Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(3)

He’d stopped to check on his men. To protect them.

To punish those who threatened them.

There’d been a body on the ground. Blood on the street beneath it. He had just sent the second outrider for help when he heard the footsteps at his back. He’d turned, knife in hand. Thrown it. Heard the shout in the darkness as it found its seat.

Then the blow to the head.

And then . . . nothing.

Not until an insistent tapping against his cheek returned him to consciousness, too soft for pain, still firm enough to be irritating.

He didn’t open his eyes, years of training allowing him to feign sleep as he gathered his bearings. His feet were bound. Hands, too, behind his back. The bindings stretched the muscles of his chest tight enough for him to take note of what was missing—his knives, eight steel blades, set in onyx. Stolen along with the brace that strapped them to his chest. He resisted the urge to stiffen. To rage.

But Saviour Whittington, known in London’s darkest streets as Beast, did not rage; he punished. Quick and devastating and without emotion.

And if they’d taken the life of one of his men—of someone under his protection—they would never know peace.

But first, freedom.

He was on the floor of a moving carriage. A well-appointed one, if the soft cushion at his cheek was any indication, and in a decent neighborhood for the smooth rhythm of the cobblestones beneath the wheels.

What was the time?

He considered his next move—envisioning how he would incapacitate his captor despite his bindings. He imagined breaking a nose with the flat weapon of his forehead. Using his bound legs to knock the man out.

The tapping at his cheek began again. Then a whispered, “Sir.”

Whit’s eyes flew open.

His captor wasn’t a man.

The wash of golden light in the carriage played tricks with him—seeming to come somehow not from the lantern swaying gently in the corner, but from the woman.

Seated on the bench above him, she looked nothing like the kind of enemy who would knock a man out and tie him up in a carriage. Indeed, she looked like she was on her way to a ball. Perfectly done, perfectly coiffed, perfectly colored—her skin smooth, her eyes kohled, her lips full and stained just enough to make a man pay attention. And that was before he got a look at the dress—blue the color of a summer sky, perfectly fitted to her full figure.

Not that he should be noticing anything about that, considering she had him tied up in a carriage. He shouldn’t be noticing the curves of her, soft and welcoming at her waist, at the line of her bodice. He shouldn’t be noticing the gleam of the smooth, golden skin at her rounded shoulder in the lantern light. He shouldn’t be noticing the pretty softness of her face, or the fullness of her lips, stained red with paint.

She wasn’t for noticing.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and her eyes—was it possible they were violet? What kind of a person had violet eyes?—went wide. “Well. If that look is any indication of your temperament, it’s no wonder you are tied up.” She tilted her head. “Who tied you up?”

Whit did not reply. He did not believe she didn’t know the answer.

“Why are you tied up?”

Again, silence.

Her lips flattened into a straight line and muttered something that sounded like “Useless.” And then, louder, firmer, “The point is, you’re very inconvenient, as I have need of this carriage tonight.”

“Inconvenient.” He didn’t mean to reply, and the word surprised them both.

She nodded. “Indeed. It’s the Year of Hattie.”

“The what?”

She waved a hand, as though to push the question away. As though it weren’t important. Except Whit imagined it was. She pressed on. “It is my birthday. I have plans for myself. Plans that don’t include . . . whatever this is.” Silence stretched between them, then, “Most people would wish me a happy birthday at this juncture.”

Whit did not rise to the bait.

Her brows rose. “And here I was, ready to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You’re quite rude, you know.”

He resisted the unwelcome instinct to gape. “I’ve been knocked out and tied up in a strange carriage.”

“Yes, but you must admit the company is diverting, no?” She smiled, the dimple flashing in her right cheek impossible to ignore.

When he did not reply, she said, “Fine then. But it strikes me that you’re in a bind, sir.” She paused, then added, “You see how diverting I can be? In a bind?”

He worked at the ropes at his wrists. Tight, but already giving. Escapable. “I see how reckless you can be.”

“Some find me charming.”

“I do not find things charming,” he replied, continuing to manipulate the ropes, wondering what possessed him to spar with this chatterbox.

“That’s a pity.” It sounded like she meant it, but before he could think of what to say, she added, “No matter. Even if you won’t admit it, you do need help and, as you are bound and I am your travel companion, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.” She crouched by his feet, as though it were all perfectly ordinary, untying the ropes with a soft, deft touch. “You’re lucky I am quite good with knots.”

He grunted his approval, stretching his legs in the confined space when she set him free. “And that you have other plans for your birthday.”