Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  She let her shawl fall open, revealing his weapons, but the movement did nothing to alleviate the heat. If anything, baring herself to him only made her hotter. His gaze tracked the complicated web of leather that held her in its wicked embrace, the weight of the weapons a tempting ache.

  He leaned in, the scent of his lemon sweets making her mouth water with memory of their taste. Of his taste. “Not yet?”

  She could close the distance between them without effort. All it would take was a little stretch—just enough to press her lips to his. Would he welcome it? He didn’t look like it. He looked . . . irritated.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Hattie supposed. “Not until you agree to the arrangement I’m offering.”

  “You are mistaken if you think you are in a position of power, Hattie.”

  She swallowed. “M-my father owns a shipping company. You surely know that.”

  A grunt of acknowledgment.

  “I’m to inherit it.” Surprise flashed through his eyes, there, then gone as quickly as she could name it. This was it. Her first deal as the head of the company. The beginning of the Year of Hattie. It didn’t matter that it was happening in the back room of a Covent Garden tavern with a man who was more criminal than customer.

  What mattered was that Hattie would make the deal, and then she would make good on it. The thought cleared her mind. She straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin. “I’m prepared to give you fifty percent of the income on our shipments until we return the forty thousand. Plus . . . ten percent interest.”

  A dark brow rose. “Thirty percent.”

  It was an enormous amount, but Hattie refused to show it. “Fifteen.”

  “Thirty.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “Seventeen.”

  “Thirty.”

  Exasperation flared. “You’re supposed to be negotiating.”

  “Am I?”

  “Do you not run a business?”

  “Of a sort,” he said.

  Obstinate man. “And as part of that business, do you not negotiate?”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Not often.”

  “I suppose you just take what you like.”

  A black brow rose in reply. “I might remind you that it is your penchant for taking what you like that has landed us here, Lady Henrietta.”

  “I told you, I had nothing to do with it. I am only here to repair the damage.”

  “Why?”

  Because that business is the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.

  “Because I don’t like thievery.” He watched her for a long moment—long enough for her to become uncomfortable. She shifted on her feet and said, “And so . . . twenty percent.”

  He did not move. “So far, you’ve offered me nothing I would not have taken without your offering it. Indeed, you’ve offered less than I intend to take.”

  She blinked. “More than twenty percent interest?”

  He was enormous in the quiet space. “More than money, Hattie.”

  She cleared her throat. “The deal is for money. Money and your knives.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they were out, his amber gaze on the leather braces crisscrossing her chest making her wish she hadn’t removed her shawl.

  “Then it isn’t a deal,” he said. “A deal implies that I get something in return. So, I ask again. What do I get from this deal that is so far simply a repayment of funds and a return of goods thieved, with no assurance that your company will avoid interaction with my businesses in the future?”

  Your company. She didn’t miss the words, smooth and certain on his tongue. Didn’t miss the pleasure of them rioting through her—hers. She was so close to it all. The future she’d always wanted. She wouldn’t let him take it from her. “You have my assurance.”

  “And I am to believe your father wouldn’t repeat himself when he decides he needs money again?”

  Defensiveness flared. “It wasn’t my father.” He did not react to the words. She narrowed her gaze on him. “But you know that.”

  “Tell me why you protect the truth.”

  Because he’s my only chance at the business. That had been the deal with Augie. She made this disappear, she kept him safe, and he would tell Father to give her the business.

  Everything was on the line. And this man—his acceptance of her offered arrangement—was all that stood between her and her future. But if she told him that, he would hold all the power. And she couldn’t allow that.

  So, she stayed silent.

  He closed the distance between them with predatory grace that would have set any number of men on edge. And it did set her on edge as he lifted a hand, reaching for her. Her breath caught in her throat. What would he do? Would he touch her?

  He didn’t touch her. Instead, he set a single finger to the thick leather strap at her shoulder, the one leading down to his knives, tracing it with barely-there pressure. “Tell me why he gave you my knives and sent you into my world.”

  The touch traveled lower and lower, over the ribs of the blades seated deep in their leather scabbards. Her breath came harsh as he followed the second strap, the one that crossed beneath her breasts, over the buckle connecting one half of the holster to the other.

  “Tell me why he sent you to me, like a sacrifice.” His touch lingered on the brass, his thumb coming to stroke over it once, twice. On the third pass, his fingers splayed over her torso, and she simultaneously craved and feared the caress—at once hinting at immense pleasure and hot embarrassment. After all, Hattie was not exactly lean, and there, where leather crossed her body, there was a swell of flesh that she would prefer he not notice.

  She took a step back, hating the loss of his touch even as she found the breath that had been impossible for her to catch. She lifted her chin, drawing strength from the cool oak door behind her. She willed her voice firm. “He didn’t send me anywhere. I am the heroine of my own play, sir.”

  “Mmm. A warrior in your own right.” He advanced, his nearness pressing her more firmly into the door. “So it is you who offers me these poor terms. Money that was mine to begin with and none of the retribution I intended to exact.”

  “Retribution is a silly goal,” she said. “It’s intangible. It’s air.”

  “Mmm.” The low rumble of assent was at her ear, so close she imagined she could feel the breath of it on her skin. “Just like air. Essential. Vital. Life-giving.”

  She leaned away at that, twisting to see his eyes, cursing the darkness in the dimly lit room. “Do you believe that?”

  He was silent long enough for her to believe he might not reply. And then he replied, soft and dark, “I believe that we spend all our lives fighting for our due. Air or otherwise.”

  The words struck true. Lord knew Hattie had spent her fair time doing just that. Fighting for autonomy, for future, for her father’s approval and her family’s business. She’d been born a woman in a man’s world, and spent her entire life battling for a place in it. Desperate to prove herself worthy of it.

  But this man—when he spoke of fighting for air—Hattie did not think he was speaking in metaphors.

  Unable to stop herself, she lifted a hand and, moving slowly enough that he could stop her if he wished, she set her palm to his cheek, the warmth of it searing through her glove as the rough day’s growth of his beard caught on the soft kidskin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  It was the wrong thing to say. The muscles of his jaw tightened and his entire body turned to steel. She dropped her hand the moment he caught her gaze in his. “You suggest I wait for my funds to be returned, just as I wait now, for my knives to be so. Just as I was to wait last night—for the culmination of the arrangement we made.”

  The agreement that he would take her virginity. That he would ruin her for all others. She didn’t need it now. Not if Augie was going to support her bid to run her father’s business. She didn’t need him or ruination.

  But she wante
d it. At this man’s skilled hands.

  Her gaze dropped to the hands in question, fingers loosely curled as though, at any moment, he might have to do battle. She remembered the feel of those fingers on her skin. The rough calluses on his palms. The way they set her aflame.

  She wanted them again.

  “I don’t care for waiting, Lady Henrietta.” The low words, spoken a breath from her ear, sent heat coiling through her. “So let me ask again. What do I get from your deal?”

  Last night, it had all seemed so simple. He’d agreed—albeit under duress—to take her virginity in exchange for his missing items. But last night, Hattie hadn’t known the missing items included forty thousand pounds in smuggled goods.

  Dammit, Augie.

  And now—she knew she lacked both leverage and power. This man called Beast somehow did not need the funds her brother had stolen, and he did not require the goods that had been parceled off to wherever they’d been sent. This was not about reimbursement, but about restitution. And that made him more benefactor than business partner.

  Which meant Hattie had no choice but to surrender everything for the sake of the business. For the sake of her family. She took a deep breath and met Beast’s gaze, and sacrificed her only desire—a desire she hadn’t known she had until the night before. “I release you from last night’s negotiation.”

  He remained silent, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

  Did he even understand?

  “My—” Hattie waved a hand. “Affliction.”

  A dark brow rose.

  “My virginity.”

  Again, no reply.

  He was going to make her say it. Lord knew Hattie had said it before. But did she have to say it to him? To this man who’d kissed her and made her feel like he wished it? “I understand that such an event . . . with me . . . is not exactly . . .” Ugh. This was awful. “I know you were being kind. Offering. But you needn’t—that is—I am well aware of the kind of woman I am. Equally so, the kind of woman I am not. And the kind of man you are . . . well, you prefer the kind of woman I am not.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, willing him to disappear. When she opened them, he was, sadly, still there, still as stone. Which was unbearable.

  “And what kind of woman is that?”

  Like that, his presence was quite bearable, because that question became the new definition of unbearable. She drew the line at answering it. At saying any of the words that sprang to mind and tongue. Overlarge. Unappealing. “Never mind.”

  Miraculously, he did not press. “No deal.”

  Frustration flared. Frustration and anger and no small amount of disappointment. She’d worked for this business for her entire life, and here she was, on the precipice of losing it all. “Thirty percent.”

  He did not reply.

  Hattie lost her temper. “Fifty-two thousand pounds and a promise to never reveal your silly-monikered crime ring to the Crown—which would surely like to hear of it, by the way.”

  “Is that a threat, Lady Henrietta?”

  She sighed. “Of course it isn’t. But what more would you like from me? I’ve returned your knives and offered you money and the opportunity to be rid of me for the rest of time.”

  “You still wear my knives.”

  She reached for the fastening of the holster, unbuckling the leather with quick, economical movements, sliding it off her shoulders and ignoring the unsettling sense of loss of the weapons’ strange embrace. She dropped the knives at his feet, unceremoniously, resisting the urge to wince at the carelessness of the action.

  “There. What more do you want?”

  “I told you; I want retribution.”

  “We go around in circles, then, sir. As I told you; I shan’t let you punish him.”

  “Is he your lover?”

  Hattie choked at the question. “No.”

  A long stretch of silence ended with a nod and he turned away from her, stalking away, through the labyrinth of crates and casks.

  “Why do you care?” she called after him. And why in hell had she asked such a question?

  He considered a nearby crate, branded with an American flag. “I don’t make a habit of fucking other men’s women.”

  Her heart began to pound at the word and the way it painted wicked, wonderful pictures. Not that she was willing to reveal such a thing. “Am I to think it noble that you ascribe to some nonsensical view of women as doe-eyed chattel who cannot make their own decisions about their bedmates?”

  His attention shot back to her.

  “Because, let me be clear, sirrah,” she said, coming off the door and heading for him without thought, unable to keep the haughty irritation from her voice. “If I were here on behalf of my lover, you’d do well to note who possesses whom in such a descriptor.”

  His tight jaw slackened in the heavy silence that came on the heels of the words, but Hattie didn’t have time to be proud of the hint of his shock. She was too busy being surprised herself. She stilled, flanked by heavy casks of ale. “And besides, I have released you from the chore of ridding me of my virginity, so you may rest easy on all accounts, and tell me what it is you require so you may let me go and I may return to my well-laid plans.”

  He turned away, his gaze falling to the crate once more. His shoulders rose and fell in a smooth motion, and Hattie thought she might have been dismissed.

  She thought wrong. Because when he turned back to her and spoke, it was low and dark and with a promise of something absolutely devastating. And possibly very delicious. “Know this, Henrietta Sedley. Ridding you of your virginity will be no kind of chore.” He approached her in slow, smooth movements—movements that had her retreating even as the promise of his nearness thrilled her. “And if you think to renege on that part of our arrangement, you have not yet learned what it is to transact with the Bareknuckle Bastards.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and still he advanced, coming for her. Yes, please. Please come for me.

  And still he spoke, more words than she’d heard him speak altogether before then. Low, lush promise. “You may not have been anywhere near the hijackings. You may not have seen a shilling of the money that the men you protect stole from us, but you are here now, and they are not, and you have put yourself in my path, and I do not lose.”

  She lifted her chin. Brazened it out. “I don’t, either.”

  “I saw you brandish my blade earlier, warrior.” A ghost of a smile passed over his lips then—even the hint of it dazzling. Or was it the word he used for the second time? Warrior. She would like to be that. She would like to match him in that.

  As though she’d spoken aloud, he said softly, “We shall be well-matched. Here is your deal—the only one I shall agree to.”

  Hattie was in over her head, at once desperate to run from this place and hole herself up in the safety of her home far from here, and eager to stand her ground and welcome this man who promised her everything for which she never knew she could ask.

  “I get it all. Everything you offered. Everything I demand. Including you.” Heat flooded her, rioting over her cheeks and pooling deep in her. She gasped—how else was she to get air in this room, with him filling it like smoke, promising to burn the place down and her with it? And still, he talked. “You thought I would let you go? On the contrary. You owe me, Hattie. You owe me in his stead.”

  Yes. Yes. Whatever he wanted.

  He was there, now, reaching for her, the fingers of one strong hand curving at her nape, the other hand finding her waist, pulling her close. His thumb tilting her chin up. For his promise. “You owe me, and I intend to collect. In myriad ways.”

  Triumph flared. She’d get it all. He’d accept the payment she offered, the return of his blades, the return of the security of his business, and Augie would tell their father that Hattie should run the business. And Hattie would finally have the life she’d planned. And, somehow, she’d get this man, too. Or at least a taste of him. She’d get his kiss and his touch and h
e’d show her the full experience he’d promised her the night before.

  The Year of Hattie had only just begun, and it was proving to be properly auspicious.

  She couldn’t help her smile.

  “You like that?”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t know what you agree to.”

  Hattie ignored the dark promise in the words. Instead, heart pounding, she came up on her toes, unable to stop herself from reaching for him. From making him keep that promise. He pulled back just before their lips touched. “Not here.”

  “Why not?” The words were out before she could stop them, embarrassment hot on their tail.

  “It’s not private.”

  She looked about the room. “The door is closed, the light is dim, and the place is silent as the grave.” She stopped before saying outright, Kiss me, dammit.

  “This is one of the most raucous taverns in Covent Garden, and will soon be filled with scores of people all waiting for the nightly entertainment. Calhoun will require access to his stockroom the moment they start to drink. It’s not private.”

  Hattie had the unreasonable instinct to stamp her foot. “Then where?”

  “I’ll find you when it’s time.”

  She blinked. “You’re sending me home?”

  “I am.”

  Hattie was not a fool. She’d lived a full twenty-nine years and knew a thing or two about a thing or two, not the least of which was this: If a man was interested in tupping a woman in the taproom of a Covent Garden tavern, then he would likely get the job done there and then. Unless, of course, he wasn’t entirely interested to begin with. “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Very well.” She cleared her throat. She would not be disappointed. She certainly would not be sad. Instead, she would be irritated. Irritation seemed feasible. “You cannot seduce the name from me, if that’s what you intend. Imagining it as a possibility insults us both. I shall send you a bank draft the moment our next shipment is paid for.” She collected her shawl from the sawdust-covered floor, shook it out, and turned on her heel to head for the door.