Brazen and the Beast EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  Sesily pursed her lips. “Whyever not?”

  “Of course, it’s impossible for you to imagine not being noticed.” The words came on a scowl from the American, who was spending an inordinate amount of time cleaning the bartop near them.

  Sesily turned a brilliant smile on him. “You’ve given me more than enough of the experience, Caleb. After all, you make a point never to notice me.”

  A muscle flexed in the man’s jaw and he turned to Hattie and Nora. “Something to drink, gentlemen?” Recognition flared in his gaze. “Welcome back.”

  There was nothing scandalous in the words—but the memory they evoked had Hattie’s gaze sliding to the closed door to the storage room in the distance. Her mouth went dry, and an ale appeared in front of her. “Thank you,” she said, lifting the drink. “Hello again.”

  “You know each other?” Sesily asked.

  “Hattie’s been here before,” Nora interjected, distracted by the crowd. “Is there to be a show tonight?”

  “There is!” Sesily said, happily. “The Sparrow is performing.”

  Nora swiveled to look at her. “The actual Sparrow? Really? I thought she was touring Europe.”

  Sesily smiled. “She’s returned to London.”

  Nora’s gaze lit with excitement. “Do you know her?”

  “Indeed I do.” She waved away the otherwise fascinating information, turning bright eyes to Hattie. “Why are you in disguise?”

  “No reason,” Hattie said.

  “Hattie’s on the hunt,” Nora replied simultaneously.

  Hattie rolled her eyes as Sesily’s lips dropped into a little O. “Delicious. For whom?”

  Hattie feigned innocence. “Who says it’s a whom?”

  Sesily cut her a look. “It’s always a whom.”

  Fair enough. Nora distracted Sesily with another question, and as the two women chatted, Hattie turned to the American, still lingering on the other side of the bar. “It’s a whom.”

  Understanding flashed in his kind eyes, followed by something like pity. He nodded. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. I haven’t seen him since you . . . were here.”

  She was grateful for the dim light in the tavern hiding her blush. She refused to be deterred. “I have to find him.” Failure was not a possibility tonight. She was through letting him run riot through her life. “It’s imperative.”

  Caleb Calhoun scanned the crowd behind her. She followed his gaze, tracking over the men she’d recognized when she entered. “Too many strong arms here for him to be at the docks.” She smiled when the American looked impressed. “I’m not a fool.”

  “Searching out a Bastard in the Garden would suggest otherwise,” he said, but his eyes searched hers, nevertheless, for what . . . honor? She nearly laughed at the thought that someone might be concerned that Hattie was the dishonorable person in her battle with the Bareknuckle Bastards. Whatever he looked for, he found. “It’s Wednesday night. He’s probably at the fights.”

  The fights. She pounced. “Where?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a moving ring. If they don’t want you to find it, you won’t.”

  Frustration flared, and she reached into her pocket, extracting tuppence and setting it on the bar. Calhoun waved it off. “On the house.”

  The kindness in the American’s eyes was a comfort. “Thank you.”

  Sesily looked up from her conversation with Nora. “Caleb, you’re never so nice to me!”

  The bartender growled in response, turning away, even as Sesily watched him, and if Hattie didn’t know better, she would have thought it was longing on the Talbot sister’s face. Longing and something like frustration.

  Lord knew she understood that.

  Nora nodded in Hattie’s direction. “Ready?”

  Indeed. They had a fight to find.

  She flashed a wide smile at Sesily before inclining her head in a formal farewell. “Duty calls.”

  They pushed through the crowd, thicker and more raucous than it had been when they’d arrived. Hattie had never been so grateful for the cool air in the street beyond. When they reached the curricle again, she stopped and took a deep breath. Where was he?

  This man, whom she hadn’t known, whom she hadn’t wanted to know, and who had somehow turned her whole life upside down with his presence and his vengeance and his damn kisses. Hattie couldn’t even be certain that she wasn’t after more of those, and that was exceedingly exasperating.

  Where was he?

  She had things to say to him.

  “Hattie?” She looked up. Nora was on the box, ready to go, looking down at her. “Where to?”

  Hattie shook her head. “I don’t know.” And then, because she couldn’t stop herself . . . “That damn man is ruining everything!”

  Hattie’s frustration echoed off the buildings around them.

  When silence fell once more, Nora nodded. “We’ll find him.”

  And the certainty in the words—the we there—might have made Hattie cry. Would have done, if it weren’t for the words that immediately followed it, spoken from the darkness behind her. “Would you care for some help?”

  Hattie spun toward the question as three women stepped from the background, each wearing a long, fitted coat over trousers and high boots, hair tucked up under caps. And there, beneath the outerwear of the tallest—the one who was nearly Hattie’s height and whom she would have identified as their leader on sight—was the flash of a weapon.

  Sliding her hand into her pocket, fingering the blade there, Hattie took a step back. “What sort of help?”

  There was no malice in the smile the woman flashed. “Lady Henrietta, I’m more than happy to point you in the direction of Beast.”

  How did she know . . .

  Hattie’s brow furrowed. “Have we met?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know my name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not, but I’d like to know anyway.”

  The woman laughed, low and lush. “I make it my business to know what women are looking for, and what will give them satisfaction.”

  “That’s handy,” Nora said from her place in the curricle.

  The mysterious woman did not look away from Hattie as she cautioned, wryly, “Tonight is Lady Henrietta’s night, Lady Eleanora. You’ll get your turn.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Nora said, as though this were all perfectly ordinary.

  It wasn’t at all ordinary. But had anything been so since she’d met Whit? Since she’d found her way into Covent Garden and this wide world had been unlocked for her? Hattie would not deny the thrill of it. The woman was right—it didn’t matter how she knew Hattie. What mattered was that she was willing to help. “You know where he is?”

  An incline of the head.

  “And you’ll take us there?”

  “No,” she said, sending disappointment through Hattie like a shock. “But I’ll tell you where to go.”

  Relief flooded. “Please.”

  Red lips smirked. “So polite. He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”

  Hattie matched the dry tone. “I assure you, madam, he deserves precisely what I intend to deliver.”

  The woman’s laugh was full and honest, and Hattie imagined that she was the kind of person who might make a wonderful friend if she weren’t so mysterious. “Fair enough. You’ll find Beast at the granary. Follow the roar of the crowd. He’ll be the one winning.”

  Hattie nodded, a sizzle of excitement flaring as she looked to Nora.

  Her friend nodded. “We’ll find it.”

  Hattie climbed up onto the box and looked back to the woman. “Shall I give him your regards?”

  “They’ll be delivered along with you, my lady,” came the reply from the shadows, the women already out of sight, as the gig set in motion.

  It took them less than a quarter of an hour to reach the granary,
with its half-dozen silos dark and ominous in the riverfront cold. The October wind whipped up the Thames, honing its blade as it wove through the uninhabited buildings. On another such night—the lack of moon making it impossible to see—there would have been no entering the space, but a half-dozen yards from the road, tucked against the corner of a building, a lit torch flickered.

  “There,” Hattie said, climbing down from the curricle and pulling her coat around her to block the sting of the wind. “That way.”

  “Now, Hattie, you know I’m always game for an adventure,” Nora said, on a loud whisper, “but are you quite sure about this?”

  “Not quite sure,” Hattie allowed.

  “Well. I suppose you get points for honesty.”

  “Fury lends itself to fearlessness,” Hattie said, turning the corner by the torch, noting another one at the edge of the first silo. She headed for it.

  Nora followed. “You mispronounced stupidity. I think we should turn back. There’s no one here. We might as well summon the murderers to us.”

  Hattie cut her friend a look. “I thought you were the brave one.”

  “Nonsense. I’m the reckless one. That’s a different thing entirely.”

  Hattie laughed—what else was there to do? “What does that make me?” The question was punctuated by a roar in the distance. Follow the roar of the crowd. Hattie looked to Nora.

  “The brave one.” There was no humor in it. Only truth. Truth and the kind of love that comes from one’s dearest friend. “The one who knows what she wants and will do whatever it takes to get it.” Nora squared her shoulders. “Well then, lay on.”

  Heading past a second silo, Hattie saw an orange glow around the edge of a third. Without thinking—there was no place for thought in this particular exercise—she pressed on. “You know Macduff kills Macbeth after that bit, don’t you?”

  “Now is not the time for literary truths, Hattie,” Nora replied. “And besides, you are not the murderer I am worried about this evening.” Hattie pulled up short, and Nora nearly collided with her. “Good God.”

  It was a fair assessment of the view ahead.

  Beneath the largest of the silos, forty-odd feet in diameter and raised off the ground on massive iron legs, a huge crowd stood in an enormous circle, hands in pockets and collars turned up against the wind that searched for passage between them.

  Another wild roar sounded, and a collection of arms went high in the air in celebration. Hattie moved more quickly, her breath coming faster. She knew, without question, for whom they cheered, as though the Lord himself had come to fight.

  As they watched, the circle spit out a man—a loser, nose bleeding and one eye already swelling shut. No one made to follow him as he headed for the street, passing Nora and Hattie, who tried not to look too closely as he brushed past, thinking them nothing more than two men, come for the spectacle.

  Hattie recognized him, nonetheless. Michael Doolan.

  As requested, he’d found Whit at the fights, and been dispatched with ease. Pleasure and pride coursed through her, even as she knew it shouldn’t. Whit had promised retribution. And here it was.

  And had he not promised the same to her?

  She pushed the thought aside. It was different. He’d made it seem that they were on the same team.

  As she drew closer, the picture became clearer. Inside the outer ring of spectators, a dozen or so barrels burned, providing not near enough heat for the strange, surprising space, but plenty of flickering light to the sheltered inner circle, the location of that evening’s fights.

  And at the center of that circle, like the Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth, stood a man, clad only in boots and trousers, a cut bleeding on one cheek over what looked like an old bruise—even as a fresh one bloomed on the side of his torso, where Hattie shouldn’t be looking, she knew . . . but who wouldn’t look?

  He was magnificent.

  When she’d been barely into long skirts, she’d attended an exhibition at the Royal Museum, and spent more time than was reasonable considering the ridges and planes of a particular statue of Apollo.

  She’d always assumed that such ridges and planes were reserved for gods and relevant depictions thereof. Not so, apparently. Apparently perfectly ordinary men like this one had them.

  Was that what she would call him? Perfectly ordinary?

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry.

  Hattie drew closer, her height making it easy for her to see over the clustered shoulders of the two men in front of her, shouting into the din of the rest of the spectators as Whit turned away, revealing more ridges and planes, the magnificent muscles of his back.

  No, not Whit. This wasn’t Whit. This was Beast, his trousers hanging low on his hips, his fists at his side, wrapped in linen that might have one day been white, but were no longer. One of the ties had come loose, and Hattie was transfixed by the way he ignored that length of dangling fabric, his hand curled into a near fist, ready for a new battle.

  “Beast is on tonight, lads!” a young man no more than fourteen or fifteen called out to a raucous response. “Ye’d best wager with ’im if ye want ale tonight!” The boy tipped the brim of his cap back. Not a boy. A girl, her bright black eyes shining as she flashed a wide, winning grin that made Hattie want to open her purse as well. “Closing bets in five-four-three . . .”

  The girl paused to do the business of accepting a wager. “Fank ye, sir,” she said with a dip of her head. “And there it is—the next round begins! Beast against the O’Malley Trio!”

  Hattie couldn’t take her gaze from his shoulders, from the way they set, square and strong, as though they might spring at any time. She marveled at the power of them, right up until she noticed the sheer size of the three men approaching. Each one taller and broader than Whit, with broken noses and jaws that looked to be made of granite.

  “Cor,” Nora whispered at her ear. “Look at them. Like damn Cerberus.”

  “He can’t be expected to fight all three. Surely there’s someone to help him,” Hattie said.

  “’E’ll fight all of ’em, and they’ll need a surgeon for it!” came a response from one of the men in front of her. “Just you watch.”

  As though she could stop. The trio of men came for him, creeping closer, crouching low, and Hattie held her breath. When would they leap? Was he not going to protect himself? The crowd grew silent, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to keep in the shout she wanted to release, the one that told him to run.

  They were on him in seconds, but he moved like lightning. She gasped for breath; she’d never seen anything like him as he slid beneath one man’s massive fist and helped it directly into the nose of a second. And all while he kicked out into the torso of the third, sending him flying back with an ominous thud.

  “Aye, Beast! Keep at it!” a woman several feet away called out. “That’s what they get for goin’ up against ya!” Then, lowering her voice, she turned to her neighbor and said, “I’d like to give him a prize for this win!”

  Her companion laughed her agreement, and Hattie resisted the hot jealousy that flared at the words, even as she took her eyes from him to track the spectators in the crowd. There were more than a few pretty women, eyes gleaming with lust as they watched his movements. Any one of them would offer themselves up as a spoil of this particular war. Of course they would. Hattie would, too. She was not made of stone.

  And she knew what it was to be his prize.

  To have him be hers.

  Not that such a thing was why she was here. She was furious with him. She’d come to give him what-for.

  Did he make a habit of it? Bringing these women home?

  The question was lost in a wicked crack as he put his fist into the nose of one of the brutes he fought, sending the other man reeling backward and, in slow motion, to his knees. He landed on his face in the dirt like a felled tree.

  The crowd screamed its pleasure. “Out cold! What did I tell ye?” the man in front of he
r tossed over his shoulder before adding, loudly, “One more, Beast!”

  Hattie had thought the difficult part of the fight was when there were three opponents, but she fast changed her mind now that the final man standing had directed his full attention toward Whit. His enormous arms were wide and waiting, giant hands in fists that looked like stone. “Come for it, Beast!” he shouted.

  It was madness.

  They circled, Whit fairly dancing on his feet, until she could see his face once more, and his body, now with a new spot of blood just below his left shoulder. He was breathing heavily, and the length of linen that had come undone was still ignored, now long enough to reach his knee.

  His opponent threw a wicked punch, and Whit dodged. But it was a feint. Up came the man’s other fist, straight into Whit’s jaw, knocking his head back like an apple off a tree. Whit twisted away, and a second blow, aimed for his head, landed on his shoulder, sending him off balance and into the dirt.

  The crowd hissed its disappointment as the enormous man put a boot into Whit’s midsection, sending him rolling through the dirt.

  “No!” Hattie cried out. Would someone stop the fight?

  She was already shoving aside the men in front of her, one of whom was shouting, “Get up, Beast!” When Hattie squeezed through to get a better view, he added, “Oy! Get yer own space, ye git!”

  Grateful for the disguise she wore, Hattie ignored him, stepping farther into the ring, toward Whit, who was already moving, rising once more. His head turned toward her and, like magic, his eyes found hers. Her heart skittered in her chest at the ferocity there. Did he recognize her?

  He would be hurt. Possibly killed, the stupid man. Would he put a stop to this mad spectacle?

  She didn’t have time to find out, as the man behind her grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Where do ye think yer goin’?”

  She tried to pull away, but the man’s grip was strong. Tearing her eyes from where Whit was coming to his feet, she looked back, letting her anger lead. She narrowed her gaze on the man, slightly shorter than she was. “Unhand me.”

  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.”