Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

She didn’t have time to find out, as the man behind her grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Where do ye think yer goin’?”

She tried to pull away, but the man’s grip was strong. Tearing her eyes from where Whit was coming to his feet, she looked back, letting her anger lead. She narrowed her gaze on the man, slightly shorter than she was. “Unhand me.”

Anger flared in his eyes, and his fingers tightened. “I’ll lay hands on ye if I want, boy. I’ll put ye into the ground if you don’t get out of my way.”

“Oy!” Nora said, seeing what was coming. “Stop it!”

The crowd was screaming its excitement behind them; Whit must have found his footing. Somewhere, Hattie felt relief, but she couldn’t look. She put a hand in the pocket of her trousers, feeling for the blade there. “Again. Remove your hand.”

The man—now that Hattie could see him, she was fairly certain he was drunk—looked up to the bottom of the silo for a moment, then back to her. “I don’t think so.”

He drew back his fist, and Hattie pulled away with all her might, extracting the blade from her pocket as the fist came toward her.

She didn’t hear Nora’s scream, or the furious roar that preceded the blow that knocked her to the ground.

Chapter Seventeen

The fight set him free for the first time in days.

He couldn’t remember spoiling for one so badly. The back-and-forth with Hattie. The guilt that racked him every time he thought of how she’d confessed her desire to run her father’s company. Of what he’d promised her. His rage at Ewan’s threat. His fear of it. His faith in it. And the self-loathing that came when he thought of the way he’d betrayed Hattie to keep her safe.

It had begun to unravel him, and Whit was spoiling for a fight before the bruises Ewan had delivered had even begun to fade.

Whit wanted to put a fist into someone’s face, to remember what it was to win. To be in control. And since his sister-in-law wouldn’t appreciate him coming for Devil, he’d signed up for a do-or-die, meaning he would fight all comers until he was brought low. Word had spread through the Garden like wildfire, as it always did when the Bastards offered such a show, and they’d moved the thing three times before settling on the granary, far enough away to avoid a police raid, and large enough to hold the crowd that was sure to turn up.

He’d dispatched a half-dozen comers, drunks and braggarts and two men, barely more than twenty, who’d either lost a bet or were trying to impress a lady. After them, Michael Doolan had arrived to take his thrashing, and Whit had barely controlled his fury when he’d put the man down, making sure to lift the blighter straight off his feet and remind him that if he ever threatened another woman in the Garden, Whit would throw him into the Thames and no one would ever care to look for him.

Suffice to say, Whit was barely winded when the O’Malley Trio had stepped into the ring, their arrival sending a thrill through him.

Because, while Whit loved a bout, Beast loved a fight, and the O’Malley boys were precisely the kind of fight for which he was spoiling, as he couldn’t do what he really wished to do—haul off to Mayfair, find Hattie, and take her to bed for the rest of time.

To protect her, he could never see her again.

So, yes, the O’Malley brutes would do the trick nicely.

Whit dispatched the first two with haste, immediately turning his attention to the third of the brothers and the one with the heaviest fists. All had been going well, Whit ready to win the fight and prepare for the next bout when something caught his eye in the crowd, over Peter O’Malley’s shoulder.

He took his eyes from his opponent for a moment, unable to place what he’d seen—nothing out of sorts, a sea of faces watching the fight, some ruddier-cheeked than others, thanks to the swill being passed around for warmth. At the far side of the circle were Felicity and Devil, her face full of serious worry, and his, bored with the whole thing. The Bastards’ second-in-command, Annika, was next to them—no surprise, as she never missed a fight if she didn’t have to.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing but the thing that he couldn’t seem to see, and still knew was there.

What had it been?

In the midst of his distraction, Peter O’Malley had come for him, throwing a punch that Whit dodged without hesitation—a punch that, had he been paying attention, he would have seen for what it was. A trick. Before he could correct himself, Peter landed the real blow, an uppercut that snapped Whit’s head back and jarred his teeth. He’d taken punches like it before, and he was turning away even as he rebounded, but Peter added a second blow, this one to the body, and Whit had no chance.

Grounded.

He caught himself, hands flat in the cold earth. He was on his knees for a second. Maybe two. Not long enough for another opponent to come for him, but more than long enough for Peter O’Malley to get the drop. He sent Whit rolling through the dirt with a kick that he would have admired if he hadn’t been on its receiving end.

And that’s when he’d heard her scream.

At first, he thought he was wrong—thought that the blow to his head had made him imagine her there. There were other women in attendance. It could have been one of them. But the second he’d heard the sound, he’d known the truth, the pain in his ribs receding instantly, his head already turning to find her.

He didn’t have far to look.

How had she found him?

She couldn’t be here. If Ewan saw her . . .

She was just inside the ring, wearing trousers that fit her curves far too well and a topcoat that wasn’t near warm enough for the wind. She had to be cold. That was enough for him to resolve to get to her. To take her away from this place and get her warm.

To protect her.

The thought was distracting enough to risk the fight, but then the man behind her touched her, his eyes narrowed with anger and his mouth running from drink. She turned toward the drunk, his fingers tightening on her arm, and Whit focused on that place, on the harsh indent of his grip, digging into Hattie’s flesh.

Whit came to his feet, the crowd roaring.

“You wantin’ more, Beast?” Peter O’Malley said, spreading his arms wide, letting showmanship reign. The crowd had come for a show, and O’Malley was superior at delivering one. But Whit didn’t have time for performance. Instead, he threw a single punch, barely looking as O’Malley dropped to the ground, already heading for Hattie, who was reaching into her pocket—Whit hoped for a weapon.

The man who held her stiffened, and it didn’t take twenty years of fighting to know his intent. His hand fisted.

Rage clouded Whit’s vision.

He started to run, to get to Hattie before the dead man could land the punch. And he would be a dead man if he landed the punch. Whit would kill him before he could take another breath.

Nearly there.

Letting out a wild roar, he launched himself toward her, pushing her down, away from the man’s blow, turning mid-tumble to take the full force of the landing, protecting her from the hard ground.

They landed, her eyes squeezed tightly closed, and time stopped until she opened them, a fraction away from his own. Relief slammed through him, with more force than the boot he’d taken earlier. He resisted the urge to kiss her—the assembly had had enough of a spectacle. Instead, he lowered his voice and said the only thing that came to mind.