Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  “But you bought it to get her attention, instead of just telling her you wanted to go for a walk, or whatever. Like an imbecile.”

  “You nearly destroyed your wife’s reputation for sport,” Whit pointed out.

  “Aha!” Devil grinned. “So you admit you want to marry the girl.”

  I can’t love you.

  She’d be another person to care for. Another to protect.

  Another to lose.

  “I admit no such thing,” Whit said, frustration pouring through him. “I bought them to get her far from the Bastards. I bought them because it would keep her safe.”

  “Fine. Why have you kept them?”

  “Because I’ve barely owned them a week!”

  “Nah. Why have you kept them, bruv?”

  Whit stopped.

  For her.

  Christ. Whit rubbed a hand over his face.

  He’d kept them for her. Because she’d told him she wanted a shipping business. And he’d wanted to give her what she wanted.

  Because hope was a fickle bitch.

  “There it is.”

  “Fuck off,” Whit said. “You were nearly dead in a ditch before you realized how much you cocked it up with Felicity.”

  “And here you sit, hale and healthy. You should thank me for the wisdom I impart to you.” Devil smirked. “Now, tell me how you cocked it up, so I can impart additional wisdom as your older, wiser, brother.”

  “We were born on the same day.”

  “Yes, but it’s clear my soul is wiser.”

  “Get stuffed.” Devil didn’t move, letting silence fall between them, knowing that silence was never silence if Whit was there. Silence was thought, miles a minute. Finally, he said, “She is too good for me.”

  There was no denial in Devil’s eyes. No humor, either.

  “I am nothing like what she deserves. Born the bastard son of the worst kind of man, raised in a bed-sit in Holborn, then raised again in the filth and fights of the gutter.” He paused. Then, “And Ewan. I can’t ask her to live in his shadow.”

  One of Devil’s dark brows kicked up. “I’m not sure Henrietta Sedley is the kind of woman who lives in anyone’s shadow. I heard she nearly took out Michael Doolan with a blade stolen from you.”

  “She was ready to slice him to bits.”

  Devil smirked. “Good thing you came along.”

  “Don’t twist it,” he said. “She’s not like us. She doesn’t fight dirty. She’s so clean, it’s impossible to imagine how I wouldn’t drag her into the gutter if I touched her.”

  “So far above you, you can barely see her,” Devil said softly. The words full of memory.

  “Yes,” Whit said, looking down at the empty street below.

  “And what does the lady say?”

  How could I forget this? Had she known what they’d had? How rare it had been? It didn’t matter, because he’d ruined it. He’d made her feel like a chore.

  As though he wouldn’t spend the rest of his days chasing the pleasure he’d felt with her.

  I can’t love you.

  I never asked you for love.

  “Have you told her?” Devil interrupted. “About the past?”

  He met his brother’s eyes. “I’m not good enough for her.”

  Devil shook his head. “You’re wrong, but I’ve never been able to convince you of it. Neither has Grace. But listen to me, bruv. You’re the best of the lot of us.”

  Shame flared at the words and Whit looked away. “That’s not true. I couldn’t keep you safe.” He stopped, thinking of the night they’d run. “I couldn’t keep my mother safe. And I can’t keep Hattie safe.”

  Devil sighed. “Ewan is an ass, but he’s always been the smartest of the three of us. And he’s always known where our weaknesses lie.” A pause, and then, “I thought I was like the duke.”

  Whit’s head snapped up at the confession. “You’re nothing like him.”

  “Most days, I know that. And here is what I wish you could see.” His amber eyes glittered with frustration and insistence. “I wish you could see that the Mad Duke of Marwick is threatening your happiness for the second time in your life, and this time you have something far more devastating on the line.”

  Hattie.

  “And I wish you could see that you didn’t simply punish yourself in the last few days; you punished Hattie. And worse, you made her choice for her.” He reached a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “You are more than our savior.”

  Whit closed his eyes, remembering the night they’d run. “I could barely move. You should have left me.”

  “No.” Devil came to his full height. “You were one of us. Ewan came for us all that night. Ewan, who is lost, and the duke, who is dead, and it is time for you to realize that without you, Grace and I would be nowhere. It’s time for you to realize that without you, the Rookery would be nowhere. The men wouldn’t have jobs and the women wouldn’t have pride and the children wouldn’t have lemon ice every time we have a ship in harbor. And that’s you. I didn’t build that. I was too angry and too vengeful. You built it. Because you’ve always looked out for us. And you shall always be the best of us.”

  The words hung between them, until Devil added, “Henrietta Sedley might be the best woman the world has ever seen, but don’t for one second believe that you are not her equal.”

  You made me your equal.

  Hattie’s words, full of awe.

  Whit’s own disbelief.

  “I can’t convince you of it,” Devil said softly, wrapping his hand around Whit’s head and pulling him close, until their foreheads touched. “And, sadly, neither can she.”

  Whit took a deep breath. “I can’t keep her safe.”

  “No.” Devil shook his head. “It’s the worst truth. But loving them is the best.”

  Loving Hattie.

  “I’m sorry to break up what looks like a beautiful moment, but we’ve a problem.”

  The brothers looked up to find Annika crossing the rooftop, tall and blond, her coat billowing in the wind and her brow furrowed like she was in the midst of an Oslo winter.

  “Nik!” Devil said, releasing Whit from his grasp, turning with a wide grin on his face. “You will not believe the rumors I’ve been hearing.”

  Nik’s didn’t look to him. “I don’t care.”

  “I hear you’ve a new friend.”

  The Norwegian stilled and looked to Whit, pleading in her eyes. “Tell him to shut up.”

  Whit couldn’t help his own smile, welcome after the events of the last few days. “Where were you twenty minutes ago when he came up here? I would have liked for him to do the same.”

  “One of the boys told me you brought a certain fast driver up to the roof to show her the stars last night,” Devil said.

  Nik cleared her throat. “It was to make amends for your fledgling criminals stealing her gig in the first place.”

  Understanding dawned. Nik and Nora. Not that Whit could blame the woman before him—if Nora was anything like her friend, she was irresistible. But first things first. “You tell the lady that I’ll remove the wheels from every one of her vehicles if she doesn’t learn to drive with more caution.”

  Nik rolled her eyes and shot Devil a look. “Was it Brixton? That boy needs to stop running his mouth.”

  “It wasn’t Brixton, as a matter of fact,” Devil said, casually tapping the end of his walking stick against his boot. “And you needn’t be embarrassed; I only mentioned it because Felicity and I have found ourselves on that roof more than once.” He looked to Whit. “Perhaps you should bring Lady Henrietta up there.”

  The idea of bringing Hattie to the rooftops and laying her bare beneath the stars was devastating.

  Whit scowled at his brother. “You’re an ass.” He looked to their second, resisting the urge to gape at her bright pink cheeks. “What’s the problem?”

  Gratitude flashed in her eyes. “We’re to have forty able-bodied men on the docks tonight, to help with unloading.�
�

  Whit nodded.

  “But there aren’t forty to be had,” she said. “There aren’t four.”

  Whit wasn’t concerned. Not yet. But he was puzzled. “What’s that mean?”

  She waved a long arm toward the docks in the distance. “It’s quiet on the docks.”

  “Because Whit bought all the boats,” Devil quipped. “I’ve already had a word with him about it. We’re getting it sorted. What do you know about tinned salmon?”

  Nik’s brow furrowed in confusion for a heartbeat before she shook her head and returned to the matter at hand. “That’s not why. There’s no one to do the work.”

  Devil gave a little huff of laughter. “That’s impossible.”

  “I swear to you it isn’t,” Nik said. “There’s no one working the docks. There are no hooks to be had. And we’ve ninety tons of ice melting in the hold every moment we think about what might or mightn’t be possible.”

  “I’ve seen dockworkers all day,” Whit said, lifting his chin toward the warehouse across the street. “They’ve been in and out of Sedley, collecting their pay.”

  “Be that as it may . . .” She reached into her coat, extracting a piece of paper and extending it to Whit. “There are no men to work the cargo on the docks. And if I had to guess, I’d say you’re the reason why.”

  He took the letter.

  Beast—

  Congratulations on your new business.

  Good luck finding men willing to work for you.

  I await your reply.

  Yrs, etc.,

  Lady Henrietta Sedley

  Future proprietress, Sedley Shipping

  Whit gave a little, shocked laugh and looked to Nik. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Sarita says she nailed it to the mast of the Siren not an hour ago.”

  His brows knit together. “What is the Siren?”

  “One of your new haulers.”

  “Impossible. She hasn’t left the warehouse since she arrived.”

  “Seems she has.” She raised a brow in the direction of the note. “We found it flapping in the breeze, virtually the only sound on the docks.”

  Those docks were full whenever there was a ship in berth, men flocking, knowing there was money to be had for anyone with a strong back and a steady hand. He looked down at the note. “No hooks to be had?”

  Nik shook her head. “Nowhere. We’ve our men—but nowhere near enough to empty that ship as quickly as we need tonight.”

  How had she done it?

  Devil whistled, long and low. “I thought you said she didn’t play dirty.”

  Whit’s heart began to pound. He had said that, hadn’t he? But this was dirty. Wonderfully, wickedly dirty. He lifted the paper to his nose, reveling in the soft scent of almonds on it.

  “She doesn’t need to be kept safe,” Devil said, his words full of dry humor. “Christ, we all need to be kept safe from her. She’s been waging war right beneath your nose.”

  “You’ve got to get your girl, Beast. She risks the whole shipment; I don’t have to tell you how many months it will take to replenish the amount of champagne we’ve got in that hold if it gets stolen.”

  Whit should have been furious. And he was. She’d put herself in danger to best him. But he was also vibrating with excitement. He hadn’t lost her. This was a shot over the bow.

  His warrior wasn’t through with him.

  “She promised me a rivalry.”

  Another long, low whistle from Devil, and then, “This is proof that watching isn’t enough, bruv. If you want her safe, your best shot is standing by her side.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After a childhood on and off the decks of ships, trailing behind her father, Hattie was rarely more comfortable than when she was on the water, even when the water in question was a barely-there lift from the Thames as the tide ebbed. She stood on the raised deck at the prow of the hauler, lantern at her feet, staring out at the black river, marveling at the silence of the dock at dusk on a night when a ship was in port and ready to be unloaded.

  She’d done it.

  It had taken three days, a fair amount of funds, every favor she’d ever accrued while working for Sedley Shipping, and every ounce of goodwill she’d ever gained from the men and women here on the docks, but Hattie had locked up every available hook in the Docklands tonight, and Whit would have no choice but to come for her.

  She knew it was silly, but she wanted him to come for her. Because as embarrassed and ashamed as she’d been when she’d left his rooms three evenings earlier, she still wanted to prove to him that she was a powerful adversary. A respected rival.

  Lie.

  She wanted him to see that they were perfectly matched.

  I can’t love you.

  Luckily, she didn’t have to face the memory of his words, because he arrived. She felt him before he spoke, his presence changing the air around her—making her feel simultaneously breathless and powerful.

  She turned to face him, excitement running through her as she lifted her chin, the cool breeze whipping up the Thames, billowing her skirts around her legs. She willed herself to look as strong as she felt in that moment. And she was strong. Stronger, as he approached.

  Her rival.

  Her match.

  More. Could he not feel it?

  His long strides consumed the deck, his gaze unwavering. She did not move, and for a small, wonderful moment, the whole world fell away and she was full of triumph, as though her plans for the Year of Hattie hadn’t gone utterly sideways.

  After all, she’d summoned him to her.

  He stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to her. “You’re trespassing.”

  She raised a brow. “And you are here to dispatch me with all haste?”

  “This is my boat, Lady Henrietta.”

  The words were firm and unyielding, spoken in a tone that had no doubt set legions of men to cowing. But Hattie was not a man. And it did not make her want to cow. It made her want to reign. “This ship”—she exaggerated the correction—“is sitting in this harbor, empty and rotting.”

  He cursed under his breath and looked up to the sky. “I’ve owned the damn boats for a week, so there’s no need to plan a funeral for them right now.”

  “We needn’t plan a funeral at all,” she said, lifting the lantern at her feet and moving to the top of the steps where he stood. “If you trade them to me.”

  He raised a brow. “For what?”

  “For the men I’ve locked down—the ones you need to save your hold full of ice. The ones you came for.”

  He raised a brow. “You can’t lock them down forever.”

  “I can lock them down long enough for”—she looked down the row of ships to the hauler that sat lower in the water than all the others, assessing it for a moment—“eighty-some tons of ice to melt.”

  “Ninety-some,” he corrected her.

  “Not for long,” she said. “What’s inside the ice, hopefully dry? More of that bourbon you like so much?”

  Something flared in his gaze. Surprise. Admiration.

  And Hattie resisted the urge to grin her triumph. “I don’t care about the real cargo, but thieves will. You don’t want these ships, and I do. And I think you may find it very difficult indeed to run a shipping business from these docks—with these men—if I don’t wish you to.”

  “You don’t know who you play with.”

  “It seems I’m playing with my match, if you ask me.” He raised a brow, and excitement threaded through her. “After all, I just locked up every hook from here to Wapping, and none of your other rivals have ever done that. What are your options now?”

  He watched her, silent. Then, “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you, warrior?”

  She grinned. “I am, rather. You must admit, this is a magnificent move.”

  He didn’t reply, but she saw the small twitch at his lips, a movement that made her want to throw herself into his arms and kiss him, despite hi
s being the enemy.

  She resisted the urge and changed tack. “Do you know why ships have figureheads?”

  “I do not.”

  She smiled, lifting the lantern at her feet. “They’ve had them since the dawn of sailing, all across the word. The Vikings. Rome and Greece. Every culture that is known to have sailed open water used figureheads.”

  She came to stand at the top of the steps, staring down at him. “Ancient Norse sailors believed that the figurehead was fate made manifest. A ship of size might have had eight or ten of them, taking up valuable weight and cargo space. They were made to guard and protect for every eventuality of seafaring—one for calm seas, one for storms, one to appease the winds. If there was a plague on a boat? There was a figurehead for that.”

  Still, he did not speak.

  “When a storm would appear on open water, the crew would rush to batten hatches and tie back sails—to prepare for rough seas. But there were crewmembers whose job it was to change the figurehead—one that would ward against evil, protect against storms, and lead sailors to paradise if the worst happened.” She watched him carefully. “It is said that if a ship sinks without a figurehead, the sailors who die haunt the sea.”

  She stopped. His eyes gleamed. “Go on.”

  He always listened to her. He could make her feel like she was the only other person in the wide world. “Those? The ones that faced the storms? The ones that shepherded the sailors to their death? They were always women.”

  She looked out at the black river, where the tide ebbed and the ships settled into the silty riverbed. “When I was younger, I thought it was wonderful—after all, it was bad luck for girls to sail, but every ship had half a dozen women in the hold, just waiting to meet the sea.” She paused, remembering the sailing myths her father used to share.

  “Only when you were younger?”

  She met his eyes. “Now I understand that girls being bad luck on a ship is a bollocks thing that people say to keep women from living the lives they wish.”

  He nodded. “Tell me the rest.”

  “It’s just a story,” she said. “A story designed to convince young men to take to the sea and give up their lives. A legend passed from man to man, so when they met their inevitable death, it seemed like it was just that, inevitable. And also, not so bad, because they expected it.”