Wicked and the Wallflower: Bareknuckle Bastards Book 1

by Sarah MacLean

  The money was one thing. But the lockpicks were everything.

  You’ve got the future in your hands every time you hold a hairpin, he’d said all those days ago in the warehouse, when he’d told her she shouldn’t be ashamed of her talent.

  These picks were proof he knew her. That he put her desires first. Her passion first. That he cared more for what she chose for herself than for his own guilt.

  But more than all that, they were proof that he loved her.

  He’d bought her freedom—she would never again have to make choices based on Arthur’s business or her mother’s home, or her own social standing. He’d freed her from Mayfair. From the world she no longer wanted. And he’d given her the future.

  Just as he had on the roof, when he’d resisted her. When he’d told her that he wouldn’t take her. That he wouldn’t ruin her. That he wouldn’t rob her of the future he could see—like Janus. In the moment, he’d let her choose him, and she had, without for a moment feeling ruined. And now, he’d ensured that she’d never be ruined again; he’d replenished her family’s coffers and made her rich beyond measure. Rich in money and freedom.

  Wherever and with whomever you wish.

  She lifted the pins one after the other and inserted them into her hair.

  She didn’t want the world of the aristocracy. She wanted the world.

  And he was the man to give it to her.

  Not that she wasn’t prepared to take it.

  To no avail, Felicity banged on the great steel warehouse door a half hour later as the sun edged over the rookery’s rooftops. What good was the benefit to having been given the blessing of a Bareknuckle Bastard’s protection in Covent Garden if one could not enter their damn warehouse when one wished?

  She was going to have to do it another way. She reached into her hair, pulling out one gleaming steel pin, and a second, each one beautifully shaped. Devil had found a skilled artisan who understood complex lockpicking, which seemed the kind of thing that should not exist . . . but he specialized in things that did not exist, and so she was unsurprised as she knelt in the dirt outside the warehouse door.

  He’d better be within, or she was going to be very irritated that she’d stained her dress.

  Also, he’d better be within, because she was ready to give him a firm set-down. One he richly deserved, the bastard.

  After which, she intended to stay until he told her he loved her. More than once.

  Before she could do the job, however, a man leapt to the ground behind her. “My lady.”

  She turned to face John, the handsome, friendly man who had returned her to her home the last time she was here. “Hello, John,” she said, brazening through, a bright smile on her pretty face.

  “Good morning, my lady,” John replied in his deep baritone. “I hope you understand that I cannot allow you to pick that lock.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Then you shall save me the trouble and let me in?”

  John’s brows rose. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “But I am welcome here. I am under his protection. He gave me free rein over Covent Garden.”

  “Not any longer, my lady. Now we’re to return you to Mayfair if we find you. No hesitation. You ain’t even to see Devil.”

  A tightness settled in her chest. He didn’t even wish to see her again.

  Which of course was rubbish because obviously he wished to see her.

  Obviously he loved her.

  He simply had to be convinced to tell her to her face, the foolish man.

  That said, this new turn of events was not ideal. Felicity tried a new tack. “I never thanked you for bringing me home that night.”

  “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, my lady, you were too busy railing against Devil to thank me.”

  She pursed her lips. “I was very angry with him.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “It had nothing to do with you.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “He left me that night.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Just like he’d left her again and again. She met John’s gaze. “He left me again last night.”

  Something flickered in the man’s dark eyes. Something suspiciously like pity. No. Felicity wasn’t having anyone’s pity. “He thinks to tell me what is good for me. I don’t care for that.”

  John smirked. “I don’t imagine you do.”

  “You shouldn’t ever tell your wife what’s good for her. Not if you know what’s good for you, John.”

  He laughed at that, deep and full. Felicity kept talking, as much to herself as to him. “He’s addlepated, of course, as he’s more than good enough for me. He’s the best of men.” She looked to John again. “He’s the best of men.”

  “Only the Bastards and Nik have keys to this lock.” John watched the rooftops for a long time.

  “May I convince you to at least patrol the back side of the building while I pick it, then?”

  “That lock is unpickable.”

  She smiled. “As we become more acquainted, John, I think you’ll find that I’m quite good with locks.”

  “I’ve seen you with Devil, my lady. I have no trouble believing that.”

  The words set her heart racing, and sadness filled his large brown eyes. He wasn’t going to do it. He was too loyal to Devil to allow her in, even when he could see that her intentions were good.

  “Please, John,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  A nightingale sang, and Felicity looked up at the strange sound, so unexpected here, in the yard of a rookery warehouse. When she found nothing out of the ordinary, she turned back to John, who was . . . smiling.

  Her brow furrowed. “John?”

  “Lady Felicity.” A growl came from above and she looked up to see Whit coming down the side of the warehouse to land next to her.

  “I am going to require trousers if I’m going to run with you lot, aren’t I?”

  He inclined his head. “It’s not the worst of ideas.”

  His tacit acceptance of her premise filled her with joy. “I was just telling John that I love your brother quite madly.” One of Whit’s black brows rose. “As a result, I fully intend to pick this unpickable lock and go in there and tell him he’s cabbage-brained for not loving me back. But that will take some time, and when one decides one would like to fight for the man one loves, one likes to do it as quickly as possible, you can imagine.”

  “I can. But he isn’t here. He’s at home.”

  She shook her head. “No, he isn’t; I went there first.”

  He grunted disapprovingly.

  “So you can see why I would appreciate it if you would let me in.”

  His brow furrowed. “Did you knock?”

  “I did.”

  He raised a fist and pounded a thundering knock on the door. “And he didn’t answer?”

  Felicity did not like the look on his face. “No.”

  His key was in the lock instantly, the door opening to the cavernous warehouse in seconds. Silence and darkness greeted them. “Devil?” he called out.

  No answer. Felicity’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. She turned back to John. “Light. We need light.”

  The big man was already turning to fetch a lantern.

  Whit called after him. “Did he leave?”

  John’s reply was firm and clipped. “No one’s been in or out since you lot left.”

  “Devil!” Whit called out.

  Silence.

  John passed Felicity a lantern, and she lifted it high. “Devil?”

  “He must have left,” Whit said. “Goddammit, John, there’s a hundred thousand pounds worth of goods down there and you lot are sleeping at the watch enough that you didn’t see someone leave through the only damn door to the place.”

  “He didn’t come through that door, Beast,” John protested. “My men know their work. And they do it well.”

  Felicity stopped listening to the two men spar, hea
ding deeper into the darkness to the far corner of the space. To where the door inset in the warehouse floor stood open, a yawning blackness below.

  Devil had been adamant that that door never stand open. That it being open underscored that there was something below the warehouse itself.

  “Devil?” She stood at the edge of the hole and called into the void for him. He wouldn’t be down there. He hated the hold. He hated the darkness.

  And still . . . she knew he was down there. Without question.

  She was down into the darkness instantly, running along the long, dark tunnel, holding her lantern high, her heart in her throat. “Devil?” she called again.

  And that’s when she saw it. The flash of light on the ground in front of her. The gleam of silver. The lion’s head at the handle of his walking stick. The weapon, discarded on the ground.

  Next to the door to the ice hold.

  She reached for the handle. Pulled. It was locked. From the outside. Six heavy steel padlocks in a neat row.

  She pounded on the door in great, heavy blows. “Devil?”

  No answer.

  More pounding. “Devil? Are you in there?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Devil?” She knocked again, pressing her ear to the door, unable to hear anything over the pounding of her heart.

  She dropped the lantern to the ground and reached for her hairpins without hesitation. She knocked on the door again, as hard as she could, shouting, “Devil! I am here!” before calling for Whit and John. But she could not wait for them.

  Instead, she dropped to her knees and began working the locks. All the while talking to the door, hoping he would hear her. “Don’t you dare die in there, Devon Culm. I’ve things to say to your face, you terrible, wonderful man . . .”

  The first lock clicked open and she pulled it from its latch, tossing it down the corridor and immediately setting to work on the next.

  “. . . you think you can simply turn up at my brother’s home and tell him you love me without telling me first? You think that is fair? It’s not . . . and I’m going to punish you by making you tell me every minute of every hour for the rest of our lives . . .”

  The second lock came loose and she immediately set her picks to the third, calling out, “Devil? Are you there? Love?” She banged on the door.

  Silence. She tossed the third lock to the side.

  “I love you, do you know that?” She slid her picks into the fourth lock, then the fifth.

  “Are you cold, my love?” She shouted for Whit again. And John. “I’m coming,” she whispered, now on the sixth lock, feeling for the latch inside the springwork within—this one different from the others. She scraped the tools together, whispering again, “I’m coming.”

  Done. She tossed the lock to the side and opened the door, heaving the great heavy slab to the side, the air instantly colder as she revealed the inner door, another line of locks. She immediately came to her knees in the cold mud there.

  She couldn’t even see the locks anymore; she worked them by touch. Calling out to him. “Devil? Please, love—are you there?” Her heart pounded and she refused to allow the tears to come. Refused to believe she might have lost him. “Devil, please—I’m working as fast as I can. I’m here.” She repeated it. “I’m here.” Again and again.

  And then, barely there, almost impossible to believe, she heard it. A knock. As light as butterflies’ wings. As a moth’s. Her moth.

  “Devil!” she shouted, banging on the door. “I hear you! I shan’t leave you. I’m never leaving you again. You’ll never be rid of me.”

  One lock. A second. A third. Her hands were steadier than they’d ever been, the picks flying through the lockwork.

  “Goddammit. No one keeps ice behind this many locks, Devil. You’re definitely a smuggler. Probably a thief, too. God knows you’ve stolen my heart. And my future. I’m here to take it back.”

  The lock sprang and she was on to the fourth. At this point, any of her hairpins would have been bent or broken, rendered useless. But these pins were perfect. He was perfect.

  “You’re going to have to marry me, you know. I’m through letting you make decisions related to our mutual happiness because when you do, I am only left sad, and you are left . . .” She tossed aside the fourth. Moved to the fifth. “Well . . . locked inside ice dungeons. I assume this is the work of my former fiancé?”

  A pause, while she discarded the fifth lock and set her picks to the last. “Just one more, Devon. Hold on. Please. I’m coming.”

  Click.

  She flung the lock away and threw the heavy latch at the bottom of the door, pulling it open with all her strength. It came with a blast of frigid air and Devil, falling through the door, into her arms.

  She clutched him to her and they both fell to their knees under his weight. He trembled with cold, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. He whispered one word, over and over, like a benediction. “Felicity.”

  Her arms wrapped around him, desperate to hold more of him. Desperate to warm him. “Thank you for my lockpicks.”

  “Y-you s-saved m-me.” He was so cold.

  “Always,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cool temple. “Always.”

  “F-Felicity,” he chattered her name. “I—”

  She rubbed his arms with her hands, spoke to the top of his head. “No . . . don’t speak. I have to get Whit.”

  He stiffened. “N-no.” He swallowed, and she saw the struggle of it. “It was so dark.”

  Tears welled. “I know. I’ll leave the lantern.”

  His arms turned to steel, the strength of his grip surprising and immensely comforting. “N-not the lantern. You’re the light. Don’t leave me.”

  “I can’t carry you,” she said. “You have to let me get Whit.”

  His eyes opened, dark in the dim light. “Don’t l-leave me ever again.”

  She shook her head. “Never. But love, it is so cold here. We must warm you.”

  “You’re fire,” he whispered. “You’re flame. I love you.”

  The words thundered through her, and she could not stop touching him, stop running her hands over him, fast, furiously attempting to warm him. “Devil.”

  He pulled away, his gaze finding hers. “I love you.”

  Her heart redoubled its pounding. “Devil, I need to get you somewhere warm. Are you hurt?”

  “I love you,” he whispered again. “I love you. You’re my future.”

  Her heart pounded. He’d gone mad. “My love, there is time for that once we are aboveground.”

  “There will never be enough time,” he said, pulling her to him, his teeth chattering, his heartbeat fast and furious. “I will never be able to tell you enough.” He kissed her, his lips cold to the touch, and somehow still setting fire to her. She reached up, stroking her hand over his cheek.

  When he released her, it was to press his forehead to hers and whisper, again, “I love you.”

  She could not stop the smile that came—here, in the dark, dank, frigid hold that had nearly killed this man, that also happened to be the most perfect place for him to tell her he loved her. “You told my brother first.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m very angry with you about that, you know.”

  “So you said.”

  “I’m so angry, I came to tell you how angry I am about it. The money, too.”

  He shivered, pressing his face to her neck. “I wanted you to be free of all of it.”

  “I don’t want your money, Devil.”

  “I didn’t need it anymore. It meant nothing without you.”

  “You beautiful, ridiculous man,” she said. “Then why not have me, instead?”

  “Ages ago . . . you asked me why I chose you.” His words were slow and measured, as though it was important that she hear them. “That night, I wanted it to be because I thought you could win him. Because you looked the kind of woman easily sacrificed.”

  She nodded. Forlorn Felicity. Wall
flower and unfortunate.

  “But it wasn’t,” he continued. “It never was. It was because I wanted you close. It was because I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone having you. Anyone but me.” He pulled her close again, his cold face at the warm skin of her neck. “Christ, Felicity. I’m so sorry.”

  “I am not.”

  He snapped to attention. “You’re not?”

  “No. You’ve a lifetime to make it up to me, and I intend to be a proper Devil’s bride.”

  He grinned. “I shall adore every minute of that.”

  “I want you out of this place. I want you warm.”

  He pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her. “I have thoughts on how you might get me warm.”

  He lowered his lips to hers, and she was so grateful that he was able to think of kissing in that moment that she gave herself up to it, sliding her hands up his chest to his broad shoulders and up, up to his rough-hewn jaw and into his hair, where she discovered a wet patch.

  “Well. This isn’t what I expected to find down here.” Whit had arrived.

  Devil released her from the kiss. “Go away.”

  “No, don’t go away, Whit,” she said. “We need you.”

  “We do not need him,” Devil said, moving to stand, sucking in a breath at the pain of the movement, making her heart ache.

  She moved her hand to the light, blood shining black on her fingertips. “You’re bleeding.” She turned to Whit. “He’s freezing. And he’s bleeding.”

  Whit immediately came forward, catching Devil’s arm over his shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?”

  He put his fingers to his temple, wincing. “Ewan.” He reached for Felicity. “He didn’t come for you.”

  She shook her head. “Why would he? I ended our engagement. I hit him.”

  He grinned at that. “I know, love. I’m very proud of you for that bit.”

  “He deserved it. And more, for what he’s done to you.”

  “Grace took to the rooftops last night.”

  Devil nodded. “I let Ewan think her dead.” He pulled her close and kissed her temple before looking to Whit. “He’s furious.”