by Vanessa Kelly, Christi Caldwell, Theresa Romain, Shana Galen
With a remarkable crack in his usually unflappable composure, Godrick dragged a hand through his hair.
And she braced for his argument.
“You were right. 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 One where noble connections dictated unions and superseded happiness.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, how... hollow she felt that it wasn’t more. She nodded slowly. “Of course.”
Godrick held out his palm, and she eyed those outstretched fingers for a long moment. Then she took his hand.
He immediately folded 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.
She stared at their interlocked digits as the heat of his touch burned her flesh.
Chapter Six
* * *
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 met her eyes. She 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. “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.
Godrick took him 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.
For a moment, he thought she might stalk off. Then, she’d always been fearless, unwilling to back down from a challenge. She got herself into the proper position and held her palms down.
Perfect. It was a perfect stance. Only—his gaze slid lower, lower still, to her hips. The fabric of her muslin dress strained against her hips and her perfectly rounded buttocks. His fingers twitched with the need to take her in his arms and drag her close. And what had begun as a lesson for her became a study in torture for himself.
“Do you approve?”
His neck heated, and he immediately jerked his attention upward.
She arched a crimson eyebrow and wagged her fists. He searched for a hint of knowing, but where societal ladies had sought to seduce the duke’s fighting son, Patience Storm now eyed him with the same frustration she had her brother.
Struggling to reclaim his footing, he walked a slow path around her. “Your stance is flawless,” he conceded. He ran a fingertip from her elbow up to her knuckles, and she trembled.
Ah, so she was aware of him. A primitive wave of triumph went through him, and he schooled his features, continuing his aloof study.
Dropping to his haunches, he reached for her hem. She gasped and immediately danced out of his reach. “What are you doing?” she demanded on an explosive whisper. She glanced frantically about.
He smiled slowly. “Generally, my students are of the pant-wearing persuasion, Miss Storm,” he said, infusing an edge of dryness. “As such, I can’t adequately assess your legs.”
Her cheeks flamed the crimson color of her hair as he crept forward and reached for her hem.
Patience yelped. “Lord Godrick, I am not one of your students.”
“Do you want to help your brother?”
Since she was a young woman, recently arrived in London to help care for her family, she’d always put her kin before herself. As such, it was a dirty trick on his part. And he was all the more shameful for having no regrets for it. She pursed her mouth and then stiffly settled herself into position. Fighting the urge to work his gaze over her willowy form, he slowly lifted her hem.
“I expect you have a good deal of experience lifting hems,” she muttered.
Godrick paused with the garment just above her trim ankles. His lips twitched. “If I did not know better, I would say you are jealous.” It came out in jest. Of course, with the years of hatred she’d carried, she likely wouldn’t give a jot whose bed he was in, as long as it wasn’t hers.
Patience dissolved into a strangled, choking fit. “I am decidedly not jealous, Lord Godrick. At all.” She fanned her cheeks. “It was merely an observation of London’s favorite prizefighter and a duke’s dashing son.” She promptly closed her mouth.
She’d been reading the gossip columns that mentioned his pursuits. “The duke’s dashing son?” he repeated back slowly.
“Oh, stop looking so smug with yourself,” she groused, bringing him back to his task.
A lightness filled his chest that she had paid attention. For since she had, mayhap she did, in fact, still care. Returning to the task at hand, he put all his effort into studying her positioning. He raised the skirts to her knees, baring her legs, and then froze.
Oh, God, this was folly. Of all the mistakes he’d made with and around this woman, this was certainly not the greatest or gravest one, but certainly a dangerous one. “Your legs are…” Long and graceful. He forced words out past a thickened throat. “Properly positioned. Weight forward. Knees bent.”
He stood. “Now, throw me a left jab.”
Without hesitation, she tossed a hook just as he put his elbow up and angled right. She jerked, and her strike barely grazed his upper right arm. Godrick caught her hand in his and retained it in his grip. “You can do everything true to form, but it all changes based on the whim of your opponent. The only thing you can do in the ring is what feels right to you.”
“His improper fists—”
“Feel right to him,” he finished for her. “That is more important sometimes than everything a man can learn about proper form.”
“There was never anything conventional about you,” she said softly to herself. A wistful smile hovered on her lips, a gentle expression of mirth that momentarily transported him to a time when they’d been teasing, carefree lovers and that same grin had graced her lips after they’d first made love.
I am lost.
With a groan, he reached up and drew her down to the floor. He cupped her nape and covered her mouth with his.
She stiffened and then, with a little moan, twined her arms about his neck, angling herself to better receive his kiss. Their lips met in a violent explosion. It was an embrace stripped of the gentleness they’d once shared. She opened her mouth, and he thrust his tongue inside. Their tongues met in an age-old primitive dance that sent fire thrumming through his veins. It threatened to burn him from the inside out and, by God, damned if he wouldn’t be happy to go up in that conflagration.
His breath came hard and fast, blending with her own quick intakes. Fueled by the evidence of her desire, Godrick worked his hands over her body, reacquainting himself with the feel of her, the curves of her hips, the swell of her buttocks. He dragged her close, and his shaft prodded the flat of her belly. He groaned and drew his lips back.
She let out a little mewl of protest, but he trailed kisses from the corner of her lush mouth, lower, worshiping the place where her pulse pounded. “I have missed you,” he rasped. Patience moaned and angled her head to better receive his ministrations. He suckled and nipped at the flesh. So many nights after they’d parted he would lie awake with the memory of her, and them together, consuming him. A further penance, never again having her in his arms—until now.
“Godrick,” she whimpered when he trailed kisses along the modest swell of her décolletage. He cupped her nape and laid claim to her mouth once more.
A faint click penetrated the haze of desire blanketing his senses. He jerked his head up and swallowed a curse as Ailesbury entered the club. Godrick jumped up and helped Patience stand.
Patience blinked wildly. “What...?”
His friend called out. “Where in blazes are your serv—?”
Patience gasped, that soft exhalation damning and revealing.
Ailesbury stopped in his tracks and looked first to Godrick and then to her. It would take but a single glance at Patience’s swollen lips, flushed cheeks, and disheveled curls to ascertain precisely what they’d been doing. The other gentleman, however, demonstrated the same cool he was noted for in all Society. “Forgive me.” He swiftly dropped a bow. “I was unaware you were in the middle of a...lesson.”
Furiously blushing, Patience wrung the fabric of her skirts.
“Miss Storm and I just concluded our meeting. Isn’t that correct, Miss Storm?”
She nodded jerkily. “Yes,” she said on a rush. “I thank you for... the lesson. If you’ll excuse me?” She sank into a hasty curtsy. “My brother awaits.” Whipping around on her heel, she hurried from the roped-off area and, studiously avoiding Ailesbury’s eyes, bolted from the club.
