“No?”
“Nah. He’s just hauling the last of the ice.”
“How much is the last of it?”
Devil looked to Beast. “What, eighty?”
Beast shrugged. “One hundred?”
One hundred blocks of ice, each one easily fifty pounds. And without a hook. His hands would be blistered from the ropes. His shoulders, too. He wore none of the protection that haulers traditionally wore. Her jaw clenched. “How many has he done?”
“Ten? A dozen?”
She shook her head. He wouldn’t be able to do much more. He wasn’t a hauler. He hadn’t been born with a hook in his hand.
And still, it looked like he would never stop. Something tightened in her throat, watching him in the dirt, in this part of the city that had been his before it had belonged to any of them. “So you set a duke down in the middle of the Garden, and expect him to walk away unscathed?”
“I wouldn’t say we expect that, no,” Devil said.
“Mmm,” Beast agreed. “I think we’re rather hoping he wouldn’t.”
“I thought we agreed you didn’t touch him?”
Devil looked at her and spread his arms wide. “I’m on the roof, Gracie. So far away it’s like I was never even here.”
“Still, you’re starting something, and he won’t stop till it’s finished,” she said. “You know that.”
“He started it,” Whit said.
She cut him a look. “What does that mean?”
He grunted. “He came looking to pay his debts.”
“His debts.”
“Wot, we weren’t supposed to take him up on the offer?” Devil said. “Ten thousand and some sound work in the Garden is a lot to pass up.”
Ten thousand pounds. “For the families?”
It was a fortune.
Beast turned on her, his amber eyes, usually so soft, turned hard, and his voice to match. “Five men, and it ain’t enough.” The words were clipped, tight on his tongue, and Grace felt the sting of them, like a wet lash. “He owes them, and you’d do well to remember that.”
Her face went hot with his censure, and she spoke to his profile. “You think I don’t remember?”
He did not look at her. “I think you’ve always had trouble remembering the truth of him.”
She bit back a sound of frustration, hating the way her chest tightened at the words. What did she care one way or another what happened to Ewan?
Not Ewan.
She watched him cross the yard again, his back to her. The muscles of his back were visible through his now-wet shirt. They rippled beneath the weight, and her mouth went dry.
Marwick. That was the truth of him, whether he was dressed for dukedom or not.
Grace tore her attention away from him, instead fixing on the crowd that watched in near silence. There was nothing easy about the quiet—she’d lived in Covent Garden long enough to know the difference between calm and tension. And everybody below seemed to hang in suspension, waiting for the chance to take this duke and make an example of him.
Rich, powerful, entitled.
And for no reason but birth.
Except he hadn’t had all that at birth. At birth, he’d been one of them.
But they didn’t know that. No one did. No one ever would, with the exception of the Bareknuckle Bastards. Even if someone in the Rookery did remember the blond bean of a boy, whelp of a moll on Tavistock Row, they’d never match him to the duke before them—it didn’t matter how much ice he hauled.
“They’re ready for a fight,” she said quietly. How many times had she seen them like this? On the balls of their feet, ready for a brawl.
Beast grunted his agreement.
“Of course they are. They love it,” Devil said. “A duke in the muck? It’s like watching a hound recite Shakespeare.”
“And so? You expect him to give it to them?”
“He’s smart enough to know the Garden wants its fight, and they won’t settle for less. And if he wants forgiveness—”
“He wants forgiveness?”
Devil cut her a look. “Not from us.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the yard. “From them.”
She watched as he set the ice at the feet of one of the bruisers at the warehouse door, and a whisper of memory ran through her. They don’t get what they deserve. He’d said it to her when they were children. About these people. About this place.
He turned to make his way back across the yard.
We’re going to change all that.
As though he’d heard the words, he looked up to the rooftop, his gaze immediately finding her. For a heartbeat, he stilled—not long enough for anyone to notice.
Grace noticed.
He lifted his chin in recognition, and she resisted the urge to respond.
Whatever this was, whatever his plan, it was not enough.
It would never be enough.
She tracked him back across the yard, her gaze following the lines of him, over the shirt that clung to him, revealing his broad chest and the ridges of muscle that he’d developed in the year he’d been gone, the opening at the neck revealing a wicked patch of raw, red skin on his left shoulder, and a hint of the edge of the stark white scar that had been there since they were children.
The mark his father had left on him when he’d discovered Ewan’s most prized secret—love. The old duke had found them curled together in the darkness on a summer evening, wrapped in each other’s warmth—a warmth Grace could still remember if she allowed herself to—and he’d gone mad with rage.
No heir of mine will lie with the dreck that came from her bitch of a mother, he’d screamed, coming for her.
Ewan had defended her, but his father had been stronger, with six inches and a hundred pounds on him. He’d taken Ewan to the ground and left his sadistic mark on him, as she watched.
And the next day, everything had been different.
The boy she’d loved was gone.
He’d betrayed them days later.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked, pushing the thought away. “Hauling ice doesn’t win you and it most definitely doesn’t win the Rookery. If anything, it riles them up.”
“He’s back for you,” Devil said, simply, not looking away from Marwick’s movement below.
The words ripped through her along with the memory of his touch in the gardens earlier in the week. Along with his whispered questions—urging her to tell him her name. Along with the whisper of doubt that had chased her away in the end . . . the sense that perhaps he had known it all along.
She shook her head, having no other choice but to disagree. “He isn’t.”
Why did the words feel like a lie?
What if he is?
She ignored the thought and spoke to the yard, “He’s on the marriage mart.”
“Yes,” Devil drawled. “That would be a problem, if it were true. But it’s not.”
She looked at him. “What?”
Beast grunted. “It’s a trap.”
“A trap for whom?” she asked. “He can’t think I would . . .” She trailed off, the words lost to the memory of the way she’d turned herself over to him in the gardens of his ball. “He can’t think he can win me back.”
Devil stared at her for a long moment. “Can’t he?”
She stiffened. “No.”
“All right then,” Devil said, thoroughly agreeable, and utterly infuriating.
“It’s a trap,” Beast repeated.
Without thinking, she looked back at Ewan, letting her gaze track over the ridges and planes of his chest, down over his muscled thighs and then back up, slowly—slower than she should have been, over the beautiful planes of his face, more proof that the boy was gone.
This was no boy.
She met his eyes, not knowing what to expect. Definitely not expecting the knowing curve of his lips, the rise of one blond brow, as though he had witnessed every inch of her perusal. As though he’d liked it. He lifted his chin in her di
rection, as though to acknowledge her careful inspection, a knight in tourney, searching for his lady’s favor.
Where in hell had that come from?
She was no lady, and he was certainly no knight.
“Oy! Duke!”
“There it is,” Devil said, softly. “They don’t like the way he looks at you, Dahlia.”
Grace barely heard it, too busy watching the duke in question as he ignored the shout. Ignored, but heard—the proof of the hearing in the way his long strides slowed, just barely. Another movement that one would notice only if she was really looking.
Grace noticed it.
Ignoring the way the realization unsettled, she said, “I suppose you told them everything?”
“Nah,” Devil said, casually, one hand in his pocket, rocking back on his heels. “If we’d told them everything, he’d’ve been dead the moment he showed his face. We just told them that he was a duke.”
She slid him a look. “What sort of duke?”
Letting Covent Garden into his voice, Devil flashed her a grin, his scar gleaming white on his cheek. The scar Ewan had put there twenty years earlier. “The sort wot deserves what ’e gets.”
It was true, she reminded herself. And this crowd would give it to him today.
“I didn’t expect the O’Malleys out of the gate first, though.”
Beast grunted. “The O’Malleys are always first out of the gate.” He looked to the sun, creeping lower over the west edge of the yard. “And at this hour? Patrick O’Malley’s already soused enough to go up against a duke.”
Patrick O’Malley was a proper bruiser who was ever ready for a fight. He stepped out from the crowd. “You think you can just climb down into the muck wiv us? Slum it for a bit, until the work starts to sting, and then go back to polishin’ yer knob wiv the rest of your kind, tellin’ tales of yer time in the Garden? You think we’re a lark?”
They didn’t know Ewan had been born in the Garden.
They didn’t know he had no interest in ever telling tales of his time here.
“If O’Malley starts it, the whole place’ll finish it,” Beast said. “The duke doesn’t know what a boon he just got—men’ll take his side just for the pleasure of goin’ in against the O’Malley brothers.”
She looked to her brothers. “You’re asking for a riot.”
Devil shrugged. “Nah. It won’t be a riot. It’ll just be a proper brawl. As God intended.”
“And if he dies? Who’ll hang for it?” she said, sensing that the whole thing was about to get far out of hand.
“Do you forget how he fights, Gracie?” Whit asked.
“Don’t Gracie me,” she snapped. “I’m not a child.”
Whit looked to Devil. “I told you.”
Her brows snapped together. “Told him what?”
Devil sighed. “So you did.”
“Told him what?”
Beast looked back to the ground. “I’m only sayin’ that the young Duke of Marwick fights like Lucifer himself. He isn’t going to die.”
“I’m talkin’ to you, Duke,” Patrick O’Malley shouted below. “You want the full taste of the Garden, I’ve got it for you.”
Ewan didn’t reply, except to rope another block of ice from the wagon immediately beneath them and head back to the warehouse, keeping his focus on the door where a man with a strong hook and a stronger back leaned against the jamb, arms like tree trunks crossed over his chest, waiting. Refusing to meet the duke halfway.
The crowd tightened, taking up more space in the warehouse yard.
Grace swore. “This is madness.”
A clump of mud smacked Ewan on the back of the head. He stilled. Stiffened.
O’Malley approached, wiping his dirty hands on his already filthy trousers. “I said, I’m talkin’ to you, Duke.”
“He’ll take that bait,” Devil said.
Beast grunted his reply. “Can’t help it. Never could back down.”
Memory flashed, Ewan reeling from a solid punch when they were children. Turning instantly, swinging, coming back for more.
Far below, he rounded on Patrick O’Malley.
“Fifty quid says he’s down in under two.”
Grace turned surprised eyes on Devil. “You think Ewan goes down?”
He raised a black brow. “You don’t?”
She didn’t.
Beast removed two watches from his pocket, eyes still on the yard, seeing the way the people assembled fairly vibrated with excitement. The heat and the crowd making them ready for riot. “Two minutes? Or seconds?”
Devil laughed. “Be generous, bruv.”
Beast looked down at his watches, then back at Ewan, turned to face them now, scanning the crowd . . . then up, over the buildings. To the rooftops. His gaze lingered on them. On her.
Beast saw it. “Aye, alright. I’ll take your money.”
“You think ’e’s still got it?” Devil sounded surprised.
He still had it, Grace thought.
Beast nodded to Grace. “I think he’s always had it when she’s in the mix.”
She shot him a look. “I’m not in the mix.”
And in that split second, while she was looking away, hell broke loose below.
Chapter Fourteen
She’d come for him.
It had been a calculated risk—he’d known without question that whatever punishment Devil and Whit had designed for him would end with him battered and bruised, and likely by more than just his brothers.
But he’d also known that this might be the only chance he’d have of her coming to him. He’d made himself a promise, that he’d stay away from her. That he’d let her come to him. That he’d give her what she asked.
That’s what he had done. He’d gone away, and he’d rebuilt himself a better man. A worthier one. Stronger. Saner. And he would wait for her to come for him, because that was what she needed.
It did not matter that all he needed was her.
But when his brothers demanded he return to the Garden and pay his debts with sweat and blood as well as money, he’d agreed, unable to resist the invitation to this world that had once been his and was now theirs. Hers.
It was a cheat, he knew. A way around the promise he’d made to let her come to him. To let her choose him, unmasked. It might be a cheat, but he was not beyond cheating to win her back.
So he’d taken the knocks and carried the ice, feeling every inch a spectacle, the sole focus of a crowd of people who were out for blood. They didn’t know his truth—that he’d stood in countless similar crowds. That he’d watched men and dogs and bears fight, and he’d cut his teeth on the bloodlust that came from a world where cruelty was commonplace and inhumanity was armor.
He’d always imagined that his father saw that in him from the start.
The sheer want of a boy willing to do anything to survive. To thrive. To win.
And he hefted the weight for the crowd, hearing every shift in it, every quiet threat in it—the way some watched with admiration and others with anger and others with disdain, hating the fine lawn of his shirt, the polish of his boots, the clean shave of his jaw. The trappings of money and power, distributed at random. At birth.
They didn’t know he didn’t come by them randomly.
They didn’t know they’d been hers at birth.
He’d dropped the dozenth block at the door of the warehouse and turned back to fetch another, knowing that the only way out of the exercise was through—it would end with fatigue or fighting. Those were the only options, and he would never let the first happen.
He’d learned his pride in the Garden, as well as any of them.
He slowed his pace a touch—only as much as he could without attracting notice—taking the extra fractions of seconds to stretch his shoulders—only as much as he could without attracting notice. His left shoulder was on fire, rubbed raw by the rough rope he used to carry the massive blocks of ice.
He didn’t dare draw attention to the pain. Instead, h
e stretched his neck under the guise of perusing the crowd, first on the ground and then up, on the rooftops.
She’d come for him.
She was flanked by his brothers, who had been watching from the start, Devil smiling like an ass and Whit looking like he was ready to do murder. But Ewan had no interest in them.
He didn’t care, as long as she didn’t leave. As long as he could drink her in, the long lines of her made longer by her black breeches, tight to her legs. By her black leather boots, wrapping up over her knees, by her long black coat, billowing back in the wind, lined in a glittering sapphire silk.
He liked that lining very much—the nod to her love of color. The proof that something was left of the girl he’d loved, even if she’d grown into this woman who looked down on him like a fucking queen.
High above on the rooftops, watching her warrior.
And him, ready to do anything for her favor.
The wind lifted her hair up and back behind her and the sun caught it, turning it to flame. Turning him to flame, as it revealed her face. Unmasked.
Unmasked and perfect, her eyes on him. Everywhere. He bathed in her scrutiny, wanting to spread his arms wide beneath it, loving the way she assessed his muscles beneath his damp clothes, loving the way her gaze lingered on his burning shoulder, somehow easing the pain. Loving the slide of her gaze up his neck and over his face.
Christ, he loved it.
He saw her throat work.
Saw her lips part on a breath.
And when she met his eyes, he saw that she liked it, too.
He lifted his face to her, acknowledging her attention. Wondering what she would do if he scaled the damn wall to get to her.
She’d probably push him over the side, but the idea had merit, and for a moment he imagined an alternative—him coming up over the edge of the roof, lifting her in his arms, and stealing her away to somewhere private, where he could give her enough pleasure to make her forget all the pain he’d wrought.
“Oy! Duke!”
He was pulled from the thought by the shout from the crowd, his well-honed instincts immediately refocusing his thoughts. The bark had come from his left, and he slowed, turning his head just barely—not enough to look at the enemy, but enough to locate him.
He didn’t have to do much to see him, a big, broad bastard who seemed like he’d never refused a fight. The crowd assembled seemed to spit the bruiser out, landing him several feet into the yard, a half-dozen yards from Ewan. Finding himself with an audience, the man did what men with a little strength and far less sense tended to do.
Daring and the Duke EPB Page 15
