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“Aye, I’m a bruiser of goodly size, with hard fists and an even harder head. I learned to fight and take a beating long before I had beard to my chin. But tell me this, Belinda . . . whose house do I live in? Whose commands do I obey?”
The girl’s expression changed as she glanced at Reina. “Hers?” she asked cautiously.
“Hers,” Pembroke repeated with a nod for emphasis. “All my strength is at her service. She could hire a hundred of me tomorrow if she likes. An army of brutes to do her bidding.” He looked into Reina’s wide eyes and smiled slightly before continuing. “What’s more, Miss Martin earned everything by the sweat of her brow. A queen, she is, who built her own castle stone by stone. She needs permission from no man. She makes no apology for her ambitions. And in the battles she wages, she’s a fierce but patient warrior.”
Reina’s lungs only seemed to be taking in half the air she needed. Every time she thought her blush was about to fade, it opened into a deeper, warmer swell of heat. She sat there feeling terribly awkward and overwhelmed by his praise. And she liked it so very much.
Mercifully, she was spared from having to comment as Pembroke turned back to Belinda.
“Now tell me who’s the strongest,” he said.
“She is,” came the girl’s faint reply. She seemed rather amazed by the idea.
Pembroke’s gaze fell to the glove in his hand. “Belinda . . . I’m asking you to let me keep this safe for you, in a locked cabinet in the butler’s room. You have my word nothing will happen to it.”
Belinda looked at Reina. “Is he really asking? Or is it pretend-asking?”
“He’s asking as a courtesy,” Reina replied, “to make it clear your feelings are valued.”
“Pretend-asking,” Belinda concluded, and heaved a sigh. “Are you gonna punish me, Mr. Pembroke?”
“No, but I want you to apologize to Enid for taking her glove. And to Tuppence for shouting at her.”
“I dunno how to apologize.”
“It’s high time to learn,” Pembroke said. “First, you tell the person about what you did wrong. Next—”
“They already know what I done wrong!”
“Aye, but they need to know that you know it. Then say in a humble way that you’re sorry and it won’t happen again. And last, do what you can to mend the damage. Offer to bandage Tuppence’s finger, for example, or buy Enid a new pair of gloves with your own wages.”
Belinda looked glum. “I hate apologizing.”
A brief dazzle of a grin crossed his face. “Most of us do, cyfeilles fach. But a skill worth knowing, it is.”
“What did you just call me?” Belinda asked.
“Little friend.” He pocketed the glove, rose from the floor in an easy movement, and reached down to Reina.
His hand was strong and warm as it closed over her cool fingers. He pulled her to her feet and steadied her balance before letting go. He helped Belinda up as well, saying, “If you’re set on playing with knives and blades, we may as well have some use out of it. I’ll suggest to June that she teach you how to help more in the kitchen.”
The girl’s eyes lit up with eagerness. “I asked her before, but she said I weren’t ready to be trusted with butchery work.”
“I can’t fault June’s judgment,” Pembroke said dryly. “But I’ll vouch for you, and we’ll see what she has to say.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pembroke.”
He nodded. “Now go have breakfast and make your apologies.”
The girl hesitated. “Should I do one of them apologies to Alan too?”
A smile broke out on Reina’s face. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
After the girl had left, Reina turned to face Pembroke. She moved a little too fast, and the room seemed to ripple and waver. Instantly his hands came to her elbows. He was so big and steady, and the subtle spice of his shave tonic was so nice, she wanted to wilt against him.
She tilted her head back to look up into eyes that drew her into a place of midnight and soft shadows. His fingertips came to the side of her face, gently bracketing her jaw. The pleasure of the light touch was nearly paralyzing.
But it quickly became clear that Pembroke’s thoughts were running on a far more pragmatic course than hers. He reached into his inner coat pocket with his free hand and extracted a folded white linen handkerchief. “Pencil smudge,” he said, deftly wiping her cheek. He showed her the dark blotch on the cloth.
