My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Have you forgotten your wager? The wine.”

  “Ah, yes.” He laughed. “I think it was rather clever of me to find a way to come to Whitby and see you. I knew you’d be wondering what had become of me.”

  “Indeed. I was concerned when I heard talk in the village about the shipwreck and the ‘stranger.’ I feared it was you. A reckless but brave act. I should like to gossip about that when we return to London.”

  “Not a word! Lord DeWitt would mock me for my stupidity.”

  “Pshaw! His lordship’s ration of courage would scarcely fit a thimble, if I may be so bold. I am exceedingly proud to call you my master, Your Grace.”

  Thorne nodded his acknowledgment of Dobson’s praise and reached for his coat. “The wine?”

  “I’ll have the innkeeper bring up a bottle.”

  “No, wait.” Thorne fished in his pocket and pulled out a handful of small coins. “This is all the tight-fisted witch gave me to spend. Scarcely enough for a cheap bottle of gin, let alone wine. If I’m to endure common food, the least I’m owed is a decent portion of good French wine. Get me the best that the innkeeper has to offer, as well as a common vintage, then switch the contents.”

  Dobson grinned. “Very clever. As was the wager for it. Did you doubt you’d win?”

  “In truth, I was a trifle uneasy about that blasted bolt and my newly acquired skills. But I could think of no other way to come here alone and assure you that I was well and safe.”

  “And your coins?”

  “Still safely in my shoe heels.”

  “And, of course, by winning the bet, you’ve maintained your unbroken streak of good fortune. I know you set great store by that.”

  That gave him pause. Had he heard an edge of scorn in Dobson’s tone? That a man should measure his worth by something so trifling as the winning of a wager? Yet when he thought about it, he realized what his real triumph had been. “To tell you the truth, Dobson,” he said, surprised at his own frankness, “what gave me joy at that moment was knowing I could do something, even such a simple chore as hammering in a bolt.”

  Dobson chuckled. “I suspect you may gain more from this mad adventure than merely the lady’s favor.”

  Chapter Six

  “Damme!” Thorne glared at the broken horseshoe draped over the anvil, lifted it with his tongs and thrust it into the bucket of water. It made a loud sizzling sound. “By the horn of Satan, why does the blasted thing keep breaking?”

  Gloriana finished trimming Black Jack’s hoof, gave him a soothing pat and turned to Thorne. “You’re too quick to take the rod from the fire. Wait till it’s white hot afore you starts to hammer it. Fetch another bar and start again.”

  Thorne tossed a cold iron bar into the red-hot forge and gnashed his teeth against his frustration. “How many days have we been at this? And still I can’t get it right.”

  “You ain’t the one who should be complainin’. Poor Black Jack here has had more new shoes this week than Queen Charlotte in her palace.”

  “And you’ve done them all.” He slammed down his hammer and tongs on the work table. “You make it look so easy. I feel like a helpless fool.” He cursed himself silently for admitting such a weakness to this high-handed creature. Another reason for her to mock me, he thought sourly, and steeled himself for her usual sarcastic reply.

  Instead, she laughed softly. “You’re no fool, Thorne,” she said. “’Tis only that you’re… impulsive.”

  He had to smile at that, remembering the word he had explained to her nearly a week ago. She might be uneducated, but she clearly wanted to learn. “Indeed I am. Forgive me, mistress.” He pulled the ladle from the wall, dipped it in the bucket and brought it to her lips. “While we’re waiting for the rod to heat…”

  She took a small swallow of water, then murmured a soft, “Thank you.” Another lesson learned, he thought.

  She stared him full in the face, stunning him, as always, with her breathtaking beauty. Her lips were full and rosy, seeming to beg for his kiss, and her green eyes had softened to a mossy hue. He felt his insides quivering, and wondered if he should reach for her. But she turned away quickly, a blush rising in her cheeks, and crossed to the back of the smithy. “You must have more patience,” she said in a voice that seemed to tremble, “if you wants to master the craft. I remember a tailor in London who used to say, ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ That be the ticket for any skill you learns.”

  He cursed himself for not taking her in his arms when he’d had the chance. Surely the look in her eyes had been an invitation. But the moment had passed. Best to cool his own desires. “You lived in London?” he asked in what he hoped was an offhand tone.

  “Aye. Born and raised there.”

  “And that’s where you learned to be a blacksmith?”

  “Aye. Old Diggory Dyer. He were a master, were Old Diggory. My Da always said we would open a shop someday, when he had us enough coins.”

  “And is your father still alive?”

  A shadow darkened her face. “No. He be gone near on to two years now.”

  “And still you miss him.” He could read the grief in her eyes.

  She sighed. “He were the only man I ever loved.”

  In some odd way, that pleased Thorne—that she hadn’t loved her husband. Fool! he thought after a moment. Why the devil should he care? A whore, after all, lest he forget—how could love ever matter to her?

  She turned away, but not quickly enough to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Tears for her father, no doubt. He took her by the shoulders, turned her about and wiped at her cheek with tender fingers. She shook off his hands and scowled. “Bloody sot! You tryin’ to be saucy with me again? I thought we settled that long-since!”

  He forced himself not to smile, finding her fragile pride unexpectedly appealing. “Not at all, mistress,” he said gently. “You had a smudge of soot on your face.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. “Well, then. Work them bellows to get the fire hot. We’re wastin’ the whole afternoon yammerin’.”

  Determined to get it right this time, Thorne concentrated on his work. He pulled the white-hot rod from the fire, carefully bent it into the proper shape on the curved horn of the anvil, then flattened its rounded sides. With Gloriana keeping Black Jack steady, he held the horse’s foreleg between his knees and carefully placed the hot shoe against its hoof, pleased to see that it fit well.

  Gloriana grinned. “You ain’t so useless after all. Now back to the work table and punch in the holes for the nails.”

  He did as she asked, carefully spacing the holes evenly around the horseshoe. Then he plunged the shoe into the bucket of water and grinned in his turn. “Now if Black Jack doesn’t attack me…”

  “Mind you aim the nails toward the outside of his hoof, so you don’t hit the quick. I don’t reckon I wants to patch your skull if he kicks you.”

  It took Thorne a few minutes to soothe the horse and win his trust, but at last he was able to nail the shoe onto the horse's hoof to his satisfaction, and finished the job by filing the rough edges of the horseshoe. He threw down his file and laughed. “By God, I did it!”

  “So you did. Your first horseshoe.” She glanced out the door at the sky, which had begun to turn pink. “And about time! Be you as hungry as I am?”

  The thought of bread and cheese didn’t excite him, but he was hungry. And they’d been at the forge all afternoon without a break. “Famished,” he said.

  “I think, in honor of your first success, we should have a bit of a celebration. I have me a nice smoked ham in the larder.”

  His spirits rose at that. “And will you join me and share my wine?” She had refused up until now, finding her common ale more to her liking.

  She gave a little curtsy. “I should be pleased, sir.”

  He stared at her glowing face, cheeks pink from the heat of the fire, and shook his head. “What a lovely smile you have.”

  She stiffened. “Are you forgettin’ your
place again?”

  He was about to answer angrily at this fresh insult to his noble pride, then he remembered what Dobson had said. A woman unused to flattery would be suspicious of every kind word. “No, Mistress Glory,” he said in as humble a tone as he could manage, “I was merely trying to give you a compliment. The ladies I have known are usually pleased to be admired.”

  She tossed her head, but he could see the blush rising up from her chin. “Humph! What makes you think I wants to be a lady?”

  Of course she does, he thought, realizing in a flash of insight that her lack of polish must have been what had caused her to flee the Ridley household. “Whatever you want to be,” he said, “you’re a damn fine woman—and I won’t apologize for saying it.”

  She almost ran for the door. “Stuff and nonsense! Put away them tools and feed Black Jack. And be sure you wash up afore supper. You looks like a blackamoor with all that soot!”

  • • •

  Gloriana held out her goblet to Thorne. “I’ll have a bit more wine, if you please.”

  Thorne smiled ruefully at her from across the table and turned the wine bottle upside-down. “Alas. Not a drop left.”

  She felt a pang of disappointment. Supper had gone wonderfully, the warm wine filling her belly and her soul, giving her an unfamiliar glow. It was a pity for it to end so soon, and all for the lack of more to drink. “I do have a jug of rum…” she began, then shook her head. “No. Too wasteful.”

  His lower lip puffed in a little-boy pout. “But this is my celebration dinner. Don’t I deserve it?” The pout dissolved into a contented smile. “And the ham was delicious, by the way. A bit of rum would be a fitting end to such a splendid supper.”

  “No.”

  “What if I make a wager on it?”

  “Be you daft? What stakes?”

  He swiveled on his bench and looked toward the fireplace. “See the two logs at either end of the fire? The ones that are nearly burned through? I’ll wager that the one on the right will break and collapse first.”

  She studied the logs carefully. They both seemed equally burned, and it was a silly wager. But she was feeling giddy. “Agreed,” she said. “But the left one will go first.”

  They stared at the logs for a few minutes, absorbed in the bet. Suddenly, with a small crackle, the side of the right-hand log tipped and broke off, dropping into the fire with a burst of sparks.

  Thorne cackled. “Ha! I told you I never lose a wager.”

  Conceding graciously—and oddly pleased that the bet had turned out the way it had—Gloriana crossed to the larder and reached for the rum, spying a small dish of stale sweet cakes sitting on a shelf. “They be a trifle hard,” she said, placing the bowl on the table in front of Thorne, “but we can dip ’em in the rum. In honor of your first horseshoe.”

  He poured them both a generous portion of rum, then grinned in satisfaction. “And my first blister.”

  She frowned. “Show me.” When he held out his left hand to her, she clicked her tongue. “Fool! You should have told me. I could bind it for you, with a bit of ash from the fireplace to help it heal.”

  He looked at her, his silvery eyes shining with pride. “No. ’Tis my badge of honor. You have my gratitude, mistress. I confess that I’ve never made anything before with my own two hands.”

  “In your whole life?” She eyed him with sympathy. “Never built a toy house of twigs? Or made paper boats as a child?”

  He shook his head. “I always had carved wooden boats that the servants made for me.”

  “Servants?” The word aroused her suspicions. “What was your life afore this?” she asked, squinting at him.

  He looked embarrassed for a moment, like a little boy caught in a lie. He took a deep swallow of his rum, then stumbled out his reply. “I… that is… I was raised in a prosperous household, but then my father lost everything and I had to hire out as a valet.”

  “And a soldier?” She was still suspicious.

  “That was a lie, I do confess.” He had the grace to blush.

  His unexpected honesty eased her doubts. And his humility made him all the more attractive. She had seen his pride, his temper, his arrogance, but the softer side that he was revealing tonight was charming. “Poor child,” she murmured. “Did you have no childhood dreams?”

  He shrugged. “I was too pampered to think of anything but my immediate desires, which were always fulfilled.”

  “And now? No dreams for the future?”

  He was silent at that, his face a mask of surprising despair. He took another swallow of rum and smiled stiffly at her. “And what of your dreams?” he said at last.

  She finished her rum and poured a bit more into her goblet. “To be a successful tradeswoman, of course.”

  He puffed out his chest. “With a skilled blacksmith at her side!”

  “Well, you ain’t as bone-lazy as I thought you’d be.”

  “And you aren’t as fierce as you pretend,” he said gently.

  She knew he was correcting her speech, but his tone had been kindly, not mocking. She nodded in acknowledgement, her old lessons from Baniard Hall coming back to her. There would be no danger in improving herself in his presence. “You be… you are a rum gent,” she said, “and that’s the truth.”

  “And you’re a wonder,” he murmured.

  The conversation was growing too intimate for her comfort. “We should talk about the morrow,” she said crisply. “I think we’ll go to Whitby. I have purchases to make. And perhaps we can talk up the smithy and see if we can get us a few customers.”

  They spent the next quarter of an hour discussing their plans for the next day. Safe talk, though the rapidly emptying jug of rum was beginning to give Gloriana a mellow buzz. “Let me see to that blister,” she said at last, rising from her bench to cross to the fireplace. He followed. She pricked the blister with a pin, then found a scrap of fabric. Scooping a bit of cold ash from the side of the fire, she placed it carefully on his blister, then tied the bandage around Thorne’s palm. She patted it with a motherly hand. “There you be.”

  He put his unbound hand over hers. His flesh was warm, sending a thrill down her spine. “You’re a tender nurse,” he said, his eyes soft with desire. “Thank you.” He smiled. “I should very much like to kiss you at this moment.”

  Why did he have to spoil their lovely evening, reminding her of her own longings? She would be foolish to give in, to make him think he was her equal. “You go too far!” she burst out, pulling her hand away.

  “How can I earn a kiss, then?”

  “What makes you think you deserve one, caitiff?” she sputtered. It seemed a good time to remind him of his inferior station.

  But instead of becoming annoyed at the word, he laughed. “I didn’t say I deserved it—I simply thought it would be a pleasant ending to our celebration. Come. You took my foolish wager before. What say we bet on a kiss?”

  She thought about that, weighing the possibilities. If she won, it would put him in his place once and for all. She had a sudden idea. “But I name the stakes,” she said with a crafty smile.

  “I’m agreeable to that. What is your wager?”

  “Indian wrestlin’. The way the savages do in the New World. Arm to arm, until one arm is pushed to the table.”

  “But that’s absurd! I know you’re strong, but you are just a woman.”

  She was growing more and more confident she could best him. She had seen him at his work, knew what he was capable of. “Ah, but you be left-handed. If you use your right hand against my right hand, that should even the odds.”

  “Even so, I fear I’d break your arm.”

  She smirked, egging him on. “Be you a coward? Afraid to lose a wager? Ain’t you the great gamblin’ man who never loses?” She knew, from the sudden flash of anger on his face, that she had hit him where he lived—in his pride.

  He sighed in resignation. “So be it. But I think you’re mad.” He crossed to the table, rolling up his sleeve as
he went. They sat facing one another, elbows firmly on the table, right hands clasped together. At a signal from Gloriana, they began to push against each other’s hand.

  She closed her eyes and imagined herself back in the gladiators’ ring, all her focus on her right arm. She could feel the power of Thorne’s muscles, hear his grunts from the effort—it only made her more determined to win. She took a deep breath, then, marshaling all her strength, she gave a sharp cry and pushed violently against him, slamming his forearm onto the table.

  She opened her eyes. His face, bathed in sweat, was dark with fury. He released her hand and jumped from his bench, storming toward the fireplace and smacking his palm against the mantel. She couldn’t tell if he was angry at losing his bet or losing his kiss. His turned back was stiff with injured pride.

  “Come,” she said gently. “Can you not be gracious in your losin’, though you be arrogant when you win?”

  His shoulders relaxed a bit and he turned, a thin smile on his face. “’Tis only that I’m disappointed.” He crossed back to the table and emptied the last of the rum into their goblets. He picked up a sweet cake, dipped it into the liquid and chewed it slowly, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  But she knew he was fighting with his pride. In a strange way, she felt guilty for hurting him. She indicated two rush armchairs in the corner. “Draw up the chairs to the fire,” she said. “’Twould be pleasant to warm our toes while we finish our rum.”

  She could see gratitude in his eyes—that she didn’t intend to humiliate him by crowing over her win. While he pulled the chairs toward the fire, she carried the cakes and goblets. “Do you smoke?” she asked, after they had settled themselves comfortably before the hearth.

  He looked surprised. “In point of fact, I do. But where…?”

  “The last tenants here left pipes and tobacco.” She had bought them for Charlie, but he had always been too impatient, pacing the room with angry strides, for the relaxation of a pipe. She fetched the fixings and watched Thorne go through the motions of filling the clay pipe and lighting the tobacco with a taper from the fire. He moved with an easy grace, the golden glow of the candles softening the lines of his angular jaw, his patrician nose.