Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  He began with the most important one. “I love you.”

  Regret thrummed through him, opening a wide space between them, and he clung to her hand and refused to take his eyes from her as he repeated himself. “I love you, and I should have told you that before. I should have told you the night at the fights.” He swallowed, fighting for words. “I should have told you before then—in Covent Garden when you went after my best broad-tosser and found the queen.”

  He paused, then, the words catching in his throat. “I found the queen that night, too. I found you, and I should have told you that I loved you. I should have told you how beautiful you are. I should have told you how I am laid low by your impossible eyes and your wide, wonderful smile.” He closed his eyes and set his forehead to her hand. “I should like to make you smile again, love. I should like to make you smile every minute of every hour of every day for the rest of our life until you tire of it and I have no choice but to kiss it from your lips and give you respite. And I should like very much for that life to be so long that we grow old next to each other, rattling about in our home, with our children and grandchildren coming and going and rolling their eyes at how I never stopped being a fool over you.”

  His gaze tracked her face for movement, running over her full cheeks and her long nose and the twin slash of her brows—which rose and fell with every excitement she felt—a barometer of her emotion, now unmoving. Whit rubbed a hand over his face, panic and anguish running through him. “My brother nearly had to die before he realized how much he loved his wife . . . But this . . .” He didn’t think he could bear it.

  “I’d die a thousand times over to prevent this. To prevent you, here . . . I’d trade places with you in a moment. The world doesn’t need me like it needs you. Who will buy up all the extra flowers in the market at the end of the day? Who will hold the loyalty of the London docks like you? Who will—” He swallowed around the knot in his throat. “Who will teach my daughters to tie a decent knot?” His voice cracked on the last, and he bowed his head to the bed, broken by the moment. “Christ, Hattie. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t go.”

  People came and Whit barely noticed—Devil and Felicity first, filled with concern, Felicity instantly going to her knees beside him, her strong hand firm on his arm. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t look into the face of her worry. Instead, he stared into Hattie’s face and said, quietly, “She’s locked away.”

  Felicity’s fingers squeezed his arm, strong and sure, but he heard the tears in her voice when she said, “No lock is unpickable.”

  But Hattie wasn’t clockwork and steel. She was flesh and bone and love, and if Whit knew anything, he knew those were the most fragile of things, there and gone in an instant.

  His brother approached, settling a hand on his shoulder. “The crew is outside, standing guard. Twenty of them, more by the minute.”

  Keeping vigil.

  “They should be moving cargo.”

  “You let me worry about that. They should be here. With you.”

  “They don’t know her.” He turned to his brother. “You don’t know her.”

  Devil’s eyes flashed. “They know you, Beast. They know the man who has cared for them from the start. And they cannot wait to know the woman he loves.” He cleared his throat. “Neither can I.”

  Whit looked away, back to Hattie, racked with emotion. “I do love her.”

  Felicity’s grip tightened.

  She didn’t say, And you shall have her.

  She didn’t say, And love is enough.

  Because it wasn’t true. None of it was a guarantee.

  “I’m giving her the business.”

  “Of course,” Devil said.

  He did not look away from her hand in his, on her bare fingers. He lifted them to his lips, pressing kisses on her knuckles again, bribing her. “Wake up, love. I’ll give it all to you. I’ll prove it to you. Just wake up and let me love you.”

  Silence fell in the wake of the whispered words, stretching for long minutes until Devil said, “And what of you? Will you give yourself to her, as well?”

  “I’ll never not be hers.”

  Felicity pressed a kiss to his shoulder at that and stood, Devil coming forward to help her up, to pull her into his arms and hold her tight, as though he could ward off whatever evil had come for Hattie that night.

  Whit met his brother’s bleak gaze over his sister-in-law’s head. “Don’t ever let her go.”

  Minutes, hours, days later—time marked by nothing but Hattie’s shallow breaths—dark night gave way to blinding sun, and the room revealed itself, clean and happy. The doctor’s wife came and went, leaving food that Whit didn’t eat and tea for Felicity and Devil, who stood watch over the other three victims of the attack—legs set, wounds bandaged, expected to mend.

  And still, Hattie slept, her hand limp in Whit’s.

  And still, he spoke, soft and constant, the words like the tide.

  The door burst open and Nora rushed in, Nik at her heels. Nora flew to Hattie’s side, next to Whit, tears in her eyes. “Hattie—no!”

  Guilt rioted through him, worse for her friend’s anguish. “I sent her away,” he confessed. “I tried to get her away from it.”

  She looked to him, a watery smile on her face. “Hattie would never have allowed that. She knows what she wants and will do whatever it takes to get it. She leapt back into the fray to fight alongside you. Because she wants you.” She reached for him, pressing her hand against his cheek, rough from a day without a shave. “She came back for you because she loves you.”

  Loves.

  Whit held on to the present tense in the word.

  Nik turned away from the moment, to face Devil and give the most recent report. “The explosions—they were set by the bastard who worked with Sedley.”

  “Russell,” Nora spat. “Pure garbage.”

  “We’ve got him,” Nik added. “He claims Ewan paid for one of the blasts. Says the second was free.”

  “I shall see to him,” Devil said, his voice cold with menace.

  “I should like to watch,” Nora said as the doctor entered and she ceded her spot.

  He lifted Hattie’s wrist, tracking her pulse. “It’s strong and steady.” He looked to Whit. “She might yet live.”

  “Good God,” Nora said, shocked by the forthright words.

  Whit cursed and turned away from him. “If that’s all you can offer, get out.”

  Devil stepped forward. “Beast, let the man work. You know he’s the best in London. Would you rather he left her to the surgeons on the docks?”

  “I would never do that,” the doctor said, meeting Whit’s eyes, understanding in his clear blue gaze. “I’ve faced worse than you, Beast, and lived to tell the tale. Here is what I can offer. There are no breaks. No bleeding. No visible swelling. A few scrapes and bruises, but nothing to go by beyond the lump on her head.”

  He turned away, collecting a sack full of ice from a tray nearby before placing it beneath Hattie’s head. “We are lucky for two things—a strong pulse and an unending supply of ice. And I vow this: I shall do everything I can to save your lady.”

  My lady. Whit swallowed at the words, the knot in his throat pulsing with emotion. “Thank you.”

  The doctor nodded and made for the door, turning back just before he exited. “Ah. I nearly forgot.” He reached behind to the waistband of his trousers. “This was in the lady’s pocket, but I believe it belongs to you.”

  Onyx and steel shone in the light.

  His blade. The missing one. Somehow now in Hattie’s possession. He looked to Devil. “Ewan.”

  One of his brother’s black brow’s rose and he turned to Nik. “No sign of him?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. What does it mean?”

  Whit looked back to Hattie. “It means she fought for us.”

  His warrior.

  His savior.

  He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Wake up, love. Please.”
>
  “It bears mentioning,” the doctor said, casually, “that there are some who believe that in this particular state, the patient can hear. My wife tells me you’ve been talking to her. I suggest you keep on with that.”

  He should have been embarrassed, considering the audience, but Whit would have stripped himself naked in the middle of the Rookery for all the world to see if it would wake her up.

  And so he kept talking.

  “I should have told you how beautiful you are. I should have said it more. I should have said it until you forgot there was a time when you didn’t believe it.”

  Nora and Felicity sniffled in the background, but still, Hattie slept.

  After flattery, he tried bribery. “I’ll buy you one of Rebecca’s pups. I’ll buy you the whole lot of them. They can follow you along the docks during the day and sleep at your feet at night.” He’d join them. “I found the French bean seller at the market—there’s a standing order for fresh beans for you. You only need tell him Beast sent you.”

  “That’s not an order, Beast, it’s fearmongering,” Devil said from the place he’d taken up against the far wall, as sentry. “Hattie, you should wake for no reason other than to keep Beast from shaking down every shopkeep in the Garden for you.” He paused, “Also, because I’d like very much to know the woman who has my brother tracking down sellers of French beans.”

  Whit shook his head, but did not complain. He’d accept anything that might wake her. “I shall ask my confectioner to make you more of those raspberry drops. Others, too, if you like. Strawberry or apple. Whatever you choose. I don’t know your favorite fruit.” He looked to Nora. “What is her favorite fruit?”

  Nora shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I’m not telling you.” She lifted her voice. “Wake up and tell him yourself, Hattie.”

  He nodded. That was good. He wanted to hear it from her. He wanted to know everything about her, and he wanted it all to come direct from the source. He looked back to her, casting about for something else.

  Striking on it.

  “Devil,” he said, raising his voice so his brother could hear him.

  “Aye?”

  “There’s a house in Berkeley Square. Next to Warnick’s. It’s empty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Buy it. Put it in her name.”

  His brother did not hesitate over the request. He nodded. “Done.”

  Whit brushed her hair from her face, ran his fingers over the impossibly soft skin of her cheeks. “You see, love? We’re buying your house. You’ll have to wake to live in it, though. And I’d like very much to live in it with you.” He reached to touch her, to brush the hair from her brow. “The Year of Hattie is shaping up.”

  She moved.

  It was barely there, the movement. A flicker behind her eyelids. He wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t so focused on her. He came up off his knees, leaning over her on the bed. “Hattie?” He moved closer, taking her hand in his again, trying not to squeeze too hard. “Hattie. Please, love.”

  Another flicker. “Yes. That’s it, love.”

  The air in the room shifted, everyone coming closer, the whole assembly on a knife’s point, except for Whit, who was talking again. “You have to open your eyes, Hattie. You have the most beautiful eyes. Have I told you that? I’ve never seen eyes like yours—so expressive. And when you told me you loved me earlier, you nearly put me to my knees. Wouldn’t you like a chance to do that again? Open your eyes, love.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Open your eyes so I can tell you how much I love you.”

  And she did.

  Her lids opened and her gaze focused on his, and—impossibly—she smiled, as though she hadn’t just been on death’s door. And she did put him to his knees, because he found he did not have the strength to hold himself up.

  Nora gasped, and Nik was out the door for the doctor, and Hattie tightened her hand in his, and said, “That was a very tempting offer.”

  He laughed at the words, unable to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. “I’m very happy to hear it.”

  Her hand came to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, weak, but there. “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “I love you, Henrietta Sedley.”

  Her smile broadened, dimple flashing. “I like that.”

  He barked another laugh. “As do I, now that you’re awake enough to hear it.” He paused, then looked over his shoulder to the door. “Where’s the damn doctor?”

  She shook her head, “No doctor. Not yet,” she said. “Not before I say this: I set out to claim myself—body, business, home, fortune, future. But you own it all.”

  “We don’t have to marry,” he said. “You want the business. It’s yours. I’ll have the papers drawn up now. The fortune you’ll no doubt make with your sharp mind and your charm. Have all of it to yourself. But . . .” A plea edged into his words. “Let me share your future. Not as your husband. Not as your protector. As your partner. As your equal. However you like. I’ll take whatever you’ll give, as long as we’re together.”

  She shook her head with a little wince that had him looking for the doctor again. “No, Whit. You misunderstand. You own it all. Every bit of me. And I give it, freely.”

  He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and then to her lips, to her cheeks and forehead and then back to her mouth. “I own nothing. Everything of mine is yours, nothing if it is not shared. My business, my life, my world, my heart.”

  She smiled, small, but there. “I am your protector.”

  He closed his eyes at the words. At the pleasure that rioted through him with them. “Yes. Christ, yes.”

  “Tell me again.”

  And he did, low and sweet against her lips. “I love you.”

  The doctor came and went, pronouncing her on the mend but requiring observation for several days in the infirmary. Their assembled guests left with proper introductions and relieved kisses and promises to visit daily, and moments later, a cacophonous cheer sounded from outside, shaking the windows in their seats.

  Inside, Hattie’s eyes went wide, and she lifted her head from where it rested on Whit’s chest, as the moment they were alone, he’d climbed into bed with her and vowed not to leave the place until she did. “What was that?”

  “The Rookery, cheering their lady on the mend.”

  She smiled at that. “Their lady?”

  “My lady.”

  “My Beast.” A pause and then, “Kiss me again.”

  He did, first gently, and then, when she pulled him closer, deeper. When he finally lifted his head, she sighed. “Tell me again.”

  “I love you.”

  Pink washed over her cheeks—a mark of her pleasure, and of her health. And then she closed her eyes and said, “Now tell me all the other things. All the things you said when I couldn’t hear them.”

  And Beast settled in, his lady in his arms, content to spend the rest of his life doing just that.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Hattie stood at the helm of the ship, taking in her city.

  The sun set over the rooftops, the whole of London burning amber in the light, the river gleaming like gold. She could hear the shouts of men and women up and down the docks, chattering and laughing and calling out to each other, late afternoon on the Docklands bursting with life. A half-dozen other ships were berthed along the quay, all owned by Sedley-Whittington Shipping, all crawling with dockworkers hauling product, all aboveboard.

  But not this one. This one quiet, left only to her.

  This one belonged to the Bareknuckle Bastards.

  “There you are.”

  Hattie turned at the dark, satisfied words to find her husband crossing the deck, greatcoat billowing out behind him as his long legs and sure strides consumed the oak boards. She lifted a hand as he approached the steps leading up to where she stood. “Wait.”

  He did, instantly, looking up at her with a smile on his lips and a question in his eyes—eyes that glittered am
ber as the setting sun. His face bronzed from a summer of work on the ships—he remained breathtakingly handsome. “What is it?”

  She smiled down at him. “I just like to look at you.”

  Whit’s smile turned wolfish. “As I like to look at you, wife.” He took the steps two at a time, meeting her halfway across the raised deck, taking her into his arms. “I like to touch you, as well.”

  He caressed down her arms, over the turquoise dress she wore. “I like this pretty frock.” Lifting one hand to her hair, pushing a long lock behind her ear. “I like your beautiful eyes.” And then he set his hand possessively to her belly, round and full with their first child. “And I like this more than I can say.”

  She blushed at the low, sinful words, at the memory of how well he had proved the last the night before. She tilted her face up to his. “And what do you think of kissing me?”

  He growled low in the back of his throat and showed her just how well he liked that, too, kissing her long and lush, stroking deep until she was lost to it, giving herself up to him. Only then did he break the caress with a second, soft and sweet, and a third on her cheek, and the last in her hair as he pulled her close and breathed her in. “I love you,” he whispered, the words stolen by the wind before Hattie could hear them.

  But she felt them, nonetheless, curling into his warmth. “So here I am, as requested.”

  “Mmm,” he said, holding her tight to him. “On our ship.”

  She smiled, turning her face into his chest, a hint of embarrassment coming with understanding. Whit had refused to allow the ship, once called the Siren, to become a part of Sedley-Whittington, pointing out again and again that the level of sin the vessel had hosted made it much better suited to the Bareknuckle Bastards. Hattie had rolled her eyes at the theory . . . until he’d rechristened it the Warrior. And then she’d rather liked that he kept it for the business that had been with him the longest.

  “Nik wanted to get it out before low tide, but I told her I have plans for it tonight.” The words were low and dark, and Hattie shivered at the promise in them.