Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

Again, silence.

“I must say, Beast, you do know how to put a woman at ease.”

If she weren’t paying such close attention to him, she might not have heard the little catch in his throat. A laugh of some sort. But she did, and it made her feel triumphant. “Aha! You are able to respond!”

He said nothing, but they’d reached Devil by then. “I told you not to talk to him.”

“You left me with him!”

“That doesn’t mean you should talk to him.”

She looked from one brother to the other and sighed, then waved a hand at the men dispersed around the enormous room. “These are all your employees?”

Devil nodded.

Beast grunted.

Felicity heard it and turned on his brother. “That. What does that mean?”

“Don’t talk to him,” Devil said.

She didn’t turn back. “I think I shall, thank you very much. What did that noise mean?”

“They are his employees.” Beast’s gaze slid away from her.

She shook her head. “That’s not all it meant, though, is it?”

Beast met her eyes, and she knew whatever he was about to say was important. And true. “The kind of employees who would walk through fire for him.”

The words fell in the darkness, filling the warehouse, reaching the corners and warming them. Warming her. She turned back to Devil, who stood several feet away, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, a look of irritation on his face. But he wasn’t looking at her. He couldn’t.

He was embarrassed.

She nodded, then said, softly, “I believe that.”

And she did. She believed this man who called himself Devil was the kind of man who could engender deep, abiding loyalty from those around him. She believed he was a man with whom one did not trifle, and also a man of his word. And she believed that he was the kind of man who held up his end of the bargain.

“I believe that,” she repeated, wanting him to look at her. When he did, she realized his eyes were not the same as his brother’s. Beast’s gaze did not make her heart pound. She swallowed. “So, they help you smuggle cargo?”

Devil’s brow furrowed. “They help us move ice.”

She shook her head. She didn’t believe for a second that these two men, with the way they fairly oozed danger, were mere ice traders. “And where do you keep this alleged ice?”

He straightened his arms and fisted his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and looking at the ceiling. When he replied, his words were filled with frustration. “We’ve a hold full of it downstairs, Felicity.”

She blinked. “Downstairs.”

“Underground.” The word rang forbidden in the dimly lit room, spoken low like sin, as though he were the Devil, inviting her not only underground—but so far underground that she might never return.

It made her want to experience everything it promised. It made her ask for that experience, without hesitation. “Show me.”

For a moment, no one moved, and Felicity thought she had asked too much. Pushed too hard. After all, she hadn’t been welcome here; she’d picked the lock to make her way in.

But she had been welcome here. He’d let her pick the lock. He’d given her free rein of the warehouse, let her stand among his men and see the operation and, for a moment, he’d let her feel something other than alone. He’d given her access to his world in a way no man ever had before. And now, drunk on the power that came with that access, she wanted all of it. Every inch.

More.

“Please?” she added in the silence that followed her demand—as though politeness would impact his answer.

And it did. Because Devil looked to his brother, who revealed none of his own thoughts as he passed a large brass key ring to Devil. Once the keys were in hand, Devil turned away, making for a great steel plate set into the ground nearby, reaching down and opening it up, revealing a great black hole in the ground. Felicity approached as he reached for a nearby hook, bringing down a coat. “You’ll need this,” he said. “It will be cold.”

Her eyes went wide as she reached for it. It was happening. He was going to show her. She swung the great heavy cloak around her shoulders, the scent of tobacco flower and juniper encircling her, and she resisted the urge to bury her nose in the lapel. The coat was his. She looked to him. “Won’t you be cold?”

“No,” he said, reaching for a lantern nearby and dropping into the hold.

She came to the edge and looked down at him, his face shadowed by the flickering light. “Another thing you control? Cold does not bother you?”

He raised a brow. “My power is legion.”

She turned and climbed down the ladder inlaid into the side of the hatch, trying to remain calm, trying not to notice that her world was changing with every step. That the old, plain, wallflower Felicity was being left behind, and in her place was a new, strange woman who did things like pick locks that opened doors instead of closing them, and visit smuggler’s caches, and wear coats that smelled of handsome, scarred men who called themselves Devil.

But truth such as that was impossible not to notice.

There was something to be said for being in league with the Devil.

When Felicity reached the dirt ground, she spoke to the rungs of the ladder. “I am not certain you wield the power you think, sirrah.”

“And why is that?” he asked, his voice quiet in the dark.

She turned to face him. “You made me a promise, and you have yet to deliver.”

“How is that?” Had he moved closer? Or was it the darkness playing tricks? “From what you’ve said, it sounds like your duke is won. What was it you said? He dances like a dream? What more would you like?”

“You didn’t promise me a duke,” she insisted.

“That is precisely what I promised you,” he said as he climbed several rungs of the ladder and pulled the door to the hold closed behind them, throwing them into darkness.

She blinked. “Is it necessary to shut us in?”

“The door stays closed at all times. It prevents melt, and the curiosity of anyone who might be interested in what we do inside the warehouse.”

“No, you promised me a moth,” she said, not knowing where the bravery came from. Not caring. “You promised me singed wings and passion.”

His eyes glittered with his attention. “And?”

“The duke is under no risk of bursting into flames, you see,” she replied. “And I thought it only right that I inform you that if you are not careful, you are at risk of finding yourself in my debt.”

“Hmm,” he said, as though she’d made an important business point. “And how do you suggest I change that?”

“It’s quite simple,” she whispered. He was closer. Or maybe it was that she wanted him closer. “You must teach me to lure him.”

“To lure him.”

She took a deep breath, his warmth around her, tobacco flower and juniper drugging her with power. With desire. “Precisely. I should like you to teach me to make him want me. Beyond reason.”

Chapter Fifteen

The idea that any human male would not want Felicity Faircloth beyond reason surpassed understanding. Not that Devil intended to tell her that.

It was important to note, however, that when the thought crashed around him in the dark hold beneath the Bareknuckle Bastards’ Covent Garden warehouse, Devil did not count himself in that particular group of human males.

Obviously, he had plenty of reason when it came to Felicity Faircloth. He wasn’t near beyond it. Not even when she stood mere inches from him, wearing his coat, and speaking of burning men to cinders.

He was immune to the lady’s charms.

Remember the plan. The words echoed through him as his hands itched for her, fingers flexing, wanting nothing more than to reach for the lapels of his coat and pull her to him, close enough to touch, until she couldn’t remember the Duke of Marwick’s name, let alone the way the man danced.

Like a dream, my ass.

He cleared his throat at the thought. “You want a love match. With Marwick.” He scoffed. “You’re too old and too wise for simpering, Felicity Faircloth.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t say anything about a love match; I want him to want me. I want passion.”

It should be illegal for a woman like Felicity Faircloth to say the word passion. It conjured images of wide expanses of skin and beautiful, mahogany locks across white sheets. It made a man wonder how she would arch her back to his touch, how she might ask for it. How she might direct it. How her hand would feel on his, moving his fingers to the precise location she wanted them. How her fingers would feel against his scalp as she moved his mouth to the precise location she wanted it.

Thank God they were standing fifteen feet from a hold full of ice.

In fact . . . “This way.” He raised the lantern and moved down the long, dark corridor, toward the ice hold, forgetting, for the first time, ever, that he didn’t care for the dark. Grateful for the distraction, he spoke as they walked. “You wish for passion.”

Remember the plan.

“I do.”

“From Marwick.”

“He is my future husband, is he not?”