Fighting For His Lady

by Christi Caldwell

  He flinched. Is that what she believed? That he offered recompense for the one night he’d known in her arms? “I never saw you in that way.”

  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, the charge as electric now as it had been the first time they’d touched. Only… he studied her hands: the dry, coarseness of her skin. Cracked and painful-looking. 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.

  Damn it all.

  “Patience,” he barked as she grabbed the door handle. Ultimately, even as it could only be perilous having her back in his life, he owed a debt to her family.

  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?”

  “Very,” she replied automatically.

  It wasn’t enough. He wanted to know how she’d been these past years. And he ached to erase the hardship that had brought her here this day. That had left her hands raw.

  “What of Sam and Ruth?”

  “Also well,” she murmured.

  Unable to keep the question at bay, he finally asked of her eldest, surly brother. “Where is Edwin?”

  She briefly glanced down at her toes, and for a long moment, he believed she wouldn’t answer. “He’s… gone.”

  He jerked erect. Gone? Tom Storm’s fighting son, who’d resented every moment of Godrick’s time with his father, had simply… left? “He abandoned you.” The words emerged sharp and full of censure to his own ears.

  Patience bristled. “I’ll not have you judge him. The loss of his eye and the ability to fight is the reason his life has gone to hell.”

  Her words hit him harder than any blow, and he searched her for a hint of condemnation. Searched for a hint that she knew he was the man responsible for Edwin’s injury and the subsequent loss. And now I know her family’s suffering, too… Loathing unfurled within for the brother who’d abandoned her… and more hatred for himself for a night of violence that had forever changed that man.

  At the long stretch of silence, Patience glanced down at her clenched fists. “He returns periodically,” she said with a trace of defensiveness. Periodically. If ever there was a man to beat with his bare knuckles, it was her bastard of a brother. Again.

  “I didn’t know,” Godrick said when he trusted himself to speak. “That he left,” he clarified. I should have.

  She gave him a sad smile. “Would it have mattered?”

  Yes, it would have. Because then he would have known that with Tom Storm’s passing, only Patience would remain to bear the responsibility for her family. And then what? She’d not wanted him around. Had ordered him to the devil. Nor had she been deserving of her hurt. The young man he’d been had made such a blunder of it all that he’d never deserved her.

  His expression darkened. “I am sorry about your father’s passing,” he said solemnly.

  She waved off his belated condolences. “It was a long time ago.” He should have been there to pay final respects to his mentor. You are dead to my sister and dead to my family… Get out…

  “Four years,” he murmured, and she started. Did she believe he’d not known? That he’d forgotten?

  “It has been four years since your father’s passing.” Godrick would never forget the day he’d attempted to reenter Patience’s life and pay his respects.

  The truth was, he could never, ever forget Patience Storm.

  Chapter 4

  The following morning Patience trudged down the cobbled road with her brother in tow.

  Godrick had known about her father’s passing.

  Not only had he known, but he’d recalled to the exact number of years in which her father had been gone from this Earth. That detail didn’t fit with the pompous duke’s son to whom she’d never mattered.

  Nor would a self-absorbed gentleman have asked after her or her siblings…but Godrick had.

  A cinch cut off her airflow.

  It had been vastly easier to hate Godrick Gunnery when she’d imagined their meeting playing out with him cold and faintly taunting.

  But then he’d gone and written out that note for ten thousand pounds when he had no reason to do so. With that generous offer he’d inadvertently challenged her to put not a demand to him, but a favor.

  Most other men would have ordered her gone. Or peppered her with jeering questions about coming ’round after the tongue-lashing she’d given him. Godrick never had been like any of the men who’d seen her as an extension of her father, there to tend a wound and discuss a fight, and never anything more.

  He’d also not hesitated in offering to instruct her brother.

  She stole a glance back at Samuel. Lagging behind by a pace, her younger brother yawned.

  Bloody hell. This is the seriousness with which he’d show in the face of his upcoming fight? Never more had she resented and regretted not being a man so that she could be a fighter herself. Then, she wouldn’t find herself in this precarious position of relying on… anyone.

  Sam’s steps lagged once more.

  Reversing course, she marched back to collect her brother. “Come along, Sam,” she urged, taking him by the arm.

  Where she and Ruth had woken with the crow of a rooster since they were babes in a cradle, Samuel had moved through life with slothfulness at odds with the Storm name. Just like their eldest brother, Edwin, who now spent so much time in a bottle at a tavern that they rarely saw him.

  “He agreed to do this?” Samuel asked with a deserved modicum of skepticism.

  He. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “What would you have us do?” she gritted out. “Edwin isn’t here,” And even if their hot-tempered brother had been, it would have done Samuel little good. Edwin hadn’t ever possessed so much as a smidgeon of Godrick’s talent.

  “Well, Edwin’s not going to be pleased.”

  She dug her heels in, bringing them to a stop. “First,” she lifted a finger, “if your brother was so very concerned, he’d be around. He’s not. And second…” She jabbed another digit in the air, and waved those fingers close to his face. “We don’t have the luxury of worrying about how Edwin feels about your taking lessons with Lord Godrick.” He’d forfeited that right when he’d descended into a drunken state and left the care of the family to her. Whereas Samuel didn’t know all t
he details surrounding Patience’s former relationship with Godrick, he was well aware of his eldest brother’s vitriol for the prizefighter. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe any of that resentment came from Godrick’s treachery against her, either.

  Samuel touched her arm, staying her movements. “And… you’re certain he’ll instruct me?”

  He wanted to learn. It had always marked him different from their eldest sibling, who simply thought he was the best because of his name. “I’m certain,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

  Samuel set his jaw. He had the look of a boy playing at a man, and not for the first time there was the realization of just how young he, in fact, was. And yet, he wore the evidence of his work and dedication to fighting in his broken-too-many-times nose and bruises.

  “I’m going to win that purse, Patience. I promise you that.”

  She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “I know,” she lied. Even with Godrick, the greatest fighter in the realm, as his teacher, she still didn’t truly know or trust that Samuel could learn all there was to know. There was too much. And there was so little time. Time they were wasting even now. “Come.” She urged him onward.

  “You have to admit, it is something of a surprise that he’s agreed to help me,” her brother remarked.

  Yes… it was. But the greater question was: why had he done so? He could have scoffed at that ridiculous list she’d presented him. Instead, he’d not only offered her ten thousand pounds, but also then agreed to train her brother. Guilt, a voice at the back of her mind scoffed. Or had it been a sense of obligation to her father?

  It should be enough that he’d acquiesced. That was all that mattered.

  Or, it was all that should matter.

  It wasn’t.

  For some foolish, nonsensical reason… she secretly wished there’d been reasons other than guilt or obligation that accounted for Godrick’s offering: reasons that had to do… with her.

  You’re a damned fool.

  “A damned fool?” Her brother bristled. “I’ve not done anything.” Samuel paused. “That is, not today. Or… at least, not at this very moment. Not enough to be called a damned fool.”

  “Forgive me. You are correct.” Feeling her cheeks warm, she gave her head a shake. “There it is,” she said as they reached the end of the street.

  They both stopped… outside Godrick’s club.

  As one, Patience and Samuel looked up at the impressive white stucco façade better suited to a lord’s Mayfair residence than a fighter’s club. The windows sparkled. Why, the entire building from the immaculate paint all the way up to the intricately patterned copper roof, gleamed.

  Patience’s stomach sank. Yesterday when she’d come, she’d been singularly focused on her meeting with Godrick that she’d not been able to notice each detail that bespoke the wealth of this place. Now, to confront this further evidence of his success… when she had been largely a failure in every way…

  Samuel whistled softly. “It’s… magnificent.” There was such adulation in that whisper that she jerked to.

  “Come,” she prompted, gripping him by the arm. She led the way up the steps.

  As soon as they reached the front door, the same servant who’d opened the black panel for her before greeted them. Just as yesterday, the young man made little attempt to hide the equal parts shock and disgust at her presence.

  Alas, her father had been dead and gone now four years. Where once all in the fighting world had known of Tom Storm’s daughter, who’d counseled newer fighters from the side of a match, Patience had slid with his passing into the obscurity of a forgotten thought. Shrugging out of her cloak, she turned it over to the servant’s hands. At her side, Samuel glanced around the room, touching his gaze on each artifact and article the way a lover might pay homage to a cherished treasure. “Lord Godrick is expecting us.” Her voice carried, inordinately loud in the empty, kitted-out room.

  The proper form of address called forth a reminder of the station divide between them.

  “Miss Storm.”

  She whipped her gaze forward, and the air lodged in her lungs.

  Godrick strolled toward them. His features might have been carved of stone for all they revealed in this instance, harshly beautiful and menacing for that stoicism. Her breath stuck painfully in her chest. How, with his noble nose and commanding jaw and polished tones, had she not seen a gentleman in her midst ten years ago?

  Because I saw what I wished to… “Lord Godrick,” she managed to greet as he stopped beside her.

  Samuel ripped his threadbare cap from his head. “Sir. My lord. It is an honor.”

  As he tripped and stumbled over his boy-like adoration, Patience winced, bracing for Godrick’s rejection.

  Instead, he held his hand out. “Godrick will suffice.” He offered Samuel a grin that softened his hard features. Her mind tripped back to the grinning boy he’d once been. Godrick briefly slid his gaze over to Patience. “After all, our families were once… friends.”

  Emotion filled her as Samuel stared awe-struck back at Godrick’s palm. Godrick’s success had not impacted his modesty. Unlike most fighters who were brash and arrogant, and only became even more so with their successes, he’d maintained his humbleness.

  And… kindness. There was that, too, towards her family.

  Samuel scrambled to take Godrick’s hand. “An honor, God.” The younger man’s eyes glittered as he pumped Godrick’s hand once more.

  She grimaced. How she despised that moniker he’d earned through the years. Hated it because with his ease, power, and command, he wore the damned moniker as perfectly as the Almighty Himself.

  Except… instead of the pomposity such a blasphemous nickname should yield, Godrick flushed, “Please, no need for—”

  “Or should I call you Duke?”

  Godrick coughed into his hand. “Godrick is just fine.”

  “Thank you, sir—Godrick.” Her brother beamed. “And here, all these years, Patience said you wouldn’t rem—” Patience jammed an elbow into his side. “Oomph.”

  “What? You did say he wouldn’t rem—”

  She fixed a stare on her younger brother and gave her head a slight shake.

  “Uh… yes…” Her brother tugged at his limp cravat. “well, we’re happy to be here. Honored to have your guidance.”

  Godrick looked between them and then motioned him forward. Like an eager pup, Samuel fell into step alongside the taller, bulkier gentleman. Hovering at the front of the club, she stared after them. They stood, contrasting images. Godrick broad and thickly muscled, and Samuel lean and wiry.

  Removing her threadbare gloves, she wandered closer, but still hung on the periphery, watching as Godrick led her brother into the eight-foot roped-off area at the center of the room.

  Godrick spoke, and periodically, her brother nodded or offered a brief reply. Rushing off, he proceeded to remove his jacket. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Godrick as he strolled with more measured steps to the edge of the ropes and shed his magnificent, tailored black jacket. A young boy waiting in the wings trotted over and collected the garment.

  God help her, she tried to look away. She desperately wanted to. But like a moth to the flame, her eyes went to him. His biceps strained the fabric of his white shirt. Thighs, like oaks, spoke of a man who might have retired from formal fights, but who’d in no way abandoned physical activity. He’d always been beautiful. He’d laughed when she’d used that word to describe him. But now, with his muscle-hewn frame, time had turned a mere man into an immortal.

  Removing his cravat, he handed it over to the lad. Godrick’s murmured: “Thanks” reached her ears. That expression of gratitude was so at odds with everything she knew of the nobility, or had read in the gossip columns. Suddenly, he looked over, and she froze and hurriedly snatched her gaze away. She curled her toes tightly. Mayhap he’d not noticed her fascination. Nay, appreciation. That was what it had been. Patience peeked over in his direction.<
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  A slow, secretive grin played at his lips, and then ever so slowly, he winked, the subtle lazy movement so full of cocksure arrogance and knowing.

  Bloody hell. She’d lost her foothold.

  *

  She’d been staring.

  Nor had there been the wary cynicism that had been there yesterday when she’d come ’round.

  She wore a telling blush on her cream-white cheeks… and even with the space between them, the expressive turquoise eyes she now darted about his club had glittered with a potent heat that singed him still—she desired him.

  There was a surge of… triumph. He was not alone in this overwhelming need. She hungered for him, still.

  But then, there had never been a dearth of desire between them. Or laughter. Or endless stories of their childhoods. Rather, he’d shared everything with her—except the most basic, elemental part of who he was, his birthright. A duke’s son. And at the time, a man who was betrothed to a young lady. At his parents’ bequest, when he’d been a mere child and the lady the same. That detail hadn’t mattered to Patience. Nor should it have. She’d deserved the whole truth from him and not at the hands of a young woman who’d broken off their betrothal… immediately after she’d sought out Patience and shared all. He’d been just twenty. A damned fool who’d navigated so poorly through life… and lost the only woman he’d ever loved for it.

  “Are you ready, Lord God?”

  From across the room, Patience’s snorting laugh reached his ears. A louder than would ever be considered ladylike, contagious expression of mirth. His neck heated. He’d always despised the moniker affixed to his boxing persona. It stank of arrogance and conceit, and though he’d prided himself on his skills as a fighter, he’d accepted that there was always someone out there better than he was. His inability to make any happiness out of his own life was proof that he was more human than that almighty figure. He glanced over at her.

  Through her amusement, she gave a roll of her eyes.