Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

At the words, the men scrambled, the drivers leaping up to their blocks, seconds joining them. Felicity watched as the one closest to her slid a pistol into a holster attached to his leg. Two other men hefted themselves up onto the rear step of the wagon, pulling wide leather straps around their bottoms.

Felicity turned to Devil. “I’ve never seen anything like those—seats for outriders? To keep them from having to stand the whole trip?”

He watched as one of the men lashed himself to the wagon with the strap. “Partially for comfort,” he replied, turning to accept something from the man to his left. “Partially because they might need their hands for something other than to hang on.” Moving forward, he handed a rifle up to the outrider, and another to the man’s partner.

“Ah, yes. I see now that it is all ice,” she said dryly. “Why else would it require so many armed men?”

He ignored her. “Aim true, boys.”

“Aye, sir.” The reply came in unison.

“Yourselves above all,” Devil said, and her gaze snapped to his face, registering the seriousness of his words and something else—something like concern. Not for the cargo, but for the men. Felicity’s chest tightened.

“Aye, sir.” They nodded, strapping the weapons across their chests and checking the fastenings on their seats before banging on the side of the wagon.

Down the line, other young men were similarly preparing, lashing them to the wagons and strapping rifles to their chests. Metallic thuds echoed through the great room, until every wagon was ready to leave. A great scrape sounded as several men slid an enormous steel door open—large enough to pull a wagon through.

“The border,” Nik called, and the wagon closest to Felicity leapt to movement, pulling through the open door and into the night. She backed into Devil, his arm coming around her waist to steady her as Nik said, “York.” Another wagon moved, and it occurred to Felicity that she should step away from his touch. That another woman certainly would do so. Except . . . she didn’t want to.

Next to him, with the horses stomping their feet and the men shouting their orders, she felt like the lady of a medieval keep, skirts billowing in the Scottish wind as she stood next to her laird and watched her clan prepare for war.

“London First,” Nik shouted above the racket of wagon wheels.

It seemed a little like war. Like these men had trained together, becoming brothers in arms. And now they sojourned together in service to a greater purpose.

To Devil.

Devil, whose arm held her closer than it should. Stronger than it should. And precisely as she found she wished. As though she were his partner, and he hers.

“Bristol,” Nik called, spurring another wagon to motion. “London Second.”

Before the last of the vehicles left the warehouse, the door was sliding closed, several men moving forward to place a great wooden beam against it to prevent it being opened from the outside. At the thunder of the heavy lock, Devil released her, stepping away, as though his hold had been nothing more than a fantasy.

She tried for levity. “And so, your ice is beyond your control.”

“My ice is well within my control until it reaches its destination,” Devil said, watching as another man approached, this one dark-haired, with golden-brown skin. “I would remind you, my lady, that I am able to wield considerable power with or without physical presence.”

The words, a low rumble, sent a shiver through her—reminding her of the way he had seemed to exude power from the moment she met him. He’d somehow prevented the duke from denying her claim of their engagement. He’d discovered her family’s secrets without even trying. He’d made her safe in Covent Garden even when he wasn’t with her. Perhaps he was the Devil, after all, all-powerful and omniscient, manipulating the world without struggle, collecting debts along the way.

But he hadn’t yet collected her debt.

The duke might have offered her marriage, but a marriage of convenience was not her plan. And so she was here in this magnificent place like nothing she’d ever seen, ready to face the Devil once again. And remind him that his end of the bargain had not been met.

“Not enough power,” she replied.

He snapped his attention back to her, his narrow gaze setting her heart racing. “What did you say?”

Before she could reply, the other man joined them, also in shirtsleeves, rolled up along his forearms, revealing a pattern of black ink that Felicity would have considered more seriously if the man hadn’t stepped into a pool of golden light that revealed his face—beautiful beyond measure. The kind of face that painters assigned to angels.

She couldn’t hold back her gasp.

Both men looked at her.

“Is there a problem?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s just—he’s very—” She looked to the man, realizing it was rude to speak of him as though he weren’t standing directly in front of her. “That is, sir, you’re very—” She stopped. Was it appropriate to tell a man he was beautiful? Her mother would no doubt dissolve into conniptions. Though, to be fair, her mother would likely dissolve into conniptions if she knew her daughter was anywhere near Covent Garden—let alone deep in one of its rookeries. So she was long past any semblance of understanding of what was appropriate.

“Felicity?”

She did not look at Devil. “Yes?”

“Do you intend to finish that thought?”

She remained transfixed by the newcomer. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. No.” She cleared her throat. “No.” Shook her head. “Definitely not.”

One black eyebrow rose, curious and assessing.

And familiar.

“Brothers!” she blurted out, looking from him to Devil and back again, then took a step toward him, sending him back a half step, his gaze flying to Devil’s, giving her a chance to inspect his eyes—the same mysterious color of Devil’s—somehow gold and somehow brown, and with that dark ring around them, and altogether, thoroughly unsettling. “Brothers,” she repeated. “You’re brothers.”

The beautiful man inclined his head.

“This is Beast,” Devil said.

She gave a little laugh at the silly name. “I suppose that’s meant to be ironic?”

“Why?”

She looked over her shoulder at Devil. “He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

Devil’s lips flattened at that, and she thought she heard a little growl of amusement from the man called Beast, but when

she returned her attention to him, he hadn’t moved. She pressed on. “Your eyes are the same. The bones of your cheeks, your jaws. The curve of your lips.”

The growl seemed to come from Devil then. “I’ll thank you to stop considering the shape of his lips.”

Her cheeks grew warm. “I’m sorry.” She looked to Beast. “That was quite rude of me. I shouldn’t have noticed.”

Neither brother seemed to care about the apology, Devil already moving away, no doubt expecting her to follow. She supposed no one was going to stand on ceremony in a Covent Garden warehouse and make introductions, so she decided to do it herself. She smiled at Devil’s brother. “I am Felicity.”

That brow rose and he stared at her outstretched hand, but he did not take it.

Really. Were the brothers raised by a mother wolf? “This is the bit where you tell me your real name; I know it isn’t Beast.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Devil said, his long legs already eating up the ground as he headed across the warehouse.

“But you believe his name is Devil?” The question came low and graveled, as though the Beast was out of practice using his voice.

She shook her head. “Oh. No. I don’t believe that at all. But you seem more reasonable.”

“I’m not,” he replied.

Felicity probably should have been unsettled by the answer, but instead, she found she rather liked this second, quiet brother. “I wasn’t noticing your lips you know,” she offered. “It’s just that I’ve noticed his and yours are the same . . .” She trailed off when both his brows rose. She supposed she shouldn’t have admitted to that, either.

He grunted, and Felicity imagined that it was supposed to set her at ease.

Oddly, it did. Together, they followed Devil, who had already disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse—hopefully far enough away that he hadn’t heard her. As they walked, she searched for a topic that might make the unsocial man more willing to converse. “You’ve been running ice for a long while, then?”

He did not reply.

“Where does it come from?”

Silence.

She searched for something else. “Did you design the transport wagons yourselves? They’re very impressive.”