Brazen and the Beast EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  Was he angry?

  “Now. Untie me.” She scrambled to her feet, reaching for the knot, requiring her to get close to him. Close enough for him to dip his head and suck at the soft skin of her neck and send shivers through her. Close enough for him to scrape his teeth along the curve of her jaw. To sink his teeth into her earlobe before hissing, “I am going to make love to you, finally. Properly.”

  The sheer need in his voice had her fingers fumbling at the ropes, her gaze flying to his, gone mad with desire. He thrashed against the bindings, wild, like the Beast for which he’d been named. And then he added, pure cold command in his voice, “Now.”

  “Yes,” she said, breathless with want, but her fingers wouldn’t work, and he was growling his frustration, and she was echoing him, and then she remembered . . . She pulled back and met his wild eyes. “You glorious man. You have knives.”

  She pulled one from the holster at their feet and in an instant he was free, his arms coming around her, the knife she’d used spinning across the deck—neither of them caring as he lifted her in his arms as though she weighed nothing, upending her balance—her whole world—until her back was against his clothes piled beneath them.

  He kissed her lips, then down her neck before he loomed over her, the lantern casting him in golden light, his bare shoulders flexing and his hands working to pull her skirts up, up, up, until he found the slit in her pantaloons and met her eyes. “I like these undergarments less than the ones the other night.”

  She nodded.

  “No more of them.” And with a wicked rip, they were gone, and—

  “Ohh,” she sighed as he growled at her neck.

  “So wet.” His fingers sank into her and he met her eyes, watching her as he stroked deep. “I like that.”

  She smiled at the echo from earlier. “So do I.”

  “Mmm.” He lowered his head to kiss her, long and slow, until desire pooled, setting her body aflame. She lifted her hips, meeting his strokes, and he sat back, watching her for a moment, “Show me how much.” She did, meeting his beautiful amber eyes as they mapped her body, her movements. As they made her believe he wanted her as he’d said. Beyond reason. “You’re so beautiful. I could watch you do that forever.”

  She thrust against his fingers, and he set his thumb to the straining bud nestled above them, rubbing once, twice, until she groaned. “Whit!”

  He smiled, wolfish. “That’s what it feels like when you touch me.”

  She cut him a look. “Do it again. So I can remember.”

  He laughed, low and deep, and did, the movement sending fire rolling through her like a tide. “My brazen, greedy beauty.” He stroked deep, over and over, slowly and perfectly, wonderfully steady, until she was writhing against him.

  And then he released her, and she gasped her displeasure. “Wait!”

  “Mmm.” He licked his fingers and leaned over her, kissing her long and slow. “No. You wait, now.”

  He reached for the laces on her dress, untying the ribbons and loosening the bodice, opening it to reveal her chemise and corset, undressing her carefully until she was bare beneath him and he could suckle the tip of one breast, and then the other, until she was hard and aching, and her fingers were tight in his hair. “Please, Whit. Please.”

  He kissed her again, lowering himself over her, blocking the cool breeze from the Thames with his impossibly warm body. “Please what, love?”

  “You promised to make love to me.” She spread her thighs, knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing ladies didn’t. Not caring. “Finally,” she repeated his earlier words, loving the way he settled into her, the long, smooth length of him sliding through her, the tip of him notching just where she ached to be touched again. He groaned at the sensation, and triumph flooded her. “Properly.”

  He laughed, harshly. “I want to, love.” He rocked against her again, and she sighed at the pleasure. “So much. I have never felt anything like the feel of you coming around me.” Another slide. Another notch. Another gasp.

  “Do it,” she said, moving on the next slide, until he froze, the tip of him kissing her aching opening.

  He cursed, low and thick. “Hattie. God. You are a Siren.”

  She lifted her hips, and they both groaned as the head of him slid inside her, just barely, just enough to tempt them both. She slid her fingers into his hair. “Now,” she whispered. “Please, Whit. Now.”

  He gave it to her, sliding into her with a single, slow, sure press, no hesitation like there had been the first time, as though he knew she could take whatever he gave her. And she could. At least, she could take the sensation . . . but the pleasure . . . the feeling . . . the knowledge of what was to come . . . she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t make her mad.

  “You are so hard,” she said, when he was seated deep inside her, unable to keep the awe from her voice. “So full.”

  He bit her shoulder with a little growl. “Hard for you, love. Only for you.”

  She smiled. “Mmm.”

  He barked a little laugh. “I’ll never get tired of the way you take your pleasure, love. Like you deserve it.”

  She met his gaze, bold and brazen. “I do deserve it.”

  He nodded. “You do. And all I want to do is give it to you.”

  She smiled. “You like it.”

  “I like you.”

  Her heart skipped. What a magnificent man. What a strong and decent and beautiful, magnificent man. Tears sprang, and he noticed—of course he noticed—and worry marred his brow. “Love, does it hurt? Should I—”

  “No,” she said, clutching his arms. “No. Don’t you dare leave me.”

  He stilled.

  “I . . .” She shook her head, unable to stop herself from whispering, “I love you.”

  He bowed his head at that, meeting her forehead with his. “I don’t deserve it.”

  What a lie it was. Her hands came to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. “You do.”

  “I don’t,” he whispered. “But I’m taking it.”

  He began to move, and Hattie was lost in the long, lovely strokes that stole her breath and her thought, and all she could do was sigh his name. He watched her, reading her pleasure, altering his rhythm until everything fell away—the dock and the ship and the world beyond them. Beyond him.

  He kissed her neck. The line of her jaw. Her lips. “My Hattie. My beautiful Hattie.”

  And she believed it, meeting a long stroke with a tilt of her hips, and sending a jolt of pleasure through them both. Their gazes met. “I liked that,” she said, shy and teasing.

  “Mmm. Let’s see if we can find it again.”

  They did, the thrum of desire fading into laughter. Was this what it was like for everyone? Was it always so bright? Like the sun had risen and cleared out all the darkness?

  “Hattie,” he whispered. Her gaze snapped to his. “Tell me again.”

  You shall lose your heart.

  He rocked into her. “Please.”

  Her heart was already gone. “I love you.”

  He thrust into her. “Again.”

  “I love you.” She clung to him, and he reached between them, finding the straining bud just above where they were joined. “Yes. Whit.”

  “I can’t wait much longer, love. I’m desperate to come in you.”

  “Don’t wait,” she said, his touch winding her tighter and tighter, sending her higher and higher. “Please, love. Please, don’t wait.”

  “Again,” he whispered. “Just once more.”

  “I love you.” She gave him the words a heartbeat before she was lost to the pleasure, flying apart beneath him and the London sky, and she was crying his name and clinging to him as he worked her in a beautiful, undeniable rhythm, carrying her through one release, and then another, before he gave up his own with a low, loud groan, the most delicious sound she’d ever heard.

  When they returned to the moment, their breath in harsh symphony, the river tide lapping against the side of the ship, W
hit pulled her tight against him, turning to put his back to the deck and cover them with his greatcoat. He pressed a kiss to her temple and exhaled, long and lovely. “Beauty.”

  The word sent warmth through her, and she cuddled nearer to him.

  He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “I do not deserve you.”

  She smiled at the words. “I think you can agree that I am almost as much trouble as I am delight.”

  He did not reply, his broad, rough fingertips painting designs across her bare shoulder, soft and sure and mesmerizing enough to make Hattie forget where they were, and who they were, and all the reasons they could not be together. She tracked those movements, the slow slide of his fingers and the feel of his breath in her hair, slow and even, until her eyes became heavy, and she wondered what might happen if she fell asleep here, in his arms, on the riverfront.

  And just as she decided that she didn’t much care what would happen if she did just that, because he didn’t seem to be interested in moving, either, he spoke, the words a soft rumble beneath her ear.

  “Marry me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Of course he was going to marry her.

  He’d been planning to marry her from the moment he stepped onto the damn ship and saw her standing on the raised prow, looking every inch a warrior, waiting to do battle. His warrior, waiting to take him as spoil.

  As though he wouldn’t go willingly into her arms. Especially after she’d told him she’d like to murder both his father and his brother. And capped the whole thing off perfectly by telling him she loved him.

  She loved him.

  If Whit never heard it again, he would remember that moment forever. When he took his last breath, it would be with Hattie’s indignant fury in his memories, and the man I love in his ears.

  She loved him, and that changed everything; it made her his, unquestionably.

  And then she’d tied him to the mast and made him hers, after making him wild with desire and filling him with pleasure and satisfaction and calm certainty. For the first time in his life, Whit hadn’t doubted. He’d known.

  He was going to marry Henrietta Sedley.

  Nothing had changed, and somehow everything had.

  So it was unfortunate but expected that, when he suggested the idea, it was less of a question and more of a command, but he certainly hadn’t expected what came next. He hadn’t expected her to go still against him, as though the words had been a blow. And he hadn’t expected her to lift her head slowly, moving the way one might around a rabid dog.

  And he certainly hadn’t expected her to say, simply, as though he’d asked her if she would like tea, “No.”

  What in hell?

  “Why not?”

  “Because I love you.”

  His breath caught at the words, the ones he’d wanted so desperately earlier, but he could not bask in the pleasure of them. He was too concerned about the rest. “Dammit, that’s a reason to marry me, Hattie.”

  “Not if you can’t love me back.” She paused. “Not if you can’t love me as your equal. Can you?”

  Yes. No.

  Not the way she wanted.

  Goddammit.

  Fear spread through him, hot and unpleasant. He knew what she meant by equal. He’d heard her proposal of partnership.

  But if they were partners, he couldn’t keep her safe—not from Ewan, and not from anything else.

  If he loved her, he’d lose her.

  She sat up in his silence, reaching for her clothes, and he hated that they were here again—her dressing and him feeling like he’d been smacked over the head with a tea service in a blow he absolutely deserved.

  Coming to her knees, she tugged her skirts over her full hips and pulled the bodice around her before saying, quietly, “I don’t wish to force the issue. I don’t wish to be the person you maybe love. The one it takes thought to know you love.” She paused. “I wish to be the answer that pours from your lips—no matter how stoic you are. I wish to be the person you cannot save for high days and holidays, because you want me by your side on all the other days.”

  She was too precious for the other days.

  “I deserve that. Partnership. Equality. You taught me that.” She gave him a little smile. “I know that’s impossible. And so, no . . . I won’t marry you.”

  There was such emotion in the words, sadness and resignation and honesty, as though she’d known these words long before she’d had cause to speak them. As though she’d been prepared for them. God, he hated the idea that she’d been prepared for them.

  “Hattie.” He stood, pulling his trousers up and finding his shirt, pulling it on over his head. “You don’t understand.”

  She sighed and said, “I don’t wish to be rivals. I wish to be . . .” She shook her head, and he loathed it. “I shall release the men tomorrow.” She waved in the direction of his pocket. “I assume you have a watch to confirm it, but I imagine it is too late to bring all the hooks back to work tonight.”

  He extracted a watch, barely registering the warm metal that backed it as he read the time. “It’s six minutes to ten.”

  She looked up from tightening the lacing of her bodice to look down the dock to the ship sitting lower in the water than all the others. “You should be half done with your unloading—all that ice on wagons trundling through the city.”

  “Not half. But you’re not far off. Hattie—”

  She cut him off. “I’ll release them tomorrow,” she said again.

  “How did you do it? Lock them down?”

  She smiled. “You’re not the only one with loyal friends, Beast.”

  The moniker thrummed through him. “I believe that without question.” He wished she counted him among them. “It’s not often someone calls me that without fear in the word.”

  “I am not afraid of you.”

  He knew that. And it gave him more pleasure than he could say. He cast about for the right words. “You have always been fearless. Always knowing what you want and how you intend to get it. Never allowing others to set you on a path.” He paused, then told her the truth. “I have never had that fearlessness.”

  Her brow furrowed and he pressed on, shaking his head. “All I am is fear. I was forged in it. Made in the terror that one day, someone I love would face danger, and I would not be able to save them.” He exhaled on a shuddering breath. “I can’t keep you safe.”

  Her beautiful violet eyes did not waver. “Of course you can’t.” The words cut through him like a blade. “There is nothing fearless about me. I am scared every day. I fear the wide world and the way it stares at me and sneers at me and whispers about me when it thinks I cannot hear. I fear a life of half measures, full of shadows of emotions and hints of possibilities and a thousand things I might have had if only I’d reached a bit farther.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not a life you’ll ever have.”

  He’d make sure of it.

  Tears sprang in her beautiful violet eyes, and an ache started in Whit’s chest. Why was she crying? “There was a time when I wanted marriage, you know. When I wanted children and domestic idyll. Of course I did. It’s what women are told we should want from birth. Our fathers tell us, and our brothers, and the world around us. Except, when you’re like me—too loud and too big and with too many ideas—you can’t have the dreams everyone insists you must have. Because they aren’t really for you.”

  He resisted the urge to tell her to stop. He hated how she qualified herself. Hated how she always made herself seem less, when she was so infinitely more.

  But he understood those qualifications better than anyone.

  Instead, he whispered, “Hattie,” her name coming soft on his lips as he ran a hand over his chest.

  She ignored him, pressing on. “It wasn’t hard to convince myself I didn’t want it—the marriage, the companionship. After all, plenty of women age into spinsterhood. Plenty of men remain bachelors. And I had a plan.”

  He nodded. “The Year o
f Hattie.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s all a bit nonsense now, isn’t it?”

  I’ll give you a year. I’ll give you a lifetime.

  She seemed to hear the thoughts, as though he’d spoken them aloud. “I don’t want it from you.”

  The words stung.

  “I learned to adapt. I learned to want the business and to want to be captain of my own fate. I learned to accept that I could not have it all.”

  But she could. He would make sure she had it all. She loved him, and he was willing to give her everything she wanted. The boats, the business . . . and all the bits she’d been told she could not have.

  Before he could say it, she added, “And then you turned up.” She shook her head. “You turned up and you threatened all the things I wanted. You threatened the business I’d helped to build—the one I’d planned to sustain. You threatened the future I’d so carefully planned out.”

  He shook his head. Not anymore. Had he not just offered it to her?

  She looked at him and took a deep breath, then said, “But worse than all that, you made me want the rest. All the bits I told myself I had not wanted before. You made me want them. And not from just anyone. You made me want them from you.” She paused. “Not instead of. In addition to. All of it. Every bit of life that I might have. Vibrant and wild and full of mornings in the Covent Garden market and evenings on the docks and nights in your beautiful rooms, surrounded by candles and books and cushions in every color.”

  She looked into the distance, where a lantern bobbed in the wind on the deck of the ship that held the Bastards’ most recent shipment, and she added, so soft that the words were lost on the wind, “I know it sounds mad. Like the wild dreams of a girl with no sense. But it’s not mad. I don’t need protection from it. I need a partner for it. I want it all.”

  The words were not lost to Whit. He heard them. He heard them, and they rioted through him on a vision of her living that life. He could see Hattie’s skirts billowing in the riverfront breeze, as she watched over the men and their hooks—the men she’d already proven adored her by the way she’d plucked them from his reach that night. And they would adore her still—they would look to her for guidance and for direction and she would reign over them like a queen.