Fighting For His Lady

by Christi Caldwell

“Do you take umbrage with my fighter’s name?” he called out as he returned to the roped-off fighting arena.

  Patience cupped her hands around her mouth. “Are you bothered by it?” she shot back.

  He nodded in approval. Of course she’d know the first lesson Tom Storm had ever passed on to him. Had the young woman been born a man, he’d no doubt she would have handily defeated any blighter in the kingdom.

  “Always remember,” he said, returning his focus to his charge. Godrick tapped his head. “If an opponent attempts to get in here, you meet him here.” He lifted his knuckles into position and held them close, just below eye level. The power of focus. It had been one of the most valuable lessons he’d ever received from his beloved mentor. One that most men, by sheer nature of their confidence or ignorance, never learned the value of. “Fighting is about focus and control.” He touched his knuckles to his forehead. “If you cannot master this, then all of this”—he spread his arms, gesturing to the fighting ring—“can never be won.”

  Sam Storm stared on with wide, somber eyes. And for the first time since Patience had put the favor to him yesterday, Godrick confronted the peril of the untrained, naïve younger man stepping into a fight. A fight he was slated and supposed to lose. And one, that with a cutthroat fighter like Oleander King, he likely would. That was, if Godrick didn’t provide Sam the help he needed. “Arms up,” he instructed, and his student instantly complied.

  Walking a path around him, Godrick assessed his stance and then positioned himself in front of Patience’s brother. “Palms down,” he advised. “Now, hit me.”

  Unhesitant, the other man shot a fist out. The velocity of his strike hissed loudly. Godrick easily sidestepped the blow and put his fists up. “Miss Storm, what’s the danger of a misplaced punch?” he called out.

  From the corner of his eye, he detected her drifting closer. She opened her mouth to speak.

  “Patience isn’t a fighter,” Sam muttered and took another jab.

  Godrick arched back, and the blow barely grazed his chest.

  So this was also why Sam Storm was here. He wouldn’t take advice from his sister. A damned fool. “Your sister knows more than most men,” he scolded. “You’d do well to not assume a woman’s skills and knowledge inferior… that is unless you’re prepared to face your own defeat.”

  “If one lands a blow on the skull, one can shatter one’s hands,” she accurately chimed.

  He and Sam continued to spar in silence. And ironically, it was Godrick who now, despite the lifesaving advice he’d handed over, was fighting the pull of distraction. Patience drifted over and gripped the ropes, intently scrutinizing their match. Not a single English lady would so much as talk of his fighting, and he’d wager the small empire he’d built himself here that, were one of those same ladies to observe him in action, they’d have fainted on the spot.

  Whereas Patience had always been real in ways that no other person he’d known had been. From his family on down to the lofty company they’d kept, there had been an air of formality that had marked everyone… distant. With Patience, he’d been able to talk both fighting techniques and the dream he’d carried to build his own club without any recrimination. Instead, she’d plotted and dreamed alongside him, not knowing that his future hadn’t been dependent upon the purses he won. That he could have easily paid for it all with the funds already in his name, as the fifth child of a duke. He’d also known that if she discovered the truth, she would hate him for the lie and for his birthright. In the end, he’d been right.

  Sam’s fist grazed his chin, and Godrick grunted. Steadying himself, he danced out of the younger man’s reach. Damned distraction.

  Patience clapped her approval quietly from the side. “Very nice, Sam.”

  Giving his head a shake, Godrick put his fists up once more. Breath coming fast, he jabbed his opponent, easily catching him on the cheek.

  Sam staggered back, but retained his feet. He immediately shot his fist out, hard and fast. Easily deflecting that blow, Godrick countered with his own to the younger man’s midsection. The air left Patience’s brother on a swift exhale, and he went to his knees.

  “Ramming your fist into any part of your opponent as hard and fast as you can is dangerous,” Godrick said.

  “You’ll end up with broken fingers or strained knuckles,” Patience explained.

  Sam wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. Struggling to stand, he repositioned himself. “I’m ready,” he said tightly.

  The boy was as stubborn as his sister, with a resolute sense of determination. He’d much to learn… and he would be destroyed by King. And yet… Godrick cared more about the boy’s well-being.

  He paused and glanced over to Patience; leaving the decision to her. If she said to end the lesson now, he would. Her brother was still a mass of bruises from a recent fight. No doubt a loss.

  “We do not have much time,” she called out.

  No, they didn’t. Which also meant neither did he have much time left with Patience Storm. His heart throbbed painfully. When they were finished here, he would lose her all over again. He briefly closed his eyes and fought to come back from that vicious reality. “Another go,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Sam looked to his sister and then back to Godrick. They resumed their lesson, and Patience stood quietly at the side for the duration. Occasionally, her murmured guidance to Sam reached Godrick’s ears. How many times had she stood just so during his own lessons? A distraction he’d gladly suffered a blow to the head for, just to have her there.

  It was too much. He stopped abruptly and raised his hand. “That is all for the day,” he panted between deep breaths.

  Immediately dropping his arms by his sides, Sam nodded. “Thank you, Lord—”

  “Just Godrick is fine,” he cut in as Patience snorted again. Slapping the other man on the back, he watched as Sam went off. Patience gathered his jacket and handed it over. She said something to her brother, and he nodded. Shrugging into his jacket, Sam bowed to Godrick and then made his exit—leaving them alone.

  She fiddled with the clasp at her throat. That damned cloak, torn and tattered. She could have worn a sack and been as regal as a princess, and yet Godrick wanted to attire her in silks and satins, as she deserved. “Thank—”

  “Don’t continue to thank me,” he said harshly, sharper than intended. “I didn’t do this for your gratitude. And I do require something of you.”

  Wariness sprang to her eyes. “Require something?” she repeated blankly.

  He fisted his hands. Her opinion was so low of him. With good reason. You gave her little reason to trust you. Guilt sluiced away at him. “I assure you I respect you enough that I’d not put an indecent offer to you,” he said quietly, coming closer. He erased the distance between them and stopped so a mere hairsbreadth divided them. So the scent of lavender that had clung to her person as long as he’d known her filled his senses, intoxicating. “I want…” To properly court you. To woo you. To begin again.

  Her breath caught loudly, and he lowered his head.

  Their breaths mingled. “To meet afterward and discuss your brother’s training.”

  Her lashes fluttered wildly, and then she remained unblinking. “That… is what you require?”

  He nodded. “You know a person’s temperament and behavior define a fighter’s success. I can teach him everything I know, but if I don’t know him and his strengths and weaknesses, our efforts will be in vain.”

  Did he imagine her crestfallen expression? Seeing only what he wanted to see?

  Patience wetted her lips. “When?”

  “This evening. Seven o’clock.”

  “Very well,” she said with all of the enthusiasm of a man being shown his way to the gallows, and thoroughly dashing the illusion of before.

  She lingered and then, dropping a curtsy, took her leave.

  Even so, a lightness suffused Godrick’s chest. He was very much the bastard she’d accused him of being ten years
earlier. For as she took her leave, he didn’t feel the slightest compunction at deceiving her, all so he might spend more time with her.

  Chapter 5

  “Where are you going?” Ruth’s suspicion-laden voice halted Patience in her tracks.

  Patience silently cursed. Fingers damningly on the door handle, she forced herself to let go and face her sister. Her mind raced.

  Her youngest sibling folded her arms and stared back. “Well?”

  Blast, it had been vastly easier to sneak about when Sam and Ruth had been children. And that had been back when their eldest brother, Edwin, had been overprotective and devoted to their family, too. “I’ve a meeting,” she settled for. It wasn’t untrue. She did have a meeting. “About Sam’s match,” she clarified. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “Can I join you?”

  “No,” Patience exclaimed quickly. Too quickly. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced a nonchalant smile. “Sam should return soon from his practice with Jeremy. Look after his hands.” Those knuckles and fists were all that stood between them and destitution.

  Ruth gave a reluctant nod, and before her tenacious sister pressed her any further, Patience hurried from their small rooms and made her way down the dark stairs out into the streets below.

  The setting sun cast a soft orange glow upon the pavement. It was moments like these, when the summer breeze caressed her face and the cool, dank chill was absent from the air, that she could actually believe she was the young girl who’d lived in the Leeds countryside with her mother while Papa traveled around England, fighting. A sad smile pulled at her lips, and she stared across the street to where a shopkeeper emptied a bucket of dirty water onto the cobbles.

  As secure as her childhood had been, she’d never known a family. Not in the traditional sense. She’d a father who’d been a transient figure, moving in and out of their lives. A mother who’d pined for him, and siblings whom Patience had helped care for.

  Until their mother had died, and everything had changed. In the distance, shouts went up, and she looked down the street to where two shopkeepers argued.

  When Mama died, they’d no choice but to move to London, where they’d traded the chirp of crickets and the song of kestrel for the rumble of carriage wheels and cries of shopkeepers calling out their wares. Odd, she’d not thought before of everything they’d lost with their mother’s passing. Life had simply changed, and they’d struggled through their sadness and had begun again, as a family. She’d not allowed herself the dream of more—of a family in every truest sense, with a loving, devoted husband, and a return to the country—until Godrick.

  For even as she’d vowed to never wed a fighter like her often-absent father, Godrick had been unlike all the other fighters she’d ever known. He’d whispered in her ear of dreams beyond fighting that involved a country cottage with them together in it. And children. Her throat worked. She’d carried the dream of babes of her own. Little boys with their father’s chestnut curls and mischievous grin.

  “You fool,” she whispered into the quiet. Had she opened her eyes to that which had been truly before her, she would have heard the crisp, cultured tones. Seen the elegant garments and, until then, unbroken, aquiline nose. And she’d do well to remember that when they met tonight. The mountain of lies he’d built between them could never be scaled.

  Patience breathed deep. She should go. They were to meet at his club and discuss Sam, whose future as a fighter and his survival in the match against King should occupy her every last thought. Instead, she leaned her back against the stonewall and borrowed support from the aging structure. She’d managed to bury the memory of Godrick for many years. Oh, he’d always been there. Resurfacing when she didn’t expect it. In the papers after a fight, or in the dark when she’d stared up at the stars that managed to peek through the London clouds and haze. Eventually, the dull ache of betrayal had eased, and she’d learned to again smile and laugh and exist beyond the tears and sadness that had gripped her.

  She gave her head a firm shake and then snapped her hood into place. A fool. An utter fool. She took a step—into the path of a towering figure. With a gasp, she stumbled back.

  Strong hands caught her at the shoulders and steadied her. Familiar hands.

  “Godrick,” she managed, breathless. Being caught unawares in the streets was the height of folly that could see a lady with her skirts rucked about her waist, or her purse snatched from her person. Too many times, she’d relied on the skills her father had imparted to battle a drunken man with dishonorable intentions.

  “Forgive me,” he said, retaining his hold on her arms.

  Through the fabric of her thin woolen cloak, her skin tingled at his touch. Just as it always had. Those fingers, which even in fleeting caresses had always wrought beautiful havoc upon her senses. And her lashes fluttered as she remembered the power of those hands. The skill as he’d swept them over her body, caressing her, stroking her—

  “Patience?” Concern filled Godrick’s tones.

  His remarkably unaffected tones.

  A blush heated her entire body, and she hurriedly stepped out of his arms. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  He cocked his head, and a dark brown lock tumbled over his brow. That gesture softened him. Made him a man more chiseled than most stone statues. “Surely you didn’t believe I’d have you wander the streets of London unescorted?” Her fingers twitched with the need to brush that errant strand back. To feel the satiny feel of it once more. Just as she’d used to drag her fingertips through those locks.

  Then his words registered. Surely you didn’t believe I’d have you wander the streets of London unescorted? “I… I…” Actually, she had. “How did you know?” She pressed her lips closed.

  He leaned down, shrinking the space between them. “How did I know where you live?”

  She managed a shaky nod. She hated that he saw how far she’d fallen. Hated that, as though her garments weren’t testament enough, he now saw the hovel they called home.

  “I had a servant follow you.”

  A gasp exploded from her lips, and she held his gaze squarely. “You had me followed?” She took comfort in the indignation that spared some modicum of her pride.

  Unrepentant, he leaned closer, so close their lips nearly brushed. “I’m not letting you walk the streets of Lambeth by yourself.”

  She braced for a righteous indignation at that high-handedness and yet… For the humiliated hurt at having her life laid out before him, there was also an odd lightness that suffused her chest. Since Mama died, Patience had been thrust into the role of caregiver, looking after her family. With Papa’s passing four years earlier, those responsibilities had only grown. When was the last time anyone had worried after her? Not even her own brothers thought twice of her setting off on her own through the roughest parts of London. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “I didn’t do it for your thanks,” he said gently, without inflection. “I did it because I c—” He immediately stopped speaking, and held an arm out.

  What had he been about to say? Patience’s heart sped up. Because… he cared? Surely not.

  She placed her fingertips upon his sleeve and allowed him to guide her forward. His carriage, a regal black barouche wholly out of place in the streets of Lambeth, waited at the end of the street.

  Just like that, reality stormed back in.

  That grand conveyance that served as a sleek, luxuriant reminder of the station divide between she and Godrick. Just another example that was, in addition to her woolen garments that stood in stark contrast to the dupioni silk of his jacket and the fine leather of his breeches. Even their very presence together, unchaperoned, was a mark of her ignoble rank. After all, a gentleman would never meet a lady alone without a chaperone. A little knot formed in her belly. A servant drew the carriage door open, and Godrick immediately helped her inside. Patience settled onto the red velvet squabs, the plush stuffing and soft fabric far finer than the lumpy mattress
she shared with her sister.

  England’s greatest fighter hefted himself inside, and his large frame immediately shrank the generous space within the carriage. Lifting a hand up, he rapped once.

  The conveyance hitched forward slightly, as they set into a steady motion.

  Clip-Clop-Clip-Clop.

  That rhythmic fall of the horses’ hooves and the churning carriage wheels punctuated a heavy silence; a silence that was broken only by the occasional passing of a hack.

  Discomfited by his nearness, she inched closer to the edge of the seat and peered out at the passing streets. Soon, the dirty, dank end she called home gave way to fine stucco buildings and gleaming lamp posts.

  How the other half lived… similar to how she herself once had. And yet, of all she’d lost—the fine satins and silks, the elegant carriages, and clever bonnets—she would have given it all up to have the love of the man opposite her. But I could have… She’d been so hurt and humiliated at the lies he’d maintained that she’d not even allowed for the chance of a new beginning with him.

  Patience’s throat worked, and she damned the need for him that had not diminished. Nay, the dream of what she’d wanted for them. That was all it had been.

  “What are Sam’s strengths?” he asked into the quiet, and she gave thanks for the interruption. This question was safe. This was the reason she’d gone to him and the only bond they would now share. Business.

  “He has strong wrists.”

  Godrick nodded his approval. “Tough hands. Strong wrists.” Another lesson her father had given him… and all the other men he’d trained. It was the basic foundation that kept a man’s hands ready for fighting.

  “He loves the fight,” she added. It was perhaps his greatest strength. His passion in the ring. Where Edwin had been fixed only on the praise and purse, fighting raged through Sam’s veins.

  Godrick looped his ankle over his knee, and their legs brushed. Patience’s pulse skittered wildly. Do not be foolish… It’s just part of his leg… and I’m no longer a girl. Nearly thirty… and…