Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  He tried not to think about removing that device, along with all the other clothes—clothes that seemed to do nothing to diminish his desire for her, beautiful and lush and smelling like almond sweets on the other side of the too-small carriage.

  He tried not to think of her touch as she reached forward, halfway through their journey, and lifted the long strip of unmoored linen that dangled from his right fist. Tried to ignore the thrum of anticipation that sizzled through him as she used her teeth to pull the gentleman’s gloves from her hands.

  Her fucking teeth.

  What else would she use those teeth for? What would they feel like on his skin? Scraping over his shoulder, nipping at his chest? Christ, this woman was undoing him. Did she know? Was that her plan?

  He’d give her everything she wanted if she’d put her mouth on him.

  She didn’t. Instead, she wrapped the linen around his knuckles, carefully, as though she were preparing him for battle. As though he were a knight, and she the maiden fair, bestowing her favor.

  When she was finished, she tied a perfect knot and carefully tucked the end inside the wraps before running her thumb over his knuckles and whispering, so soft he barely heard it, “There.”

  But he did hear it. The gentle gift of that little word.

  The satisfaction in it.

  After an evening of violence, he’d never felt the sting of pleasure more keenly—and he feared he lacked the capacity to endure it.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Now, about my business.”

  He leaned his head back against the cushion of the coach, letting the cold ice pack do its work. “My business.”

  She watched him for a long moment, the clatter of the cobblestones the only sound. “Your betrayal.” She couldn’t know how the words stung. “What will you do with Sedley Shipping?”

  Keep you safe. “Whatever I like.”

  Silence. Then, “Why?”

  The word nearly finished the job of the ring tonight. It was small and perplexed and devastating. And in it, he heard the truth. He’d hurt her.

  And it had been his only choice.

  When he didn’t reply, she narrowed her gaze on him and said, “You’re a bastard.”

  “Yes,” he replied, trying to ignore the disdain in her words.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing.” It was true. I want you happy. I want you safe.

  “Look at me.”

  He obeyed the command without hesitation. Christ, she was stunning, sitting tall and determined, shoulders pressed back like a queen.

  “You’re ruining everything.”

  Guilt flared. “I know.”

  “You told me . . .” She looked out the window, into the darkness of the streets beyond. “You told me you believed in me.” She looked back at him. “I believed you.”

  He’d face the O’Malley brothers a thousand times over this.

  I do believe in you.

  “Is it—” She stopped, then started again. “Is it because you don’t think I can do it?”

  “No.” Christ. No.

  She looked as though she had something to say—as though she had a thousand somethings to say. And he wanted to pull her across the carriage and onto his lap and tell her all the ways he thought she was remarkable.

  But that was impossible if he was to keep her apart from him.

  “Why?” She hesitated. “Why would you want us out of business? Is it just to punish Augie? He was ready to tell you about his partner—who I imagine is much more of an employer than a partner.”

  “His partner is no longer relevant,” he said, too quickly. He didn’t want Hattie anywhere near Ewan. Not now that he knew how far the duke would go to punish him. To hurt her. “Maybe we want to go straight. Start a business aboveboard.”

  She scowled. “Don’t lie to me. It’s beneath you.”

  It wasn’t. But he didn’t want her to see that.

  “You’re doing this to punish me. No one purchases every ship they use.”

  “We do.” They didn’t.

  “That’s bollocks,” she retorted. “You can’t afford to own boats, or the Crown will discover you’re moving contraband every two weeks.”

  His brows went up at the astute assessment.

  She smirked. “Surprised by my intelligence?”

  “No.” Not surprised. Tempted.

  He wanted to take her to bed and have her school him on shipping. Lading bills and tide tables and whatever else she wanted to talk to him about.

  Which was utter madness.

  Before he could take the mad action, she looked him dead in the eye and slung a wicked blow. “I trusted you. I believed you. I thought you were better than this.” She paused. “I thought we were . . .”

  Don’t finish that sentence.

  He wasn’t sure he could survive it. He could barely breathe for that we, for the way it tied them together. For the way he wanted it to. For a single, wild moment, he almost gave in. Almost turned it all over to her. Gave her the business and the Docklands and his aid. But then he remembered Ewan, mad in the darkness, vowing to punish him via Hattie.

  You’ll give her up. Or I’ll take her.

  The memory ran like ice through him.

  It wasn’t possible. There could be no deal. She couldn’t have her business and her safety. And he couldn’t have her. Not as long as Ewan drew breath.

  The carriage stopped. He reached for the door, out onto the street before the thing stopped rocking, reaching back to hand her down. A mistake. Her hands were bare now, and her skin impossibly soft against his—so soft it made him wonder if his touch might do her damage.

  Of course it would. His touch would do her nothing but damage.

  He tightened his grip on her anyway. He’d be damned if he’d let her go.

  Not tonight.

  One night.

  He ignored the thought and pulled her into the house, thankful for the late hour and the lack of servants. After Devil had left to build a home with Felicity, Whit hadn’t had the heart to let any of the servants go. He had more than he needed, which meant that the house was beautifully cared for; someone had left a lamp burning in the entryway for him, one he happily took up as he led Hattie up the stairs to his apartments, still the only part of the house he thought of as entirely his own.

  She followed, and he could hear her curiosity as they climbed the stairs. He felt it as he turned down a long, dark hallway, in the way she slowed, her head craning to look in the other direction.

  Finally, the chatterbox couldn’t remain silent. “Where are you taking me?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “You know your silence is maddening, do you not?”

  As though the sound of her voice, lyric and lovely, weren’t the same. He put one hand on the door to his rooms and looked over his shoulder. “I assumed you wanted to continue our discussion.”

  A beat, and then her reply. “I said we should do that after you’re bandaged.”

  They both looked down to find that he’d bled through his shirt. Whit was not the type to ask for care, and yet he could not stop the low rumble that came at the idea. “Mmm.”

  He expected trepidation from her. Hesitation. Nerves. But he’d forgotten this was Hattie—brazen and bold.

  Her violet eyes lit on his hand, frozen on the door handle, and her delicious lips curved into a considering smile. “And inside?” she asked. “Your lair?”

  He exhaled a little laugh and inclined his head. “No plants.”

  “You’re going to keep the business.”

  “Yes,” he said. He had no choice.

  “You understand I shan’t go down without a fight.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine it any other way.” He imagined the fight she gave him would be the best he’d ever had. But she’d never beat him. This was his world. His game.

  And he’d never wanted a win the way he wanted the one that kept Hattie safe.

  Still, when one side of her mout
h kicked up in a wry smile, dimple flashing, he felt it like a blow, and it made him punch drunk.

  She straightened the lapels of the ridiculous topcoat she wore, smoothing the lines of the jacket over the curves it did not hide before she straightened. “There is no deal, then. We are rivals.”

  The way she said it, simply, as though there were no hard feelings—no harm in it—it made him want her more than ever.

  “There is one deal left.” He didn’t know why he said it. He knew exactly why he said it.

  Understanding flared in her eyes along with anticipation. “Body.”

  Whit went tight as a bow. He could give her one night. He could keep her safe for one night. One night, and he would let her go.

  One night, and he would be able to.

  “Go on then,” she whispered, a nod at the door. “Open it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  She shouldn’t have enjoyed the back-and-forth with him. She shouldn’t have stayed after he admitted he had no interest in aiding any of her plans. She should have left this man who had gone from tentative partner to absolute rival in less than a week.

  But she didn’t want to. She was not through with him, either in business or in pleasure, and when she’d vowed she would triumph in both—it set her free.

  That freedom, coupled with the truth between them, made desire all that mattered.

  She crossed the threshold into rooms that smelled of honey and lemon and a touch of bay, making her think of a warm summer sun, and let herself sink into the moment—one that existed purely in service of her desire.

  And that was the most magnificent freedom Hattie had ever experienced.

  He moved away almost immediately, leaving her to her quiet inspection—an impossible task, as the only light source was a flickering orange glow through a door at the far end of the room. She stepped toward it, her feet sinking into a thick carpet—thick enough to explain the sound of the space, quiet and lush in the darkness. She could hear the fullness of the chamber, and she wondered what was there, around her, cocooning her from the outside world.

  That was what the room felt like, even in darkness—a cocoon. Protection from everything beyond—anything that might threaten. Anything that did not promise pleasure.

  It should have been cold, for the way darkness and wind had arrived outside, but it wasn’t. She supposed she should not have been surprised about that—was anything about him ever cold?

  Hattie could make out his shape at the far side of the room, his broad shoulders shrugging out of his coat before he tossed it over the arm of a chair, revealing narrow hips and long legs. Her mouth went dry as he crouched low at the fireplace, where glowing coals turned to cinder in the hearth. He stoked the fire and tossed wood onto it, then rose to light a half-dozen candles on the mantel.

  More of the space revealed itself, and Hattie discovered she was in the most decadent room she’d ever seen. The walls were covered in rich paisley silk in blues and greens, and it was filled with a collection of extravagantly stuffed furniture, each piece larger and more welcoming than anything she’d ever experienced—a burgundy loveseat that was double the depth of any other in London, a cream-colored high winged chair with a cushion that she ached to sit upon. Rich, sapphire satin covered a chaise in the far corner, laden with pillows in myriad colors to rival the collection of a king.

  More cushions were scattered before the fireplace, as though they’d been dropped there for comfort by someone whiling away the hours warming their toes.

  The colors were outrageous—the hues of summer and autumn, their lushness rivaling only the lushness of the textiles themselves. Hattie’s fingers itched to explore, to touch every inch of the room and revel in its pure decadence.

  If he’d noticed her response, he ignored it. Or, perhaps, he angled for more of it, moving from the mantelpiece, match in hand, to light a dozen more candles, their flickering light setting the fabrics to shimmer. And then he stepped up onto a raised stool, setting the flame to a dozen more candles in a stunning brass wall sconce that climbed the wall like a vine, planted by the gods.

  She took a step toward him, the softness beneath her feet drawing her attention to the floor, where a half-dozen carpets were overlapped throughout the room in a manner in which someone who did not know Whit would have thought haphazard. Hattie didn’t imagine for a moment she knew Whit—not well, at least—but she knew without question that there was nothing haphazard about this room.

  It was, without a doubt, his lair.

  He’d told the truth about it. There were no plants, exotic or otherwise. But there were books everywhere.

  They were piled on end tables and next to the loveseat; a stack teetered by the fireplace. In the corner nearest the door, a heavy credenza held at least twenty of them, piled like teacakes next to a decanter of scotch or bourbon or whatever the amber liquid within was. She drew closer, reaching for one of the haphazard stacks, letting her fingers trail over the spines. Margaret Cavendish’s Philosophical and Physical Opinions, Jane Austen’s Emma, a biography of Zenobia, a collection of work by Lucrezia Marinella, and something called Dell’Infinità d’Amore. A handsome copy of Christine de Pizan’s City of Ladies topped the stack, along with a pair of spectacles.

  This was not a library. There was no extravagant woodwork. No shelving, nowhere to display a book. These books were for reading.

  And this man—this was where he read. With spectacles.

  In her whole life, Hattie had never imagined spectacles to be tempting. But there she was, resisting the urge to ask him to put them on.

  It was the most revealing peek into another person’s life Hattie had ever experienced. Revealing and delicious and so thoroughly unexpected that she wanted to spend the next week investigating every nook and cranny, until she understood the man who’d filled them.

  Except she had a suspicion she’d never fully understand him.

  “This room,” she said. “It’s—”

  Perfect.

  He was already gone—disappeared into the chamber on the far side of this magnificent space. She couldn’t see him, but still, he pulled her to him as though she were on a string.

  “Whit?” she called out as she stepped through into the room beyond, an odd shape, longer than it was wide, with three enormous circular windows along the far wall, each turned into a mirror by the moonless night beyond and the firelight within.

  The one farthest to the left reflected a massive copper bathtub, half full of water, set to one side of the fireplace, and Hattie’s attention was instantly drawn to the enormous piece—larger than any bath she’d ever seen. Heat rose from the water inside, hinting that servants had been there mere minutes earlier.

  Inside the hearth, two large kettles piped happily, as though they’d been waiting all day for their master to return—as though they would continue to do so until he bathed.

  She inhaled sharply, desire thrumming through her, chased by nerves. She’d been so proud of her bravery earlier, but now, faced with the wild intimacy of his rooms and now his bath . . . she was growing less so. She willed herself strong and said, “Do you intend to bathe?”

  He was at a basin beyond, unraveling the strip of linen from his left hand, and for a moment, Hattie was transfixed by the movement, a deft hand-over-hand motion that revealed strength and size and dexterity. “I do,” he said, as he repeated his actions with his right hand before leaning over the basin and washing his hands, scrubbing them with meticulous care.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry. Tried for casual indifference. “Oh.” The squeak was neither casual, nor indifferent, and she’d never been so grateful to be staring at another person’s back. She cleared her throat. “That’s good. You are bleeding.”

  Was she reminding herself or him?

  He looked over his shoulder at her. Was that humor in his gaze? “Not anymore. You shall have to aim truer during our next battle.”

  Her brows shot together. “I never intended to—” She stopped. If
she’d thought for a moment that he’d be hurt, she never would have taken the knife from her pocket. “I thought I might have to protect myself.”

  He stilled, and she wondered what he was thinking even as she knew he’d never speak it.

  She forced a little laugh. “I didn’t expect that you would protect me.”

  He looked at her then, over his shoulder, his amber eyes like fire, and she imagined him saying something magnificent. Like, I’ll always protect you.

  Which was mad, of course. Hadn’t he just stolen her business? Turned them into rivals? She cleared her throat. “It should be cleaned and bandaged, nevertheless.”

  He dried his hands on a length of cloth and moved away from the table, heading for the hot water in the hearth. “The attacker becomes the nurse.”

  She swallowed at the words, the vision they wrought. The way they made her fingers itch to touch him. The way they set her on edge—making her feel thoroughly in over her head. When she had implemented the Year of Hattie, intending to follow a simple step-by-step plan to take her life in her own hands, she’d been prepared and polished, ready to claim the world.

  No longer. He’d run riot over that plan.

  Now he threatened to run riot over the rest of her, as well.

  And what was worse . . . she found she wanted it.

  “I shall do my best to make amends,” she said, the words quieter than she intended, the room muting them.

  He heard, hesitating as he reached for the second kettle—the pause barely noticeable if one wasn’t watching carefully. But Hattie watched more carefully than she’d ever watched anything, so when he gave a little grunt that she might have once thought was dismissive, she heard something else. Something categorical.

  Desire.

  It wasn’t possible, was it? He hadn’t touched her tonight. They’d been in the carriage for an age. Alone, in the darkness. And she’d ached for him to touch her. Been ready to scream for him to kiss her.