Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

Another wild roar sounded, and a collection of arms went high in the air in celebration. Hattie moved more quickly, her breath coming faster. She knew, without question, for whom they cheered, as though the Lord himself had come to fight.

As they watched, the circle spit out a man—a loser, nose bleeding and one eye already swelling shut. No one made to follow him as he headed for the street, passing Nora and Hattie, who tried not to look too closely as he brushed past, thinking them nothing more than two men, come for the spectacle.

Hattie recognized him, nonetheless. Michael Doolan.

As requested, he’d found Whit at the fights, and been dispatched with ease. Pleasure and pride coursed through her, even as she knew it shouldn’t. Whit had promised retribution. And here it was.

And had he not promised the same to her?

She pushed the thought aside. It was different. He’d made it seem that they were on the same team.

As she drew closer, the picture became clearer. Inside the outer ring of spectators, a dozen or so barrels burned, providing not near enough heat for the strange, surprising space, but plenty of flickering light to the sheltered inner circle, the location of that evening’s fights.

And at the center of that circle, like the Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth, stood a man, clad only in boots and trousers, a cut bleeding on one cheek over what looked like an old bruise—even as a fresh one bloomed on the side of his torso, where Hattie shouldn’t be looking, she knew . . . but who wouldn’t look?

He was magnificent.

When she’d been barely into long skirts, she’d attended an exhibition at the Royal Museum, and spent more time than was reasonable considering the ridges and planes of a particular statue of Apollo.

She’d always assumed that such ridges and planes were reserved for gods and relevant depictions thereof. Not so, apparently. Apparently perfectly ordinary men like this one had them.

Was that what she would call him? Perfectly ordinary?

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry.

Hattie drew closer, her height making it easy for her to see over the clustered shoulders of the two men in front of her, shouting into the din of the rest of the spectators as Whit turned away, revealing more ridges and planes, the magnificent muscles of his back.

No, not Whit. This wasn’t Whit. This was Beast, his trousers hanging low on his hips, his fists at his side, wrapped in linen that might have one day been white, but were no longer. One of the ties had come loose, and Hattie was transfixed by the way he ignored that length of dangling fabric, his hand curled into a near fist, ready for a new battle.

“Beast is on tonight, lads!” a young man no more than fourteen or fifteen called out to a raucous response. “Ye’d best wager with ’im if ye want ale tonight!” The boy tipped the brim of his cap back. Not a boy. A girl, her bright black eyes shining as she flashed a wide, winning grin that made Hattie want to open her purse as well. “Closing bets in five-four-three . . .”

The girl paused to do the business of accepting a wager. “Fank ye, sir,” she said with a dip of her head. “And there it is—the next round begins! Beast against the O’Malley Trio!”

Hattie couldn’t take her gaze from his shoulders, from the way they set, square and strong, as though they might spring at any time. She marveled at the power of them, right up until she noticed the sheer size of the three men approaching. Each one taller and broader than Whit, with broken noses and jaws that looked to be made of granite.

“Cor,” Nora whispered at her ear. “Look at them. Like damn Cerberus.”

“He can’t be expected to fight all three. Surely there’s someone to help him,” Hattie said.

“’E’ll fight all of ’em, and they’ll need a surgeon for it!” came a response from one of the men in front of her. “Just you watch.”

As though she could stop. The trio of men came for him, creeping closer, crouching low, and Hattie held her breath. When would they leap? Was he not going to protect himself? The crowd grew silent, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to keep in the shout she wanted to release, the one that told him to run.

They were on him in seconds, but he moved like lightning. She gasped for breath; she’d never seen anything like him as he slid beneath one man’s massive fist and helped it directly into the nose of a second. And all while he kicked out into the torso of the third, sending him flying back with an ominous thud.

“Aye, Beast! Keep at it!” a woman several feet away called out. “That’s what they get for goin’ up against ya!” Then, lowering her voice, she turned to her neighbor and said, “I’d like to give him a prize for this win!”

Her companion laughed her agreement, and Hattie resisted the hot jealousy that flared at the words, even as she took her eyes from him to track the spectators in the crowd. There were more than a few pretty women, eyes gleaming with lust as they watched his movements. Any one of them would offer themselves up as a spoil of this particular war. Of course they would. Hattie would, too. She was not made of stone.

And she knew what it was to be his prize.

To have him be hers.

Not that such a thing was why she was here. She was furious with him. She’d come to give him what-for.

Did he make a habit of it? Bringing these women home?

The question was lost in a wicked crack as he put his fist into the nose of one of the brutes he fought, sending the other man reeling backward and, in slow motion, to his knees. He landed on his face in the dirt like a felled tree.

The crowd screamed its pleasure. “Out cold! What did I tell ye?” the man in front of her tossed over his shoulder before adding, loudly, “One more, Beast!”

Hattie had thought the difficult part of the fight was when there were three opponents, but she fast changed her mind now that the final man standing had directed his full attention toward Whit. His enormous arms were wide and waiting, giant hands in fists that looked like stone. “Come for it, Beast!” he shouted.

It was madness.

They circled, Whit fairly dancing on his feet, until she could see his face once more, and his body, now with a new spot of blood just below his left shoulder. He was breathing heavily, and the length of linen that had come undone was still ignored, now long enough to reach his knee.

His opponent threw a wicked punch, and Whit dodged. But it was a feint. Up came the man’s other fist, straight into Whit’s jaw, knocking his head back like an apple off a tree. Whit twisted away, and a second blow, aimed for his head, landed on his shoulder, sending him off balance and into the dirt.

The crowd hissed its disappointment as the enormous man put a boot into Whit’s midsection, sending him rolling through the dirt.

“No!” Hattie cried out. Would someone stop the fight?

She was already shoving aside the men in front of her, one of whom was shouting, “Get up, Beast!” When Hattie squeezed through to get a better view, he added, “Oy! Get yer own space, ye git!”

Grateful for the disguise she wore, Hattie ignored him, stepping farther into the ring, toward Whit, who was already moving, rising once more. His head turned toward her and, like magic, his eyes found hers. Her heart skittered in her chest at the ferocity there. Did he recognize her?

He would be hurt. Possibly killed, the stupid man. Would he put a stop to this mad spectacle?