the floor. “More than likely.”
She smoothed the back of her skirt as she lowered herself to the wobbly bench. “I came because I would like to learn a bit more about . . . this.” She gestured to encompass the room. “After last night and thinking of the situations going forward, I do not wish to find myself without resources.”
Beauty and brains had served her well so far. Time to see how far gumption could carry her. “Ever load a revolver before?”
She shook a gloved hand. “I’d rather stay away from those things.”
“What if you’ve lost your little stick and one of those things is the only thing keeping you alive?”
“Why must you assume I’m always in mortal danger?”
“Firsthand observation.” He pushed to his feet and offered her his hand. Noticing the powder from sorting fuses all morning, he swiped his dirty hands against his trousers before offering it again. “Come on. We’ll put Eric’s face on one of the targets.”
She met his grasp without hesitation. “Now, that’s an idea I can get on board with.”
At the back table, he picked up a dismantled revolver. All students had to learn to assemble and disassemble one blindfolded before they even put a bullet in the chamber. He glanced at the froth of netting surrounding Kat’s large-brimmed hat. No way a blindfold was fitting over that. “How is the workhorse for purity doing this morning?”
“Raging on the warpath.” She touched a finger to the tip of a bullet lined neatly with others on the table. The corners of her mouth pulled down. “He won’t stop until he finds who did it.”
“Then he’ll spend a lifetime at failing. If a tiny little fire is going to distract him so much, then he better sit the remainder of the war out for what’s coming.”
She looked up, fear leaping in her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Things will only escalate if Hitler continues his path of destruction. The people won’t stand for it, and certainly the armies won’t.”
“But what about you?”
“My job is to train and not much more.”
“I’d call last night a little more.”
“That’s your fault.” He held up a hand at her look of protest. “If you and your sister hadn’t shown up, I’d while away my days down here and nights slinging drinks up there. As usual, the government has taken a bad situation and turned it into a golden opportunity for themselves.”
“Who would’ve thought? You and I, the golden couple.”
Her sweet perfume swept under his nose. Like a breath of fresh flowers, it blocked out the gloom and must of his underground world. Her very being stuck out like the sun on a cloudy day. Tall, shoulders elegantly held back, fashionably dressed and coiffed, she didn’t belong down here. She belonged to tea and crumpets at the Savoy, afternoon strolls in Hyde Park, and operas with men in penguin suits.
He grabbed the firing pin and jammed it down into the spring. Pointless, boy-o. Your job is here—not the Savoy. You couldn’t afford to be a dishwasher at the Savoy, much less obtain a lady from her class. The pin slipped through the coils and bounced on the floor. He swooped down and caught it.
A smile rippled over her face as she watched him.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, really.” Popping open her handbag, she took out a gold-tipped pen and pulled one of the target sheets from the shelf. She scratched slowly over the circles. “I was just thinking if my father could see me now, working for the cause. Might give him a reason to smile.”
“Not much of a grinner, your dad?”
“Not exactly.” The scratches turned into thin lips and pinned-back ears. “At least not at me.”
She said it on an exhale so soft he almost missed it. He’d had his doubts about Sir Alfred’s fatherly affections, but the sadness in her voice was enough to twist his gut. Fathers, rich and poor, amounted to nothing but disappointment, and yet their kids never stopped striving for their approval. The haunting shadow of self-pity crept over him. He shoved it back. He wasn’t his da, and he’d prove it until the day he left this world. He’d die fighting and not shrivel into a drunken shell moaning about life’s lost love.
“Where did you learn this kind of fighting?”
Her voice pulled him back from the blackened thoughts as her pen scuffed out combed hair. “Back rooms of the brewery and hard streets of Glasgow. Couldn’t call yourself a man if you hadn’t bloodied at least one