Wicked and the Wallflower: Bareknuckle Bastards Book 1

by Sarah MacLean

  He’d been so close—so close she could see the black ring around the velvet gold of his eyes, and the shadow of his beard, making her wonder how it would feel against her skin, and that scar, long and dangerous and somehow vulnerable, making her want to reach up and touch it.

  She almost had, until she’d realized that he might be going to kiss her, and then that was all she wanted. But then he hadn’t had any interest in doing it. Worse, he’d told her he had no interest in doing it.

  “He’d leave kissing me to a Mayfair toff,” she said to the night, her cheeks burning from embarrassment. She’d never been so proud of herself for taking the bull by the horns, so to speak, and leaving him right there, in his room, where he could ruminate on what one should and should not say to women.

  She turned her face to the sky, inhaling deeply. At least coming here had not been a mistake. She didn’t think she’d ever forget his sister—a woman who knew her worth, without question. Felicity could do with more of that, herself. She made a mental note to find her way to 72 Shelton Street—whatever she would find there was sure to be fascinating.

  And even now, on the streets filled with shadows, the craggy mountains of tightly packed buildings rising up around her, Felicity found herself feeling—unlocked. This place, far from Mayfair and its judgment and cutting remarks . . . she liked it. She liked the way the rain settled. The way it seemed to wash away the grime. The way it seemed to free her.

  “’Elp a gel out, milady?”

  The question came close enough to shock her, and Felicity spun around to find a young woman standing behind her, wet from the rain that had started—a fine London mist that seeped into skin and clothes—in a ragged dress, hair stringy and loose around her shoulders. Her arm was extended, palm up.

  “I—I beg your pardon?”

  The woman indicated her open palm. “Got a bob? For somefin’ to eat?”

  “Oh!” Felicity looked to the woman and then to her hand. “Yes. Of course.” She reached for the pocket of her skirts, where she kept a small coin purse.

  A small coin purse that was no longer there.

  “Oh,” she said again. “I don’t seem to—” She stopped. “My purse is—”

  The woman’s lips twisted in frustration. “Aww, the blades ’ave already got to you.”

  Felicity blinked. “Got to me?”

  “Yeah. Fine lady like yerself, cutpurse found you the heartbeat you landed in the Garden.”

  Felicity fingered the hole that remained in her skirts. Her purse was gone. And all her money. How was she to get home?

  Her heart began to pound.

  The woman scowled. “E’ryone’s a thief ’round here.”

  “Well,” Felicity said, “I’ve nothing left to steal, it seems.”

  The girl pointed to her feet. “Them slippers are pretty.” And then to the bodice of her dress. “An’ the ribbons there, the lace at yer neck, too.” Her gaze stole to Felicity’s hair. “And hairbits. E’ryone’s after ladies’ hairbits.”

  Felicity lifted a hand to her hair, “My hairpins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like one?”

  A gleam shone in the girl’s eyes, and she looked as though she’d been offered jewels. “Yeah.”

  Felicity reached up and extracted one, extending it to the girl, who snatched it without hesitation.

  “Got one for me, lady?”

  “And me?”

  Felicity spun to find two more standing behind her, one older and one no more than eight or ten. She hadn’t heard them approach. “Oh,” she said again, reaching for her hair once more. “Yes. Of course.”

  “And wot ’bout me, girl?” She turned to find a man beyond, reed-thin and smiling in a wolfish, toothless grin that made her skin crawl. “Wot you got for me?”

  “I . . .” She hesitated. “Nothing.”

  A different gleam in a different eye. Far more dangerous. “You sure?”

  Felicity backed away, toward the other women. “Someone’s taken my purse.”

  “’At’s all right—you can pay me anovver way. You ain’t the prettiest fing I’ve seen, but you’ll do.”

  A hand touched her hair, fingers searching. “Can I have another?”

  She blocked it from taking what she had not offered. “I need them.”

  “You got more at yer home, don’t you?” the little girl whined.

  “I—I suppose.” She pulled another hairpin out and extended it to her.

  “Fank you,” the girl said, bobbing a little curtsy, pushing the pin into her knotted mane.

  “Get gone, girl,” the man said. “It’s my turn to deal wiv the lady.”

  Don’t get gone, Felicity thought. Please.

  Felicity looked down the dark street toward Devil’s offices, out of sight. Surely he’d realized she was gone by now, hadn’t he? Would he follow her?

  “You fink a lady’s going to deal wiv you, Reggie? She won’t touch yer poxy pecker for a king’s fortune.”

  Reggie’s disgusting smile dropped, replaced by a menacing scowl. “You’re askin’ for a smack in the gob, girl.” He moved toward her, arm up, and she scurried back, into the shadows. Satisfied with his exhibition of weak power, he turned back toward Felicity and came closer. She backed away, coming up against a wall as he reached out for her hair, now unpinned, falling down around her shoulders.

  “That’s pretty ’air—” He touched it, softly, and she flinched. “Like silk that is.”

  She edged to the side, along the wall, regret and fear warring in her gut. “Thank you.”

  “Ah-ah, lady.” He closed his hand, catching a hank of hair in his fist, pulling tight. When she gasped at the pain, he said, “Come back ’ere.”

  “Let me go!” she shouted, turning, shock and fear sending her into action, her hand fisted as she punched wildly toward him, skimming his bony cheek as he leaned away from the strike.

  “You’ll regret that swipe, you will.” He tightened his grip, pulling her head back. She cried out.

  Two taps replied from the distance, barely noticeable over the sound of her pounding heart.

  “Shit,” the man holding her said. He dropped her hair like it had burned.

  “Oh . . . Reggie,” the first woman cackled. “You’ve got yerself a bit o’ trouble now . . .” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper as she backed farther into the darkness. “The Devil’s found you.”

  For a moment, Felicity did not understand, too riddled with fear and confusion and immense relief that Reggie had unhanded her. She scurried to the side, away from those assembled, toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Look at her, heading for ’im,” the woman narrated. “You’ve touched a Bastard’s lady.”

  “I didn’t know!” Reggie cried, his insolent bravado having escaped him.

  And then he was there, the man they called the Devil—wearing the clothes she’d seen him in moments ago, the sleek black trousers she’d heard slide over his skin. The black linen shirt. The waistcoat. And now, he was wearing boots.

  He carried that walking stick in his bare hand, his rings and the silver lion’s head glinting like wicked promise in the moonlight. It was a weapon, he’d assured her the night they met. And now, she had no doubt of it.

  She let out a little exhale of relief. “Thank God.”

  He didn’t look at her, too focused on Reggie as he twirled that stick menacingly. “God has no place here. Does he, Reggie?”

  Reggie did not reply.

  The stick spun, and Felicity could not tear her gaze from his face, where cold, hard angles had turned to stone and that wicked scar shone stark white against the darkness. “God has forsaken us here in the Garden, has he not, Reggie?”

  Reggie swallowed. Nodded.

  He kept moving, right past her, as though she were invisible. “And without God, whose benevolence allows you to remain here?”

  Reggie’s eyes went wide and he strained to look up at the other man. “Yours.”
<
br />   “And who am I?”

  “Devil.”

  “And do you know the rules of my turf?”

  Reggie nodded. “Yes.”

  “And what are they?”

  “No one touches women.”

  “That’s right,” a woman crowed from the shadows, brave once more. Safe, once more. “Bugger off, Reggie.”

  Devil ignored her. “And what else, Reggie?”

  “And no one touches children.”

  “Or?”

  “Or they see the Devil.”

  Devil leaned in and said quietly, “Both of us.”

  Reggie closed his eyes. “I’m sorry! It weren’t nuffin’. I weren’t gon’ do anyfin’.”

  “You broke the rules, Reggie.” Devil grasped the silver tip of his cane and pulled, the ring of steel echoing against the bricks of the alleyway.

  Felicity gasped at the appearance of the two-foot-long sword that came from within, cold steel glinting silver in the moonlight, the tip of which was immediately at Reggie’s throat.

  Reggie’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry!”

  Felicity moved forward. “Wait!”

  Devil did not look at her. Did not seem to hear her. “I should cut your throat here, don’t you think? Let the rain wash you away?”

  “I’m sorry!”

  Felicity put her hand on Devil’s arm. “There will be no throat cutting! He didn’t do anything! He pulled my hair! That’s it!”

  If anything, the words made Devil colder. His muscles went impossibly harder beneath her hand. And for a long moment, Felicity thought he might use that wicked blade. That he might slice the man’s throat. That the blood might be on her hands.

  “Please,” she said, softly. “Don’t.”

  He looked to her then, for the first time, fury burning in his black eyes, and she resisted the instinct to let him go. “You ask for his life?”

  “Yes. Of course.” She wished the man gone, but not dead.

  He watched her for what felt like an age before he spoke, not taking his gaze from hers. “Thank the lady, Reggie. She buys your life from me tonight.”

  The sword point glinted as he returned it to its ebony sheath, and Reggie dropped to his knees in relief. “Fank you, lady.”

  He reached for her feet, and she backed away, avoiding his touch. “That . . . won’t be necessary.”

  Devil stepped between them. “Get gone, Reggie, and stay gone. If I find you on Bastards’ turf again, your angel won’t be here to save you.”

  Reggie was gone before the words faded.

  Devil turned to face the women, lurking in the shadows. “You three, too.” He reached into his pocket and dug out a handful of coins. “No need to work tonight, Hester,” he said to the first, dropping a bob in her hand before turning and giving two to the older woman and the girl. “Go home, girls, before you find more trouble.”

  The three did as they were told, leaving Felicity alone with the Devil.

  She swallowed. “That was kind.”

  He remained silent, watching the place where the trio had disappeared as seconds stretched like hours, and then he said, “Nothing is kind here.” He turned to her. “You shouldn’t have wasted a bargain on that rat’s life.”

  Uncertainty edged through her at the words. And still—“Was I to have let you kill him?”

  “Others would have.”

  “I am not others,” she said, simply. “I’m me.”

  He turned to face her, stepping close. “You traded for something that had very little value.”

  “I was not aware it was a trade.”

  “Nothing in the Garden is free, Felicity Faircloth.”

  She shook her head, forcing a little laugh. “Well, I haven’t any money and I’m nearly out of hairpins, so I hope he wasn’t worth very much.”

  He froze. “You ran without money? How did you think to get home?”

  “I thought I had money,” she said. She slid her hand into her skirts, revealing the hole there. “Someone stole it. I didn’t even feel it.”

  He looked down at the place where her fingers wiggled through her pocket. “Our cutpurses are the best in town.”

  “You must be very proud.” She tried for levity, unable to escape the relief that still coursed through her. When he did not reply, she said, quietly, “Thank you.”

  He turned to stone again. “He did not deserve lenience.”

  “Nothing happened. You came before it could. He barely touched me.”

  His scar went white and a muscle pounded in his cheek. “He touched you. Your hair.” His gaze was locked on it where it fell around her shoulders, unpinned.

  She shook her head. “Yes, but not much. It’s only down because I gave the women my hairpins.”

  “Not much?” he said, drawing closer to her. “I saw him with a lock of it in his filthy paw. I heard him describe it. Like silk. And I heard you cry out when he pulled it.” He paused, his throat working to keep words back. Words that came anyway. “He touched it. And I haven’t.”

  An echo came from earlier, from inside his bedchamber, the words he used to describe her hair. Hair that I imagine falls in rich, mahogany waves when it is pulled from its severe moorings.

  Her eyes went wide. “I didn’t know you wished to—”

  He lifted his hand, then, and for a moment, she thought he would do it. Touch her. For a moment, she imagined what it would be like for him to slide his strong fingers into her hair and run them along her scalp, now free from the tight binds of hairpins and coifs. She imagined leaning into that touch. Leaning up to him.

  Him leaning down to her.

  “I should take it,” he whispered. “My payment. I should touch it.”

  She blinked up at him. “Yes.”

  The decision warred in him. She could see it. And she saw him make it, too, saw him give in to the desire and reach for her. Thank God.

  His touch was barely there, and the most powerful thing she’d ever experienced. Her breath caught in her throat as he sifted her hair through his fingers. Would his hand be warm? Would he let himself touch her? Would he kiss her?

  “I should have killed him for touching it,” he said, softly.

  “It wasn’t . . .” She hesitated, then whispered, “It wasn’t like this.”

  His gaze found hers in the darkness. “What does that mean?”

  “I won’t remember him,” she said. “Not when you are here now.”

  He shook his head. “Felicity Faircloth, you are very dangerous.” Devil’s fingers—work-rough and warm—moved to her cheek, traced down the curve of it, to her jaw. Lingered there.

  She shivered. “Being here . . . with you . . . it makes me feel like I could be dangerous.”

  He tilted her face up to his glittering eyes, to the Covent Garden mist. “And if you were? What would you do?”

  I would stay, she thought, madly. I would explore this terrifying, magnificent world. She didn’t say those things, however. Instead, she focused on the third answer—the shocking one. The one that came on a flood of want. “I would kiss you.”

  For a moment he did not move, and then he took a deep breath and raised his other hand, cradling her face in his warm grasp before repeating, “You are very dangerous.”

  She did not know where the words came from when she said, softly, “Would you let me?”

  He shook his head once, his gaze on hers. “I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

  Later, she would blame the darkness for her actions. The rain on the cobblestone streets. The fear and the wonder. She would blame his warm hands and his beautiful lips and that scar on the side of his face that made him somehow impossibly handsome. She had to blame something for it, you see, as Felicity Faircloth, aging spinster wallflower, did not kiss men.

  What’s more, she absolutely did not kiss men who lived in Covent Garden and carried cane swords and were named Devil.

  Except in that moment, when she rose up on her toes and did just that, pressing her lips to his full, sof
t ones. He was so warm, the heat of him coming through his linen shirt and waistcoat—the waistcoat she grabbed instantly and without thought, as though he might be able to keep her steady in the wild moment.

  As though he weren’t the reason it felt so wild, with the way he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him, the movement making her gasp her surprise. He growled—a deep, delicious sound, and his teeth nipped at her lower lip before he whispered, like darkness, “Take it then. Like you mean it.”

  And because he gave her permission, she did, taking her first kiss from this dangerous man who seemed the kind of man who gave nothing freely, and still gave all of himself to this moment . . . to her pleasure.

  Not just hers, however. Devil licked over her lower lip, teasing her mouth open so he might claim it with a deep, unyielding caress. He groaned again, the sound sending a thrum of desire through her, pooling deep in her belly. Lower. That groan, coupled with his wicked, wonderful kiss, made her feel more powerful than she’d ever felt before.

  As though he were a lock she’d picked.

  He was ruining her.

  Only it didn’t feel like ruin. It felt like triumph.

  She pressed closer to him, wanting him nearer, wanting more of this moment and its heady power. He lifted his head to look at her, his breath coming in short bursts, and with something like surprise in his eyes. He took a step away from her, rubbing the back of one hand over his lips. He shook his head. “Felicity Faircloth, you’ll burn me down.”

  A scream sounded in the distance, followed by shouts and a collection of masculine voices. Felicity pressed closer to Devil, but he did not offer the comfort she sought, instead shaking his head firmly. “No.”

  Her brow furrowed. “No?”

  Without reply, he took her arm in one impersonal hand and pulled her back toward his offices. When they rounded the curve, he stopped her in the street. “What do you see?”

  “Your lair.” Two nights earlier, she’d thought it a silly description. But now—it was a lair. The dominion of a man more powerful than she’d imagined. A man who could punish or protect at whim.

  “What else?” he asked.

  She looked about. She’d never thought much about the city at night. “It’s beautiful.”