Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(71)

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 her 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.”

“Oy!” Nora said, seeing what was coming. “Stop it!”

The crowd was screaming its excitement behind them; Whit must have found his footing. Somewhere, Hattie felt relief, but she couldn’t look. She put a hand in the pocket of her trousers, feeling for the blade there. “Again. Remove your hand.”

The man—now that Hattie could see him, she was fairly certain he was drunk—looked up to the bottom of the silo for a moment, then back to her. “I don’t think so.”