Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(29)

If the Bastards had their way, every child in the Rookery would wake early to get to lessons, but families had to eat, and the best Devil and Whit could do was give them clean water and as much protection as was possible.

Which meant he didn’t have time to protect aristocratic ladies hell-bent on adventure when he’d expressly told her he would find her, and not the other way around. He saw Bess off, then headed for the market square, crossing into it in just enough time to see Hattie on the other side, getting fleeced by one of the square’s card men.

He imagined she’d chosen the dress to blend in with the Garden crowd or some nonsense, a simple walking dress in a soft, mossy green with a bonnet to match, topped with a knitted shawl pulled tight around her shoulders in an attempt to, what—make her shapeless? Whit supposed that he might have ignored the whole ensemble if not for the woman inside, who was impossible to miss and nothing near shapeless. She was taller than most and with wild curves that no one would miss. Especially not a man who’d had a taste of them the night before.

Memory flashed, her tongue meeting his in a delicious stroke, her breath coming fast at his lips, her fingers tight in his hair, as though she wished she could direct the caress.

Christ, he would allow her to direct his caress wherever she liked.

He resisted the urge to linger on what might come of it, ignoring the waking of his cock as he headed for her without hesitation, speeding up when he realized she wasn’t getting fleeced. She was doing the fleecing.

The broad-tosser stood, anger clear on his face, collected his table, and turned away—heading for the nearest alleyway. And Hattie followed . . . not knowing she was being led into the darkness to be set upon by thieves.

Whit began to run.

He followed down the dark, empty lane where they’d disappeared, turning down one alleyway, then another, searching the dead ends that peeled off the path—each a perfect place to rob a toff. To do worse to them. He cursed, loud in the darkness.

“Don’t come any closer!”

No, he didn’t like Hattie in the Garden. He didn’t like her boots in his filth, or her voice ricocheting off his stone walls. But he absolutely didn’t like the fear in it.

He’d break anyone who touched her.

He was at a flat run at that point, desperate to get to her. Telling himself, as he tore down the street, that he only rushed to protect her because she was the key to his enemy’s demise.

Protect her.

Around the final corner, still in the shadows, Whit discovered the Doolan brothers—proper Garden thugs, homegrown from the muck of the place and far stronger than they were smart—backs to him.

Facing Hattie.

Whit couldn’t see her face behind the duo’s thick shoulders, but he could imagine it, and he hated it. Pale with her violet eyes—that impossible color—wide with fear, and her full lips open as her breath shallowed with panic.

Rage coursed through him, setting his heart pounding.

Protect her.

He couldn’t see her. But he knew she’d be inching away from the stink of the brothers, from the rot of their teeth and the scars on their faces and the filth on their hands.

Wait.

She wasn’t inching away from them. “The way I see it, gentlemen,” she said, her voice ringing out, steady as a steel, “you’ve misjudged my ability to fend for myself. I don’t think you’d like to see how I would do it.”

She’d had a small knife in her pocket in the carriage last night—a blade sharp enough to cut the ropes at his wrists, but too small to strike fear in the hearts of the Doolans, who’d been on the threatening end of far more dangerous weapons. And still . . .

They were inching away from her.

What in hell? Whit edged closer in the shadows.

“Where’d you get that, gel?” Eddie Doolan asked. Was his voice wavering?

“You know it, then?” She was surprised.

“E’ryone in the Rookery knows it,” Mikey said, his panic undeniable.

She came into view, lit from above by a shaft of reflected sunlight, and Whit nearly rocked back on his heels at the sight of her. Tall and strong, her shoulders back and her jaw set like a warrior. And in her hand . . . a blade that promised wicked punishment.

Punishment Whit knew without question, because he’d meted it out a hundred times. A thousand.

The woman held one of his throwing knives.

Shock was chased by a thrum of anticipation when Eddie asked, words reed-thin with fear, “Are you Beast’s?”

Whit ignored his instant reaction to the question.

“I have his blade, do I not?”

Clever girl, brazening it through.

“Shit,” Mikey spat, “I ain’t no part o’ this.” He scurried off like the street rat he was, there, then gone.

She turned surprised eyes to Eddie. “Rather disloyal of him, don’t you think?”

Eddie swallowed. “You ain’t tellin’ Beast, are you, lady?”

Whit answered for her, stepping out of the shadows. “She won’t have to.”

Hattie gasped as Eddie spun toward him, hands already up as Whit advanced. “We weren’t doin’ nuffin’, Beast. Just scarin’ ’er a bit. Just enough so she don’ mess wi’ our card men again.”

He came closer. “What are the rules, Eddie?”