Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(78)

Inside the hearth, two large kettles piped happily, as though they’d been waiting all day for their master to return—as though they would continue to do so until he bathed.

She inhaled sharply, desire thrumming through her, chased by nerves. She’d been so proud of her bravery earlier, but now, faced with the wild intimacy of his rooms and now his bath . . . she was growing less so. She willed herself strong and said, “Do you intend to bathe?”

He was at a basin beyond, unraveling the strip of linen from his left hand, and for a moment, Hattie was transfixed by the movement, a deft hand-over-hand motion that revealed strength and size and dexterity. “I do,” he said, as he repeated his actions with his right hand before leaning over the basin and washing his hands, scrubbing them with meticulous care.

She swallowed, her mouth dry. Tried for casual indifference. “Oh.” The squeak was neither casual, nor indifferent, and she’d never been so grateful to be staring at another person’s back. She cleared her throat. “That’s good. You are bleeding.”

Was she reminding herself or him?

He looked over his shoulder at her. Was that humor in his gaze? “Not anymore. You shall have to aim truer during our next battle.”

Her brows shot together. “I never intended to—” She stopped. If she’d thought for a moment that he’d be hurt, she never would have taken the knife from her pocket. “I thought I might have to protect myself.”

He stilled, and she wondered what he was thinking even as she knew he’d never speak it.

She forced a little laugh. “I didn’t expect that you would protect me.”

He looked at her then, over his shoulder, his amber eyes like fire, and she imagined him saying something magnificent. Like, I’ll always protect you.

Which was mad, of course. Hadn’t he just stolen her business? Turned them into rivals? She cleared her throat. “It should be cleaned and bandaged, nevertheless.”

He dried his hands on a length of cloth and moved away from the table, heading for the hot water in the hearth. “The attacker becomes the nurse.”

She swallowed at the words, the vision they wrought. The way they made her fingers itch to touch him. The way they set her on edge—making her feel thoroughly in over her head. When she had implemented the Year of Hattie, intending to follow a simple step-by-step plan to take her life in her own hands, she’d been prepared and polished, ready to claim the world.

No longer. He’d run riot over that plan.

Now he threatened to run riot over the rest of her, as well.

And what was worse . . . she found she wanted it.

“I shall do my best to make amends,” she said, the words quieter than she intended, the room muting them.

He heard, hesitating as he reached for the second kettle—the pause barely noticeable if one wasn’t watching carefully. But Hattie watched more carefully than she’d ever watched anything, so when he gave a little grunt that she might have once thought was dismissive, she heard something else. Something categorical.

Desire.

It wasn’t possible, was it? He hadn’t touched her tonight. They’d been in the carriage for an age. Alone, in the darkness. And she’d ached for him to touch her. Been ready to scream for him to kiss her.

And he’d done nothing of the sort.

But now . . . Hattie’s heart began to race. Impossibly, he wanted her.

He tossed the garment—stained beyond reason after the events of the night—to the floor and moved to sit in a near high-backed chair and remove his boots.

She couldn’t stop marveling at him, at the way his body folded into the seat, revealing muscles that she was fairly certain ordinary, everyday humans did not have, flexing and stretching. She bit back a sigh, which would have been more than embarrassing if he’d heard it.

He bent over to remove a boot, and winced. It was barely there—gone before someone might notice, at least someone who was not riveted to his every movement.

She stepped forward, not liking him in pain. “May I help?”

He froze at the question, going so still, Hattie thought perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake. He didn’t look at her when he shook his head and said, impossibly quiet, “No.”

The boot came off in a rush, and he winced again, ignoring whatever warning his body was providing to immediately tackle the second. She stepped forward again, and he did look up then. Repeated himself, this time louder. “No.”

When his second boot was discarded, he stood, reaching into his pocket and extracting his watch. Watches.

Two watches. Always.

He set them on a small table, next to a basket filled with bandages and thread, presumably because he required mending regularly after fights. Hattie was transfixed by the metal disks. Without looking away from them, she said, “Why do you carry two watches?”

There was a pause long enough for her to think he might not answer. His hands came to the waistband of his trousers. “I don’t like to be late.”

She shook her head. “I don’t . . .”

The words trailed off as he worked the buttons of his trousers. She kept her eyes on his, not wanting to be rude, but she could count the buttons from the rough movements of shoulders as he unfastened them. Three. Four. Five.

She couldn’t stop herself. She looked. Of course she looked. The dim light in the room made it impossible to see anything but a dark V of shadow, framed by his strong hands, thumbs tucked into the fabric as though he could stand there, under her gaze, forever, if she wished it.