form of services,” she said softly. “I demanded you instruct Sam.”
“It will never be said I’m a man who does not pay my debts. The three thousand pounds are yours, and we shall consider my debt to your father paid. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Godrick pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ve a lesson.”
Patience made no move to rise. Instead, she continued to eye the note he’d filled out in the requested amount. She worried at her lower lip, indecision warring in her eyes. “Sam has a fight,” she finally said.
God, there had never been a more proud woman than this one before him. His chest tightened all the more. He dangled before her a fortune that any other woman, regardless of station, would have clutched in her fingers and made off with. She deserved that and so much more from him. She’d been his greatest failing. A woman who’d trusted him, whom he’d repaid with half-truths and then, ultimately, the ruin of her brother’s fighting days. His gut clenched.
In a bid for calm, Godrick folded his arms at his chest. He tipped his chin up, urging her on.
“The match is with—”
“King.”
Surprise rounded her eyes.
“It is my job to know about the fighting world,” he explained. Had they lived a life together these past ten years, she would have known that. Would have known that it had never been about being a duke’s son, or marrying a powerful peer’s daughter, or even having a fortune. It had been about having this world built with his own hands and being master of it. A world he’d wanted to share with her... before he’d gone and bungled it all.
Patience coughed into her hand. “Yes, well, then you know”—she hesitated—“he has a lot to learn. My father fell ill before he could properly school Sam. My brother is reckless, impulsive, and in need of instruction.”
“And what of Edwin?” Her miserable, bitter brother had turned Godrick away when he’d come to pay his respects to his mentor and then attacked him in the street. Guilt knifed at him. One blow to Edwin Storm’s head had seen him blind. Did Patience know that he had done that? Surely if she did, she’d not be here even now.
She just shook her head. At the tension in her mouth, questions stirred, but he left them unasked. Patience Storm was asking him for help. It was a moment he’d spent countless years hoping for. The day she would come back to him, but as time had marched on, her hatred had proven stronger than anything they’d shared. Somewhere along the way, he’d managed to live a life without her in it, to shut her out. To let her and the other Storm siblings back into his life would only weaken him in ways he no longer wanted to be weak. But God help him, he wanted her still.
“We both know it is best for you to simply take the payment due,” he said solemnly, without malice. To have her here would only stir the hurts that would never fully die.
The tremble in her fingers and unease in her eyes spoke to that truth.
She glanced again at the page and then, mutinous as she’d always been, pressed her lips firmly together. “I’m not taking your damned coin. Like I’m some dox—” Is that what she believed? That he offered recompense for the one night he’d known in her arms? She hopped to her feet. “This was a mistake,” she said tightly. There had been any number of follies between them. Most of them his fault and certainly meriting her resentment. Patience crushed the sheet in her fingers and handed it back. He accepted the page without hesitation.
Their fingers brushed, th
e charge as electric now as it had been the first time they’d touched. Only... he studied the dry, coarse skin. The muscles of his stomach contracted.
The always-too-proud woman yanked her fingers back and buried them in the folds of her skirt. Her cheeks flamed red, and she dared him with her eyes to say anything. And God help him... he couldn’t. Not when presented with evidence of how she’d lived her life these past ten years.
Dropping a stiff curtsy, Patience strode for the door.
Let her go. It is better this way... She’d been correct years earlier when she’d accused him of being undeserving of love.
Goddamn it.
Ultimately, even as it could only be perilous being back in her life, he did owe her family a debt. “Patience,” he barked as she grabbed the door handle.
She froze, not deigning to glance back.
“Bring him ’round on the morrow. We’ll begin at seven o’clock in the morning.”
Patience swung around so quickly her skirts swirled about her ankles. She narrowed her eyes and searched a cynical gaze over his face.
I am the reason for her wariness. I taught her to question a man’s motives and word...
God, how he despised himself still.
She nodded slowly. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
He cringed, hating the desperate gratitude there, that sentiment more telling than any words she could give him.
Again, it was settled. He should let her go. But he’d seen those damned calluses. “Patience?” he called out again. In all his musings of her, he’d had her relegated as the girl she’d been, taken care of by the funds amassed by her father, the late great fighter. He’d even seen her miserable brother maintaining the family’s fighting name. She should have been attired in satins and silks and bonnets. Never had he imagined her in threadbare garments with callused palms. “You are”—he hesitated—“well?”
