Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  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.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “I came for my business.”

  Excitement thrummed through him. She was fucking glorious.

  She also wasn’t hurt. He gave her a once-over to be certain, then rolled her to the ground and came to his feet, immediately heading for the man who’d been about to hit her.

  The man whose anger had turned to fear.

  “If you’re looking for a bout, you’ll have it with me,” he growled, turning the man pale in the light from one of the nearby fires.

  “I—” The man shook his head. “He pushed me first!”

  Whit set his hands to the man’s shoulders and pushed, the crowd parting to let him fall onto his backside. “Now I’ve pushed you. Do you intend to fight me?”

  “N-no.” He scrambled away like an insect.

  It wasn’t enough. Whit was gone, turned full Beast. He took a step toward his enemy, wanting nothing more than to end
him.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, the weight of it heavy and familiar. His brother.

  Whit stilled.

  “Let it go,” Devil said, soft at his ear. “Get your girl. And get her out of here, before people sort out what just happened and start asking questions.”

  It was too late to prevent that—he turned to her—the woman Devil called his girl. She wasn’t, of course. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t stop himself from protecting her. It was habit. It had nothing to do with her.

  But he couldn’t protect her from him.

  Whit turned to find Hattie several yards away, on her feet again, with her friend Nora, who was, apparently, as much trouble as Hattie was. Felicity was fussing over her, brushing dirt from her sleeve and chattering, as though this were all perfectly normal. Nora was transfixed by Annika, who stood nearby, hip cocked, the long blade she kept there gleaming in the firelight.

  As his gaze tracked Hattie, Whit went stiff with renewed anger. Her hat was askew and dirt smudged her face, her coat was torn at the shoulder—a fact that made him want to do immense damage. A wild thought came—had the man who’d touched her been sent by Ewan?

  A growl sounded from low in his throat, and he started to turn back, but Devil stayed the movement, seeming to understand. “Just a drunk.” And then a single, strong word. “Her.”

  She was what was important. Christ. He wanted to pick her up and carry her from there like a damn Neanderthal. “She can’t be seen with me.”

  Devil looked straight at him. “He isn’t here.”

  “He could be.”

  He nodded. “He could be. But he’s not.”

  Whit spun away, approaching the cluster of women, keenly aware of Hattie’s eyes on him, widening as he closed the distance between them. “You—” she said, and the tremor in her voice nearly did him in. “You’re bleeding.”

  He did not slow his approach even as he looked down to find a three-inch gash low on his right side. A knife wound. He looked back at her, hand still, clutching a pocketknife. “You stabbed me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I did not!” She narrowed her eyes on his. “Though you certainly would have deserved it, you bastard.”

  Devil laughed, low enough that only Whit could hear him. “Now I know why you like her so much. She’ll run you ragged.”

  Before Whit could argue that he did not like her, and she absolutely would not run him ragged because she wasn’t getting anywhere near him after he saw her home tonight, Devil was looking to Sarita, the young bookmaker trying to calm the crowd, now arguing that Hattie’s interruption had impacted the outcome of the fight.

  “We told ya there’d be free O’Malleys in the dirt, gents, and free there are,” the girl crowed, backed by two larger men from the Bastards’ crew. “I’ve no wagers on Beast gettin’ knifed by a spectator, so sod off wi’ that—not that I’d pay out on it, as there ’e stands, right as rain.”

  Devil waved the girl over, and she came like a flash to receive her orders, cheeks glowing copper with excitement. While they spoke, Whit did what he could to hold himself together, to keep from taking Hattie in hand, from railing at her for turning up here, where anything could have happened. What if he hadn’t been here? What if he hadn’t been able to protect her?

  The idea was unbearable.

  He rubbed a hand over his chest to ease the aggravated tightness there as Devil returned to him, pressing a linen sack filled with ice into his hands. “Take the girl home. Get yourself sorted.”

  Removing his coat, Devil went to his wife, handing it to her, along with his walking stick. Felicity’s eyes lit with confusion and then delighted understanding. “You’re to fight?” she asked, breathless.

  “You could be a touch less excited by the prospect of me in the ring, wife.”

  “Do you plan to lose?”

  Devil’s affront was palpable. “I do not.”

  Felicity’s grin widened. “I shall be certain to give you a proper prize when you win, then.”

  “We’re tradin’ one Bastard for another tonight, lads!” Sarita crowed from the center of the ring. “Who’ll step forward to fight the Devil himself?”

  A handful of senseless underdogs immediately lined up to have their asses handed to them, clearly thinking that Devil, long and lean and rarely in the ring, was an easier battle than Beast. They were wrong.

  Devil pulled his shirt over his head, and a cluster of women to Whit’s left dissolved into sighs. Not that his brother had eyes for any of them; he was already hauling his wife close, lifting her off her feet, and kissing her thoroughly before turning to the crowd, arms wide, smile on his brutally scarred face.

  “You’ve had Beast, gents! Now Beauty takes his turn!”

  The crowd went wild, charging Sarita to lay their bets.

  In the melee, Whit finally found himself able to face Hattie. Hattie, who had pushed past Devil and was coming for him, worry on her brow, unable to take her gaze from the gash on his side. She came up short, her breath coming fast, her full lips slightly parted. Her eyes lifted to his, tracking over his face. “I’m very angry, but I don’t wish you dead.”

  He pulled her to the outskirts of the circle, away from the notice of the rest of the assembly. The crowd dropped away. She swallowed, and he was drawn to the movement of her throat, his own mouth going dry as he thought of leaning down and putting his lips there. Licking over it. Scraping his teeth across her soft skin.

  He could hear the sigh she’d make. The cries he’d wring from her.

  His cock throbbed with the promise it heard.

  No promise. He couldn’t touch her.

  He was danger to her.

  He met her eyes, seeing the heat there. Feeling it everywhere. “I’m taking you home.”

  She swallowed again, and a low growl came from deep in his throat. She looked down at the wound she’d given him. “It seems only right that I should bandage that.”

  A vision flashed, of her soft fingers on his body, healing him. Pleasuring him. He grunted his approval.

  She cleared her throat, forced ice into her tone. “And if you think I’m leaving before we discuss your betrayal, you are quite mistaken.”

  He shouldn’t. He should pack her off with Nik, mere feet away, and send her home. Safe. Far from him. He shook his head. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  Hattie’s eyes flashed. “I should like to discuss your being a proper ass.”

  Nik coughed her amusement at the words as Nora grinned and said, “If you think she’s going to let you disappear on her, you’re severely misguided . . .” She paused, then said, “What should I call you?”

  “Beast,” he said.

  Nora tilted her head. “I think I prefer bastard, what with the way you have mistreated my friend.”

  This time, Nik turned wide, amused eyes on Nora. “I like you two.”

  Nora winked at the Norwegian. “Wait until you get to know us.”

  That wouldn’t happen.

  And was that a blush on Nik’s cheeks?

  He didn’t have time for that. Instead, he scowled at his second and growled, “See her home.”

  Nik nodded, no hesitation.

  “First, I’m perfectly aware of the location of my home,” Nora said, and Whit gritted his teeth. Deliver him from women who thought they owned the world. “And second, I’m not leaving unless she tells me she wishes to be left.”

  He ignored the pleasure that thrummed through him at the woman’s loyalty to Hattie, who deserved it from the wide world. As she couldn’t get it from him.

  “I assume you came in one of your carriages?” he asked on a growl.

  Nora tilted her head in confusion. “Yes.”

  He looked to Nik. “You’ll have to find the gig, too.”

  “Someone’s stolen my curricle?” Nora said, outraged.

  Nik turned to her, her amusement clear. “You left a hitched carriage in this neighborhood in the dead of night. Yes. Someone’s stolen it.” Nora groaned as t
he Norwegian added, “No worries. I’ll get the boys on it; they won’t have taken it far.”

  “Perhaps I should—” Hattie made to leave him, to go with her friend, and Whit gritted his teeth, wanting to pull her back, to keep her close, but resisting the urge. He wanted her to leave. He wanted her far away. He wanted her safe.

  He wanted her.

  Nora shook her head and waved Hattie back, her eyes on Nik. “I shall be fine with—” She turned a questioning gaze on Nik.

  “Annika.”

  “Annika,” Nora said softly. “It is very nice to meet you.”

  If it hadn’t been a blush before, it was a blush now.

  Nora pulled her gaze away from Nik and said to Hattie, “You came for a purpose.” A knowing smile flashed. “And now you leave with it.”

  Hattie looked dead into Whit’s eyes. “I came to tell him what he could do with his attempt at strong-arming my father and reneging on our deal.”

  “You should tell him then.” She lowered her voice. “Leave nothing out. He deserves it all.” And more. “And I shall see you in the morning.”

  Whit’s mouth went dry at the words. At the vision that came with them. At the gift of them—a whole night, until sunrise. He shouldn’t take it.

  But how was he to resist it? A night with her?

  Their first night.

  Their last.

  He couldn’t. They were in his carriage in minutes, Whit taking the seat across from her, setting the ice Devil had delivered to his eye—which would be black for a day or two after the bout.

  He let out a long breath once the door was closed, keeping them a secret from the world. Keeping her out of view. Safe.

  Safe from all, except him.

  She watched him in silence, making him wonder what she was thinking. Making him want to strip her of thought, entirely—while stripping her naked and giving them both what they wanted.

  Because the silence was not simply silence.

  It was full of her thoughts, wild enough to speed her breath, which he listened to, faster and faster, more and more erratic, reminding him of how she sounded with his hands and mouth on her. He’d tried not to stare at her, tried not to make out her breasts beneath what he had decided was some sort of ancient torture device she’d donned to disappear them—as though the magnificent things could be disappeared.