Gabby missed them all more than she’d imagined possible. To be cut off from them … from Nolan. Perhaps that was what he wanted. The thought turned her throat into a hard knot. She turned so that Rory could see only the veiled half of her face. She peered out the window. They had not traveled north toward the stately homes of Grosvenor Square. Gabby noted the salty tang of the river Thames, smelled the bite of an oil and grease factory and the familiar malty scent of a brewery. Rory must have directed their driver to take them to Battersea.
“I don’t know if I’m up for sparring today,” she said, forcing her voice steady as their carriage clattered along the industrial road lined with brick and clapboard buildings.
“Yes, ye are,” Rory replied. She shook her head, but knew he was right. There was nothing she liked more than sparring. Rory had been taking her to an abandoned Battersea dry dock for the last three weeks, and there, Gabby had resumed her weapons training for when—if—she was allowed into the Alliance.
Whenever she held a sword or dagger in her hand, she felt essential, as if she was doing something important rather than whiling away her time in exile. The exertions of swordplay, from wielding the heavy blade and parrying with quick steps to lunging, thrusting, and absorbing the impact from Rory’s opposing blade, left her muscles sore and her chest heaving. She was by no means competent, but she wasn’t as green as she’d been in Paris, either.
The carriage drew to a stop, and after letting them out, the driver continued. Most likely to a tavern for a pint of ale and a meat pie, Gabby guessed. He’d been accommodating their secret outings in return for an hour of freedom.
The long, narrow building jutted out over the swirling brown Thames and had an open access point to the river. Its clapboards were whitened with age, wind, and weather. Inside, the slipway, shaped like a wooden cradle, had once held ships in dry dock.
Rory had stored Gabby’s short sword in his coat. He withdrew it and, without warning, tossed it toward her. She lunged and caught the handle of silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The pommel, a hollow sphere of silver filigreed scrollwork, was tucked tight against her wrist. She pointed the tip of the sword at Rory’s head.
“I might have sliced off my fingers had I caught that poorly,” she said, her heart already beating faster.
He raised his arms and withdrew the two short swords resting in a cross-sheath at his back, under his coat. He swung them in an ostentatious display, the blades circling through the salty air.
“I’ve taught ye better than that, laoch.”
The Scottish word meant “warrior,” and Rory had taken to calling her that the way Nolan had called her lass. She closed her eyes briefly and pushed Nolan from the front of her mind. He couldn’t live there forever.
“Come at me,” Rory commanded, his swords at his sides. She would never get a strike in, that much she knew. He was too stealthy, too fast.
She unpinned her hat and tossed it to the floor. The cold air coming off the choppy Thames through the access gap ruffled her dark hair and gusted over her cheeks. Rory paid her scars no attention. He never had, and Gabby knew, without his having to say it, that they weren’t a distraction for him the way they were for so many others. Sometimes, if she didn’t smile or squint, she couldn’t feel the tightness of the scars. She could even pretend they weren’t there.
Gabby walked a circle around him, trying to find a way in. Some method of surprise. She locked eyes with him, forgetting his two swords and her one. So much of Rory’s training so far had been about mind play. Hunting required the skill to predict your opponent’s next move and the ability to mask your own.
Gabby lowered her sword until it was at rest, as both of his were. Still holding his stare, she took a step toward him. The aged wood floor groaned beneath her. Rory’s brows pulled together almost imperceptibly. She’d still seen it, though. He was trying to read her. Trying to predict her tactic. She took another step and Rory’s glacier-blue eyes sharpened.
Just one more step and she’d be close enough to swing her sword up so the tip was at his navel. He’d block it, of course. Rory’s strict attention wavered, diverted to Gabby’s left cheek and the track of scars. Trying to distract her, now, was he? Playing on her deepest insecurity. It wouldn’t work. She knew he didn’t see her the way Mirabelle’s friends did, as pitiful and pathetic. Nolan had once said that every scar told a story. Every scar was a victory. She wanted to believe him.
Gabby cut her sword up. The silver tip whispered against Rory’s coat before he blocked her strike with his right blade. The trance was broken. Gabby hopped back with a wild smile.
“I did it!” She belted out a laugh. “I had you!”
A wry smile pulled on the side of his mouth. “What makes ye think I didna plan to give ye that taste of confidence?” He pressed forward.
Gabby bounced back and to the side, deflecting a teasing jab of his sword. “I saw it in your eyes, Rory Quinn. You were distracted.”
Her shoulder hit a rusty iron hook the size of her head hanging from the beamed ceiling. She shoved it toward Rory with another laugh. He ducked and moved out of its return path. Gabby kept her eye on the hemp rope swinging back into place a moment too long. Rory slapped the flat side of one sword against her waist before she could curl away, out of reach.