Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

But that was impossible if he was to keep her apart from him.

“Why?” She hesitated. “Why would you want us out of business? Is it just to punish Augie? He was ready to tell you about his partner—who I imagine is much more of an employer than a partner.”

“His partner is no longer relevant,” he said, too quickly. He didn’t want Hattie anywhere near Ewan. Not now that he knew how far the duke would go to punish him. To hurt her. “Maybe we want to go straight. Start a business aboveboard.”

She scowled. “Don’t lie to me. It’s beneath you.”

It wasn’t. But he didn’t want her to see that.

“You’re doing this to punish me. No one purchases every ship they use.”

“We do.” They didn’t.

“That’s bollocks,” she retorted. “You can’t afford to own boats, or the Crown will discover you’re moving contraband every two weeks.”

His brows went up at the astute assessment.

She smirked. “Surprised by my intelligence?”

“No.” Not surprised. Tempted.

He wanted to take her to bed and have her school him on shipping. Lading bills and tide tables and whatever else she wanted to talk to him about.

Which was utter madness.

Before he could take the mad action, she looked him dead in the eye and slung a wicked blow. “I trusted you. I believed you. I thought you were better than this.” She paused. “I thought we were . . .”

Don’t finish that sentence.

He wasn’t sure he could survive it. He could barely breathe for that we, for the way it tied them together. For the way he wanted it to. For a single, wild moment, he almost gave in. Almost turned it all over to her. Gave her the business and the Docklands and his aid. But then he remembered Ewan, mad in the darkness, vowing to punish him via Hattie.

You’ll give her up. Or I’ll take her.

The memory ran like ice through him.

It wasn’t possible. There could be no deal. She couldn’t have her business and her safety. And he couldn’t have her. Not as long as Ewan drew breath.

The carriage stopped. He reached for the door, out onto the street before the thing stopped rocking, reaching back to hand her down. A mistake. Her hands were bare now, and her skin impossibly soft against his—so soft it made him wonder if his touch might do her damage.

Of course it would. His touch would do her nothing but damage.

He tightened his grip on her anyway. He’d be damned if he’d let her go.

Not tonight.

One night.

He ignored the thought and pulled her into the house, thankful for the late hour and the lack of servants. After Devil had left to build a home with Felicity, Whit hadn’t had the heart to let any of the servants go. He had more than he needed, which meant that the house was beautifully cared for; someone had left a lamp burning in the entryway for him, one he happily took up as he led Hattie up the stairs to his apartments, still the only part of the house he thought of as entirely his own.

She followed, and he could hear her curiosity as they climbed the stairs. He felt it as he turned down a long, dark hallway, in the way she slowed, her head craning to look in the other direction.

Finally, the chatterbox couldn’t remain silent. “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t reply.

“You know your silence is maddening, do you not?”

As though the sound of her voice, lyric and lovely, weren’t the same. He put one hand on the door to his rooms and looked over his shoulder. “I assumed you wanted to continue our discussion.”

A beat, and then her reply. “I said we should do that after you’re bandaged.”

They both looked down to find that he’d bled through his shirt. Whit was not the type to ask for care, and yet he could not stop the low rumble that came at the idea. “Mmm.”

He expected trepidation from her. Hesitation. Nerves. But he’d forgotten this was Hattie—brazen and bold.

Her violet eyes lit on his hand, frozen on the door handle, and her delicious lips curved into a considering smile. “And inside?” she asked. “Your lair?”

He exhaled a little laugh and inclined his head. “No plants.”

“You’re going to keep the business.”

“Yes,” he said. He had no choice.

“You understand I shan’t go down without a fight.”

“I wouldn’t imagine it any other way.” He imagined the fight she gave him would be the best he’d ever had. But she’d never beat him. This was his world. His game.

And he’d never wanted a win the way he wanted the one that kept Hattie safe.

Still, when one side of her mouth kicked up in a wry smile, dimple flashing, he felt it like a blow, and it made him punch drunk.

She straightened the lapels of the ridiculous topcoat she wore, smoothing the lines of the jacket over the curves it did not hide before she straightened. “There is no deal, then. We are rivals.”

The way she said it, simply, as though there were no hard feelings—no harm in it—it made him want her more than ever.

“There is one deal left.” He didn’t know why he said it. He knew exactly why he said it.

Understanding flared in her eyes along with anticipation. “Body.”

Whit went tight as a bow. He could give her one night. He could keep her safe for one night. One night, and he would let her go.

One night, and he would be able to.

“Go on then,” she whispered, a nod at the door. “Open it.”

Chapter Eighteen

She shouldn’t have enjoyed the back-and-forth with him. She shouldn’t have stayed after he admitted he had no interest in aiding any of her plans. She should have left this man who had gone from tentative partner to absolute rival in less than a week.

But she didn’t want to. She was not through with him, either in business or in pleasure, and when she’d vowed she would triumph in both—it set her free.

That freedom, coupled with the truth between them, made desire all that mattered.

She crossed the threshold into rooms that smelled of honey and lemon and a touch of bay, making her think of a warm summer sun, and let herself sink into the moment—one that existed purely in service of her desire.

And that was the most magnificent freedom Hattie had ever experienced.

He moved away almost immediately, leaving her to her quiet inspection—an impossible task, as the only light source was a flickering orange glow through a door at the far end of the room. She stepped toward it, her feet sinking into a thick carpet—thick enough to explain the sound of the space, quiet and lush in the darkness. She could hear the fullness of the chamber, and she wondered what was there, around her, cocooning her from the outside world.

That was what the room felt like, even in darkness—a cocoon. Protection from everything beyond—anything that might threaten. Anything that did not promise pleasure.

It should have been cold, for the way darkness and wind had arrived outside, but it wasn’t. She supposed she should not have been surprised about that—was anything about him ever cold?

Hattie could make out his shape at the far side of the room, his broad shoulders shrugging out of his coat before he tossed it over the arm of a chair, revealing narrow hips and long legs. Her mouth went dry as he crouched low at the fireplace, where glowing coals turned to cinder in the hearth. He stoked the fire and tossed wood onto it, then rose to light a half-dozen candles on the mantel.