Fighting For His Lady Page 3

  While stars danced in his vision, he heard his pulse race loudly in his ears.

  By God, it was Patience Storm.

  Chapter 3

  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 again 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—” He stared pointedly at her.

  She shook her head. What was he asking? “Not ‘what’…?”

  “Married?”

  “I’m not,” 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 was likely not every day a woman bold as she pleased entered this establishment.

  Alas, 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. Something in being reduced to that, by this man… struck her square in the chest. He wasn’t wrong. After all, that was precisely what her meeting here was this day. Business. A favor. A plea for help. 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. Don’t think of it in those terms, she silently urged herself. Hadn’t Godrick come to her family when he’d been looking to learn how to fight? Therefore, her coming on behalf of Samuel, wasn’t altogether different. Not so very different at all. In fact, when she thought of it in those terms, she found her shame receding.

  Liar.

  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. His office was enormous, and his broad, powerful frame managed to still fill the room. Her gaze slipped over the distinct line of his biceps and triceps; details she’d no place noticing. Her belly danced and fluttered, however, caring nothing at all about what was right or wrong where this man was concerned. 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. “No,” she said hurriedly, shame pulling that rapid denial from her. Letting him take her cloak would reveal the stitched and restitched again dress she wore. 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?”

  She followed his gesture to the two red velvet upholstered chairs at the front of his desk. There was nothing warm or inviting in that request. He may as well have been a stranger. But then, that was precisely what she was now. And with the lies he’d fed her, mayhap that was what they’d always been.

  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. He’d not make this easy for her. On their final day 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. “Yes, a payment.” She tipped her chin up and nodded once. “As in a thing or sum of money given in discharge of a debt.”

  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 the best dreams he’d allowed himself, Godrick had imagined it was their love for one another that brought them back together. There would have been joyous smiles at being together once more. And tender looks exchanged. And an embrace… there would have been that, too. Just the idea of having her in his arms once more had managed to sustain him through the agony of those early days.

  Then, there’d been imaginings of her, fiery of temper, storming back into his life, as angry as she’d been… but willing to forgive.

  Eventually he’d come to accept… she was lost to him. Lost in every way. And he’d forced himself to see that she would not return. The dreams of a reunion had been foolish to entertain. After all, at their last meeting, there’d been her promise of hell freezing over before she forgave him, and then she’d wished him a fiery, painful death.

  Never, in any of the imaginings of a reunion with her, had he expected she’d 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. Giving himself time to order his turbulent thoughts. Even as he knew, there could be no steadying himself in this moment.

  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 hands something to do, he picked up that scrap once more. “Three thousand pounds,” he murmured.

  Patience gave another one of those little nods. “Three thousand pounds.”

  “It is an exorbitant amount.”

  She frowned. “Hardly so very much money,”—Despite his tumult, a grin pulled at his lips. It was a veritable fortune. To most—“Particularly when one considers the quality of services rendered and,” Patience glanced about his office, “what your learned skillset allowed you to accomplish, Lord Godrick.”

  Lord Godrick.

  His smile fell, and he made a show of studying her request with false contemplation.

  There it was again.

  That formal title dropped before his name that erected a formality between he and this woman he’d once been closer with than any other. She’d been the one person to not see him as a duke’s son. Granted, that had been because he’d withheld that truth from her. But with her, simply being himself, not bound by his family’s rank, had left him freer and happier than he’d ever been.

  He’d paid the price for that illusion.

  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. All the while he felt her gaze on him; taking in his every movement. When he’d finished, Godrick set the pen aside, sprinkled some powder on the ink to speed the drying, and then blew on it.

  He handed over the page. “Here you are, Miss Storm,” he said evenly.

  Patience furrowed her brow, looking between him and the sheet. “What is this?”

  “Ten thousand pounds. I believe three was your request?” She could have asked for his club and would have been deserving of it. And he would have freely given it to her.

  She opened and closed her mouth. Those full, wide lips that haunted his dreams still, forced him back to a different time, and hungering went through him, so sharp, it was a physical pain.

  “But… but…”

  “Did you not request payment?” He laid the page on his desk. “This is that 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, along with additional funds for interest. 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.

  Take it. Please, take it. Even in the unlikely chance her brother won the purse, it wouldn’t see them cared for in the way they needed or deserved. The money Godrick offered, however, would see Patience and her family settled for a lifetime.

  She worried at her lower lip, indecision warring in her revealing gaze. “Sam has a fight,” she finally said.

  He briefly closed his eyes.

  God, there had never been a prouder 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. Before he’d realized that sharing one’s life meant sharing all of it.

  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 Godrick was responsible for 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. Not with her needing him. Never that. But with her wanting to see him. 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.

  Regardless, he tried once more. “We both know it is best for you to simply take the payment you’ve come here requesting,” he said solemnly, without malice. And it would be best too, for him. 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—”