Wicked and the Wallflower: Bareknuckle Bastards Book 1

by Sarah MacLean

He looked to her then. “Devon.”

  It was important she remember that now, the name that he’d inherited not from a family, but from nothing. Important, too, that he remember it, here with her as pure temptation—making him wish he could take her for his own. He hadn’t won the competition. He was not the duke. He was still nothing.

  Memories swirled. Whit, reed-thin and small, with too many teeth in his little face, his impish smile big and bright. Grace, tall and sturdy, with sunken sad eyes. And Ewan, all long legs and sharp bones, like a foal. And with a monstrous determination.

  “One of us would inherit everything. And the others, they would receive a different fate. A lesser one.”

  “How?” she whispered to him. “How did he choose?”

  Devil shook his head. “He would tell you he didn’t choose. He would tell you we chose.”

  “How?”

  “We fought for it.”

  She exhaled at the revelation, harsh and low. “Fought how?”

  He looked to her then, finally able to meet her gaze. Eager to see the horror in it. Ready for her to understand from where he had come. And how. Ready for her to see what he had known from the start—that he was so far beneath her that he might as well be in hell.

  When she was gone from his life, he would be in hell.

  “However he asked.”

  She clutched his hand, her grip stronger than he would have imagined it could be. “No. That’s madness.”

  He nodded. “The physical challenges were easy. First sticks and stones. Fists and fire. But the mental ones—those were the ones that destroyed us. He’d lock us up, alone in the dark.” He hated telling her, but somehow, couldn’t stop the words from coming. “Tell us that we could be set free, into the light, if we’d choose another to fight.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “He gave us gifts, took them away. Sweets. Toys . . .” He paused, a memory teasing at the edge of his mind. “He gave me a dog. Let it keep me warm in the dark for days. And then told me I could keep it forever if I traded it for one of the others.”

  She pressed closer to him. Wrapped her arms around him, as though she could ward off the memory. “No.”

  He shook his head and looked to the sky, sucking in air. “I refused. Whit was my brother. Grace my sister. And Ewan . . .”

  Ewan had been the only one allowed to keep his dog.

  What had Ewan done?

  Felicity shook her head. Pressed her face into his arm. “No.”

  His arm came around her, stroking over her hair, pulling her tight against him. Ewan would never have Felicity.

  “He wanted the strongest of us for his heir. The hungriest.” He wanted the son who would give him a legacy. “At some point, I stopped competing. I simply tried to keep the others safe.”

  “You were children,” she whispered, and he heard the wound in her voice, as though she’d never imagined such torture. “Surely someone tried to stop his crimes.”

  “They are only crimes if they are discovered,” he said quietly. “We found ways to stay together. Ways to keep sane. We made promises to each other, never to let him win. Never to let him take us from each other.”

  Felicity was looking down at her lap now, and he knew this was the ending. That she wouldn’t return to Covent Garden after this story. She wouldn’t return to him. He forced himself to finish. “But when it came down to it . . . we weren’t strong enough.” The scar on his cheek burned with the memory of Ewan’s blade, sharp and unpleasant. With the order that had caused it. His father’s voice ringing out in the darkness.

  If you want it, boy, you must take it from the others.

  Ewan coming for him.

  He exhaled, extinguishing the memory. “We had no choice but to run.”

  She did not look up. “Here.”

  He nodded.

  “How long were you there?”

  “Two years. We were twelve when we left.”

  Her breath came on a harsh exhale. “Two years.”

  He pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple. “We survived it.”

  She looked to him, long enough for her beautiful gaze to set his heart to racing. “I wish I could give those years back.”

  He smiled and stroked his thumb across her soft cheek. “I would take them.” Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “No, love.” He shook his head. “No tears. Not for me.”

  She dashed one away. “There was no one you could trust.”

  “We trusted each other,” he said. And it was the truth. “We vowed we would grow strong and powerful, rich as royalty. And we would mete out a single, endless punishment—my father always wanted heirs. As long as we lived, he would never get them.”

  Her eyes glistened in the starlight, her mouth set in a firm, straight line. “I want him dead.”

  His brows shot up.

  “I know it’s wrong. I know it’s a sin. But your father—I hate even calling him that—he deserves nothing short of death.”

  It took a moment for him to find his reply. “He received it.”

  She nodded. “I hope it was painful.”

  He couldn’t help his smile at that. His magnificent lockpick, known to all of London as a wallflower, was a lioness. “If he weren’t dead, you’re enough to make me wish I could bring him to you as a trophy.”

  “It’s not a jest, Devon,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion. “You didn’t deserve it. None of you did. Of course you are terrified of darkness. It was all you ever had.”

  He pulled her tight to him, whispering into her hair. “Believe it or not, love, now it is impossible to remember the way the darkness terrified me. As it is impossible to imagine that I will ever think of darkness without thinking of tonight. Without thinking of you.”

  Felicity turned toward him, her hand coming around his waist, pulling him tight to her as she bent her legs and wrapped herself against his side. The movement, immediate and without artifice, consumed him, and he could not resist mirroring her contortion, bending toward her, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her close. Pressing his face to her neck and inhaling her delicious scent. Jasmine was ruined for him. It would always be tied to this magnificent woman, with her soft skin and her lush body and the hint of it—enough to make his mouth water.

  It was only then, as they curled together, as he breathed her in, that he felt her tears, the dampness on her neck, the ragged breath in her lungs. He pulled back and pressed a kiss to the damp tracks on her cheek. “No, sweet girl. No. No tears. I am not worth them.”

  Her fist clenched at the edge of his waistcoat, pulling the fabric and him closer. “Stop saying that,” she whispered. “Stop trying to convince me you lack value.”

  He lifted her bare hand to his lips, kissing her palm. “I do.”

  “No. Shut up.”

  He grazed his teeth over the full flesh at the base of her thumb. “You are a princess compared to me. A fairy queen. Don’t you see?” He licked the soft skin there. “My past is without value. My future, too. But yours . . .” His breath was hot against her palm. “Like Janus, I see your future. And it is glorious.”

  Without me.

  She heard the words he did not say. “You’re wrong. Your past is who you are—it bears infinite worth. And my future is nothing without you. The only thing that is glorious is our present.”

  “No, love. Our present . . .” He gave a little huff of laughter. “Our present is torture.”

  “Why?”

  He reached for her, wrapping his fingers around her neck, pulling her close. Holding her still so he could watch her eyes when he told her the truth. “Because my present is only you, Felicity Faircloth. And you cannot be my future.”

  Her eyes closed at the words, stayed that way for an impossibly long time as her lips twitched with frustration and emotion and her throat worked and her breath came in harsh, angry pants. When she finally, finally opened them, there were tears glistening in their beautiful brown depths. Tears, and anger, and s
omething he recognized because he knew it was mirrored in his own.

  Need.

  “Then let us live in the present,” she whispered.

  And she kissed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For the rest of her life, Felicity would remember his warmth. His warmth, and the way he slid a hand into her hair when she kissed him. His warmth, and the way he scattered her hairpins across the roof and pulled her into his lap to afford them both better access to each other and to the caress.

  She slid her hands inside his open coat, loving the dark, luxurious heat she found there, the breadth of his chest, the rise and curve of the muscles of his sides and back, the way he allowed her access to him, a low growl of pleasure rolling through him, vibrating against her as he opened his delicious lips and reseated them on her own.

  His kiss was slow and deep, as though they had the rest of time to explore. And it seemed, in that long, drugging caress, as though they did—as though that rooftop in Covent Garden, under the moon and stars, was for them alone, as private and perfect as the kiss itself. When he released her lips, she opened her eyes and found his, watching her, seeing her pleasure, taking his own in it. And then, he said, “You never had to be taught to be the flame, Felicity.”

  And she reached up to pull him down to her again.

  “It was always in you,” he whispered against her lips, and she sighed her pleasure, letting him capture the sound for a long moment before he added, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known, and if I have only this moment—this present—with you, then I wish to make you burn until you’ve made the stars jealous of your heat.”

  The words were fire through her, fast and furious, making her head light and her breath shallow as he brushed his lips across her cheek, leaning down to her ear. “Would you do that? Would you burn for me? Tonight?”

  “Yes,” she replied, a shiver of pleasure sighing through her as he worried the lobe of her ear. “Yes, please.”

  “So polite,” he said, low and delicious. “Shall we go inside? I have barely slept in my bed for the memory of you upon it.”

  She pulled back and met his eyes, unable to keep surprise and delight from her tone. “Really?”

  He gave her a little smile. “Really. Your hands on my counterpane, your pretty pink slippers dangling from your toes. I imagine—”

  “Tell me,” she said when he stopped himself.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Please.”

  He leaned in with a little groan, stealing a kiss. A lingering lick. “I cannot deny you.”

  “You deny me all the time.”

  He shook his head. “Not this. Never this, love.” He kissed her again, slow and perfect, and then he put his forehead to hers and said, “I imagine coming to my knees there, at your feet, removing those slippers and exploring my way up your body.” His hand traced the line of her leg beneath her skirts. “I am tired of imagining what is under these pink gowns, my lady. And when I lie in bed and chase sleep, I imagine stripping you of your clothes and basking in you, soft and curved and silk and perfection.”

  She let out a long, trembling breath. “I want that.”

  “I shall give it to you, my wicked flame. I shall give you whatever you wish.”

  He stood, reaching down to her, pulling her up to standing, above him on the roof, just high enough that their lips were even. He kissed her again, then whispered, “I shall always give you whatever you wish.”

  It was a lie, of course, and she knew it.

  Tell me something true.

  He lifted her in his arms to give her what he promised, but she set a hand to his chest. “Wait.”

  A gust of wind swirled around them as Devil stilled, whipping his coat behind him and wrapping them both in her skirts. He stilled, unmoving, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all, his eyes on hers as he waited for her to continue. “Anything.”

  “I don’t want to go inside.”

  He closed his eyes at the words, his grasp tightening around her for a heartbeat before he nodded and said, softly, “I understand. Let’s get you home, my lady.”

  Felicity’s heart skipped a beat as he moved to set her down. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to go inside . . .” She ran her fingers over his tightly shorn hair, loving the way it feathered over her skin. “Because I want to stay here.” Her fingers toyed at his ear, and she loved the way he dipped his head toward her touch, as though he couldn’t resist her. Lord knew she could not resist him. “In your world,” she whispered. “In the darkness. Beneath the stars.”

  He remained still for another moment, the muscle in his cheek the only evidence that he’d heard her. And then he climbed down from the peak, not releasing her until they reached the flat roof below. He set her down and stepped back, shucking his coat and swirling it away, spreading it wide at his feet.

  Once that was done, he extended a long, strong arm to her, palm up. An irresistible invitation.

  She moved instantly, coming down the tiled roof into his waiting arms, and the next time he lifted her, it was to lie her down on the soft wool of his coat, which enveloped her with his warmth and his scent before he lowered himself down atop her, set his lips to hers, and began to slowly strip her of her sanity. And her clothes.

  “That first night, on the balcony at the Marwick ball . . .” He stripped her of her pelisse. “It was too dark to see the color of your gown . . .” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at her jaw. “And I imagined you were cloaked in moonlight.”

  Her hands were stroking over his head. “You make me feel like that’s possible.”

  “Anything is possible,” he promised, stealing her lips again.

  Between long, languid kisses, he untied the ribbons at the front of her bodice, separating fabric to reveal her corset, her breasts rising above it. He released her lips, his tongue tracing the cords of her neck to nip at her shoulder. She gasped her surprise and pleasure to the stars.

  “You like that?” he said softly to her skin.

  “Yes,” she said, her fingers curling at the back of his head, holding him there.

  And then he’d worked magic at her corset, and her breasts spilled into the night, the cool air rushing across her imprisoned skin. Another gasp, this one drawing a little laugh against her shoulder as he moved, stroking and circling the straining tips before he lifted his head, his searing gaze finding hers for an instant before flickering lower. His lips softened as he took her in, and she arched toward him, asking for more of his attention. More of his touch.

  More of him.

  He gave it, lowering his head, circling one peaked nipple before his lips closed around it and he sucked gently, working the hardened tip until she cried out, her fingers flexing against the perfection of his head, holding him there, as though she might never let him go.

  She might not have let him go, not if he hadn’t growled through his long, rhythmic sucks. Not if he hadn’t slid his hand higher beneath her skirts. Not if she hadn’t lifted her hips to meet his touch, rocking against him. Not if the movement hadn’t shaken him from his task, caused him to release her from his kiss, panting wildly. “Christ, Felicity. You taste like sin.” His hips rocked against her, and an ache pooled in her core—an ache made worse and better by his nearness.

  “Devon.” She sighed. “I need . . .”

  “I know, love.” He lifted his weight from her and made quick work of her dress and his waistcoat before returning to her, his hands sliding over her bare skin. “Are you cold?”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The idea of being cold with him—“No,” she said. “I’m burning.”

  His lips found hers again. “God knows that’s true.”

  She caught his hand in hers, sliding her fingers over his, pulling away when she found the cool metal there. Running a thumb gently over each of the cool silver bands, she said, “Where did these come from?”

  He followed her gaze down, surprise on hi
s face, as though he hadn’t thought about the rings in years. He smiled. “There was a man in the Garden, used to make them. No one had the money for gold—but silver, a man could buy that. All the fighters wore these rings . . . a show of their might. Of their success in the ring.” He pointed to the one on his thumb. “That one is from the first time I broke a nose.” To the second on his ring finger. “That one is from the first time I knocked a bloke out.” And he pointed to the third, on his forefinger. “That one is from the last bout I ever fought because I had to.”

  He flexed his hand once, twice, curling his fingers into a heavy fist. “I don’t even think about them any longer.”

  She lifted her hand to her lips, pressing a kiss on each of the silver rings. “Proof of your mettle.”

  He growled, pulling her to him for a proper kiss then, and she took the opportunity to trace her own hands over his shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his trousers, itching for him. She slid her hands beneath the hem, finding his warm, smooth skin, desperate to be closer to him. Immediately. “Devil.”

  “I know,” he repeated. And he did. He knew her body better than she could dream. He knew the places that ached for his touch, the skin that wanted his kiss. His fingers plucked at the hard tip of one breast as he licked at her neck, once, twice, sending thick arcs of pleasure through her.

  She cried into the night, frustrated and eager and desperate for him.

  He stilled at the noise, and she opened her eyes. He watched her, something magnificent in his beautiful amber gaze. “The roof was an excellent choice.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  He leaned down and sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth, hot and warm and wonderful. And when she was crying her pleasure, he released her, pressing his forehead to hers as he replied, “Because when you scream your pleasure to the night, you can be as loud as you like.”

  She flushed at the words. “I shan’t scream.”

  He lowered his hips to hers, notching his hard length against the softest part of her. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you’ll laugh.”

  The flush turned to flame. “I didn’t mean to laugh . . .”