Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(98)

She’d done it.

It had taken three days, a fair amount of funds, every favor she’d ever accrued while working for Sedley Shipping, and every ounce of goodwill she’d ever gained from the men and women here on the docks, but Hattie had locked up every available hook in the Docklands tonight, and Whit would have no choice but to come for her.

She knew it was silly, but she wanted him to come for her. Because as embarrassed and ashamed as she’d been when she’d left his rooms three evenings earlier, she still wanted to prove to him that she was a powerful adversary. A respected rival.

Lie.

She wanted him to see that they were perfectly matched.

I can’t love you.

Luckily, she didn’t have to face the memory of his words, because he arrived. She felt him before he spoke, his presence changing the air around her—making her feel simultaneously breathless and powerful.

She turned to face him, excitement running through her as she lifted her chin, the cool breeze whipping up the Thames, billowing her skirts around her legs. She willed herself to look as strong as she felt in that moment. And she was strong. Stronger, as he approached.

Her rival.

Her match.

More. Could he not feel it?

His long strides consumed the deck, his gaze unwavering. She did not move, and for a small, wonderful moment, the whole world fell away and she was full of triumph, as though her plans for the Year of Hattie hadn’t gone utterly sideways.

After all, she’d summoned him to her.

He stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to her. “You’re trespassing.”

She raised a brow. “And you are here to dispatch me with all haste?”

“This is my boat, Lady Henrietta.”

The words were firm and unyielding, spoken in a tone that had no doubt set legions of men to cowing. But Hattie was not a man. And it did not make her want to cow. It made her want to reign. “This ship”—she exaggerated the correction—“is sitting in this harbor, empty and rotting.”

He cursed under his breath and looked up to the sky. “I’ve owned the damn boats for a week, so there’s no need to plan a funeral for them right now.”

“We needn’t plan a funeral at all,” she said, lifting the lantern at her feet and moving to the top of the steps where he stood. “If you trade them to me.”

He raised a brow. “For what?”

“For the men I’ve locked down—the ones you need to save your hold full of ice. The ones you came for.”

He raised a brow. “You can’t lock them down forever.”

“I can lock them down long enough for”—she looked down the row of ships to the hauler that sat lower in the water than all the others, assessing it for a moment—“eighty-some tons of ice to melt.”

“Ninety-some,” he corrected her.

“Not for long,” she said. “What’s inside the ice, hopefully dry? More of that bourbon you like so much?”

Something flared in his gaze. Surprise. Admiration.

And Hattie resisted the urge to grin her triumph. “I don’t care about the real cargo, but thieves will. You don’t want these ships, and I do. And I think you may find it very difficult indeed to run a shipping business from these docks—with these men—if I don’t wish you to.”

“You don’t know who you play with.”

“It seems I’m playing with my match, if you ask me.” He raised a brow, and excitement threaded through her. “After all, I just locked up every hook from here to Wapping, and none of your other rivals have ever done that. What are your options now?”

He watched her, silent. Then, “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you, warrior?”

She grinned. “I am, rather. You must admit, this is a magnificent move.”

He didn’t reply, but she saw the small twitch at his lips, a movement that made her want to throw herself into his arms and kiss him, despite his being the enemy.

She resisted the urge and changed tack. “Do you know why ships have figureheads?”

“I do not.”

She smiled, lifting the lantern at her feet. “They’ve had them since the dawn of sailing, all across the word. The Vikings. Rome and Greece. Every culture that is known to have sailed open water used figureheads.”

She came to stand at the top of the steps, staring down at him. “Ancient Norse sailors believed that the figurehead was fate made manifest. A ship of size might have had eight or ten of them, taking up valuable weight and cargo space. They were made to guard and protect for every eventuality of seafaring—one for calm seas, one for storms, one to appease the winds. If there was a plague on a boat? There was a figurehead for that.”

Still, he did not speak.

“When a storm would appear on open water, the crew would rush to batten hatches and tie back sails—to prepare for rough seas. But there were crewmembers whose job it was to change the figurehead—one that would ward against evil, protect against storms, and lead sailors to paradise if the worst happened.” She watched him carefully. “It is said that if a ship sinks without a figurehead, the sailors who die haunt the sea.”

She stopped. His eyes gleamed. “Go on.”

He always listened to her. He could make her feel like she was the only other person in the wide world. “Those? The ones that faced the storms? The ones that shepherded the sailors to their death? They were always women.”