Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(120)

His laugh was perfect, and then he said, softly, “Home.”

She met his eyes. “You are home.”

The reply earned her another kiss, long and lingering, until she was clinging to him, and wishing they were anywhere but here, and anything but clothed.

But Whit wasn’t ready to be done with talking, remarkably. “And so? What will come next? How shall we top your first Year of Hattie—a rollicking success?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t a success, you know—not a rollicking one, at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that there is one item left on my list.” She pulled him close, the sun disappeared behind London, darkness falling over the docks, cloaking them in nothing more than each other. “Would you help me with it?”

“Anything,” he whispered, holding her gaze. “Name it.”

She grasped the lapels of his coat and pulled him close. “The future.”

He growled, low and lush. “You’ve had that from the start.”





Acknowledgments


When I conceived of the world of the Bareknuckle Bastards, I had no idea that I would fall so thoroughly in love with Covent Garden and the London Docklands, and I’m indebted to so many for time and knowledge. I could not have written Whit and Hattie’s story without the extensive collection of the Museum of London, particularly Charles Booth’s anthropological survey of Life and Labour of the People of London, as well as the incredibly knowledgeable staff of The Museum of the London Docklands and the Covent Garden Area Trust, and the stunning standing exhibitions of the Foundling Museum.

I’m very lucky to write with the unflagging support of the brilliant Carrie Feron and the entire team at Avon Books, including Liate Stehlik, Asanté Simons, Angela Craft, Pam Jaffee, and Kayleigh Webb. Eleanor Mikucki never fails to make me look better, and Brittani DiMare’s immense patience is a tremendous gift.

Whit and Hattie would never have made it to the page without a collection of women far smarter than I am. I’m forever grateful for the brilliant minds of Louisa Edwards, Carrie Ryan, Sophie Jordan, Sierra Simone, and Tessa Gratton, and the precious friendship of Jennifer Prokop and Kate Clayborn.

For Eva Moore, Cheryl Tapper, and all the members of OSRBC: As promised, a violet-eyed heroine—I hope she is a worthy addition to the canon.

And for Eric, the silent hero of my heart—thank you for always knowing when I need your words.





An Excerpt from Daring and the Duke


Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Bareknuckle Bastards novel



Daring and the Duke



Coming 2020 from Avon Books!





Daring and the Duke


He was rescued by angels.

The explosion had sent him flying through the air, knocking him back into the shadows of the docks. He’d twisted in flight, but the landing had dislocated his shoulder, rendering his left arm useless. It was said that dislocation was one of the worst pains a man could experience, and the Duke of Marwick had suffered it twice. Twice, he’d staggered to his feet, mind reeling. Twice, he’d struggled to bear the pain. Twice, he’d sought out a place to hide from his enemy.

Twice, he’d been rescued by angels.

The first time, she’d been fresh-faced and kind, with a wild riot of red curls, a thousand freckles across her nose and cheeks, and the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. She’d found him in the cupboard where he hid, put a finger to her lips, and held his good hand as another—larger and stronger—had reset the joint. He’d passed out from the pain, and when he woke, she’d been there like sunlight, with a soft touch and a soft voice.

And he’d fallen in love with her.

This time, the angels who rescued him were not soft, and they did not sing. They came for him with strength and power, two of them, strong and agile, cloaks over their heads, turning their faces dark, coats billowing behind them like wings as they approached, boots clicking on the cobblestones. They came armed like Heaven’s soldiers, blades at their sides made flaming swords in the light of the ship that burned on the docks—destroyed at his command, along with the woman his brother loved.

So, it seemed like justice that the angels who came were soldiers. That they would come to punish and not to save.

Still, it would be rescue.

He pushed to his feet as they approached, to face them head on, to take the punishment they would deliver. He winced at the pain in his leg that he had not noticed earlier, where a shard from the mast of the destroyed hauler had seated itself in his thigh, coating his trouser leg in blood, making it impossible to fight them.

He lost consciousness.

When he woke, it was night still—Night again? Night forever?—he was alone in a dark room, and his first thought was the one he’d had upon waking for twenty years. Grace.

The girl he’d loved.

The one he’d lost.

The one for whom he’d searched for a lifetime.

His shoulder had been set and his leg bandaged. He sat up, too busy hating the truth and the darkness to think of the pain that seemed to come from everywhere, within and without. His head throbbed a fog that could only come from laudanum as he reached for the low table near the bed, feeling for a candle or a flint, and knocked over a glass. The sound of liquid cascading to the floor reminding him to listen.