Richard held the door open, his eyes scanning the boardwalk.
Charlotte ducked inside and stepped into a large gymnasium. Men and women, stripped down and sweaty, punched and kicked heavy sandbags. A man and a woman, both muscled with crisp definition, sparred on the reed mats; another pair of fighters squared off, their hands raised, in the roped-off ring raised on a wooden platform. A din hung above the muscular bodies: the rapid staccato of smaller bags being hit, the thuds of kicks hammering at the heavier bags, guttural cries, and rhythmic breathing.
Charlotte took a step forward. Everything stopped. The gymnasium went completely silent. As one, the fighters looked at her. None of the faces were friendly.
Not good. She straightened her shoulders, raising her head. Behind her, Jack took a deep breath.
Richard stepped through the doorway and strode ahead of her, oblivious to the hostility in the room.
A middle-aged, overweight man stepped away from the ring and walked toward Richard, his steps unhurried. A scar cut across his tan face, just a hair shy of his left eye. Half of his right earlobe was gone, the edge of the old wound ragged and uneven. Bitten off, Charlotte realized.
If there was a problem, she’d push the teens outside and block the door. At least she’d buy them a few minutes.
Richard and the overweight man met in the middle of the floor. The man’s eyes were grim.
Here we go.
The overweight man hugged Richard, turned, and went back to the ring. The punches and grunts resumed. Richard nodded at them. “Back room.”
As soon as they were alone, she would punch him, Charlotte promised herself. No, no she wouldn’t, because resorting to physical violence wasn’t proper. Then again, it might be considered self-defense. If she died as a result of this journey, it wouldn’t be because of slavers. It would be because Richard’s inability to communicate would give her a heart attack.
*
RICHARD closed the door of Barlo’s back room and glanced about: a long table, two benches, a sink with a freezing unit next to it, and a scale . . . empty. Barlo had used this chamber as one of the two rooms where fighters warmed up before bouts.
His heartbeat slowed. So much of his life in these past months had been spent waiting, calculating, watching. Moments like this, born from excitement and danger, when he ran along the steel edge of his sword, matching his wits against opponents, were when he felt truly alive. His heart pumped, the world seemed brighter, the experiences sharper, and he loved every bit of it.
“Richard!”
He turned.
Charlotte faced him. Her wet tunic molded to her figure, and her hair, which she’d put up into a neat knot, had come undone and hung over her face. That air of detachment and civility had been washed away, as if someone had taken an elegant cat, groomed to within an inch of its life, and dumped a bucket of water on it. Her expression had the same shock, outrage, and promise of violence.
If he laughed, she’d probably kill him. Quite literally.
Charlotte opened her mouth, clamped it shut, opened it again . . .
He strained to keep his face solemn. “My lady?”
“Words.”
She seemed on the verge of breaking down or screaming. It was best to tread carefully. “Words are good,” he agreed.
She raised her hands. “I want to punch you.”
Richard almost doubled over. He’d driven the quintessential aristocrat to crude violence. It had to be about the canal. Oh, the indignity. “I know the water isn’t the cleanest, but we had no alternative.” He let the mask drop a little and smiled. “I promise you, it will be okay. Before you know it, we’ll be warm and dry.”
“I don’t care about the bloody canal! Simple words, Richard! Like ‘We’re safe’ or ‘They won’t harm us!’ Or ‘He’s an old friend.’” She made a short cutting motion with her hands. “Something! I thought we were about to get pummeled.”
Pummeled here? At Barlo’s? Did she think he would bring her to somewhere where she would be unsafe? “Of course you were safe. I took you in here.”
“You also took me to Jason’s, where you then slept holding your sword.”
Oh, really now. He took a step toward her. “I assure you, my lady, that you were perfectly safe. If anyone put a hand on you, they’d lose it, and everyone inside that place knew it.”
Charlotte clenched her hands. “Aargh!”
“I’m just trying to clarify.” He knew he should’ve let it go, but the idea that he would stupidly put her in danger irritated him beyond belief. “So you want me to tell you if we’re in danger or if we’re safe. You do realize that there may not be an opportunity to warn you every single time?”
Charlotte dropped onto the bench. “I would settle for some of the time at this point.”
Richard couldn’t stop himself. “As shocking as it seems, occasionally you may have to rely on your own judgment. For example, if we’re running from a mob, we’re probably not safe.”
Charlotte’s gaze was sharper than a knife. “One more word of mocking, and I’ll infect you with papillomavirus.”
She had graduated to actual threats. What was it with this woman? “Pray tell, what would that be?”
“Warts,” George said.
Laughing was out of the question, he reminded himself. “My apologies. Please allow me to remedy the situation by using words: we’re safe here. Barlo’s an old friend. His fighters know me. We can speak openly here.”
She hung her head.
George yanked the sodden mass of hair off his hand and hurled it across the room at his brother. Jack dodged, and the wig splattered against the wall.
“You moron!”
“Me?” Jack blinked, an expression of angelic innocence on his face.
“You!” A white glow sheathed George’s eyes. “Two weeks! I spent two weeks watching Parris, and you screwed it up for me. All you had to do was stay out of the way and watch for his people coming out. What the hell did you do?”