Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(70)

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 . . .”