Page 73
“Stables.”
“I imagine,” Reina said, fanning her fingers open and closed, “if I went out with this glove in my pocket . . . or better yet, a pair of them . . . I would feel much safer. I think I would like knowing that if someone tried to approach me, he’d have a nasty surprise.”
“It wouldn’t make you safer,” Pembroke said flatly. “Just the opposite. It would put you in far worse danger than if you’d gone without it.”
Belinda was outraged. “People run away when they see me claws!”
“Surely the glove has some deterrent value?” Reina asked Pembroke.
“Trifling at best. That glove isn’t a weapon, it’s a toy.” He continued calmly as Belinda spluttered with fury. “A bit of costume, it is.”
Belinda turned away from him, her jaw clenched.
Pembroke let out a taut sigh and sent Reina a pointed glance.
“Belinda,” Reina said, “it won’t harm us to hear his opinion.”
“I already hate it,” the girl said.
“We often learn more from the people who don’t agree with us than the ones who do,” Reina told her, and turned to the butler. “Pembroke, please help me understand how wearing this”—she held up her gloved hand—“could possibly put me in more danger. Because it would seem to give me at least some small advantage.”
“The damn thing will attract attention, and someone will take it as a challenge. It makes you a target. More importantly, you can’t use that glove against someone without putting yourself in arm’s reach. And the moment you do that, you’ve lost.”
“Why?”
“Assuming the attacker is a man, you’re under his control as soon as he can reach you. A man’s shoulders are broader, his arms longer. Men have more brute strength, aye? While you’re trying to scratch him, he’ll overpower you or lay you out with a fist to the jaw.” A frown weighted his brows as he noticed Reina fidgeting with the glove, clicking the horseshoe nails together, delicately touching the sharp points to the pad of her bare thumb. He reached out to take hold of her gloved hand, turned it palm-up, and began to loosen the fingers with deft tugs. Blinking in mild surprise, Reina held still. His hands were elegantly shaped but powerful. It was easy to imagine the considerable damage they could do. But his touch was so gentle.
“The aim isn’t to win the fight,” Pembroke continued, easing the glove off until the thin, tender skin of her wrist was revealed. “Because you can’t. The aim is escape.”
Reina nodded slowly, trying to look as if she were paying attention. But his thumb had slipped briefly into the cup of her palm as he held her hand steady, while with the other hand, he pulled off the glove entirely. Suddenly she felt flushed all over. She could feel the tiny tattoo of a heartbeat in her cheeks.
“How would I escape if someone’s already taken hold?” she managed to ask.
“Throw him off his guard. Do something unexpected. Gouge his eyes.” He touched the thin crescents of her nails. “These are claws enough for that. Or use a hatpin.”
“A hatpin?”
“Aye, it’s nine to twelve inches of sharp steel. Shove it into his throat or gut and run.” He let go of her hand, considering more options. “A steel-tipped umbrella would work. Or a reticule weighted with a few coins would deliver a good wallop, if you’re fast enough. Anything to create an opportunity to run away.”
Reina looked at the girl’s downbent head. “Belinda,” she asked, “do you understand the points Pembroke is making about the glove?”
“Yeah,” came the girl’s bitter reply. “I can’t have it ’cos women are weak and men are strong.”
“Is that what you heard?” Pembroke asked, and shook his head slowly. He drew a knee up and wrapped a loose arm around it as he contemplated the girl. “That thought has never been in my head, not for one second of life.”
“But you said—”
“Brute force isn’t the only kind of strength.”
“It’s the best kind, innit.”
He arched a dark brow. “A wolf isn’t as strong as an ox. Nor is a snake. But they can be far more deadly.” When the girl didn’t react, he asked, “Would you say I’m stronger than Miss Martin?”
“Yeah,” the girl said sourly.
“Why?”
“’Cos you’re bigger.”
