“And what kind of woman is that?”
Like that, his presence was quite bearable, because that question became the new definition of unbearable. She drew the line at answering it. At saying any of the words that sprang to mind and tongue. Overlarge. Unappealing. “Never mind.”
Miraculously, he did not press. “No deal.”
Frustration flared. Frustration and anger and no small amount of disappointment. She’d worked for this business for her entire life, and here she was, on the precipice of losing it all. “Thirty percent.”
He did not reply.
Hattie lost her temper. “Fifty-two thousand pounds and a promise to never reveal your silly-monikered crime ring to the Crown—which would surely like to hear of it, by the way.”
“Is that a threat, Lady Henrietta?”
She sighed. “Of course it isn’t. But what more would you like from me? I’ve returned your knives and offered you money and the opportunity to be rid of me for the rest of time.”
“You still wear my knives.”
She reached for the fastening of the holster, unbuckling the leather with quick, economical movements, sliding it off her shoulders and ignoring the unsettling sense of loss of the weapons’ strange embrace. She dropped the knives at his feet, unceremoniously, resisting the urge to wince at the carelessness of the action.
“There. What more do you want?”
“I told you; I want retribution.”
“We go around in circles, then, sir. As I told you; I shan’t let you punish him.”
“Is he your lover?”
Hattie choked at the question. “No.”
A long stretch of silence ended with a nod and he turned away from her, stalking away, through the labyrinth of crates and casks.
“Why do you care?” she called after him. And why in hell had she asked such a question?
He considered a nearby crate, branded with an American flag. “I don’t make a habit of fucking other men’s women.”
Her heart began to pound at the word and the way it painted wicked, wonderful pictures. Not that she was willing to reveal such a thing. “Am I to think it noble that you ascribe to some nonsensical view of women as doe-eyed chattel who cannot make their own decisions about their bedmates?”
His attention shot back to her.
“Because, let me be clear, sirrah,” she said, coming off the door and heading for him without thought, unable to keep the haughty irritation from her voice. “If I were here on behalf of my lover, you’d do well to note who possesses whom in such a descriptor.”
His tight jaw slackened in the heavy silence that came on the heels of the words, but Hattie didn’t have time to be proud of the hint of his shock. She was too busy being surprised herself. She stilled, flanked by heavy casks of ale. “And besides, I have released you from the chore of ridding me of my virginity, so you may rest easy on all accounts, and tell me what it is you require so you may let me go and I may return to my well-laid plans.”
He turned away, his gaze falling to the crate once more. His shoulders rose and fell in a smooth motion, and Hattie thought she might have been dismissed.
She thought wrong. Because when he turned back to her and spoke, it was low and dark and with a promise of something absolutely devastating. And possibly very delicious. “Know this, Henrietta Sedley. Ridding you of your virginity will be no kind of chore.” He approached her in slow, smooth movements—movements that had her retreating even as the promise of his nearness thrilled her. “And if you think to renege on that part of our arrangement, you have not yet learned what it is to transact with the Bareknuckle Bastards.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and still he advanced, coming for her. Yes, please. Please come for me.
And still he spoke, more words than she’d heard him speak altogether before then. Low, lush promise. “You may not have been anywhere near the hijackings. You may not have seen a shilling of the money that the men you protect stole from us, but you are here now, and they are not, and you have put yourself in my path, and I do not lose.”
She lifted her chin. Brazened it out. “I don’t, either.”
“I saw you brandish my blade earlier, warrior.” A ghost of a smile passed over his lips then—even the hint of it dazzling. Or was it the word he used for the second time? Warrior. She would like to be that. She would like to match him in that.
As though she’d spoken aloud, he said softly, “We shall be well-matched. Here is your deal—the only one I shall agree to.”
Hattie was in over her head, at once desperate to run from this place and hole herself up in the safety of her home far from here, and eager to stand her ground and welcome this man who promised her everything for which she never knew she could ask.
“I get it all. Everything you offered. Everything I demand. Including you.” Heat flooded her, rioting over her cheeks and pooling deep in her. She gasped—how else was she to get air in this room, with him filling it like smoke, promising to burn the place down and her with it? And still, he talked. “You thought I would let you go? On the contrary. You owe me, Hattie. You owe me in his stead.”
Yes. Yes. Whatever he wanted.
He was there, now, reaching for her, the fingers of one strong hand curving at her nape, the other hand finding her waist, pulling her close. His thumb tilting her chin up. For his promise. “You owe me, and I intend to collect. In myriad ways.”
Triumph flared. She’d get it all. He’d accept the payment she offered, the return of his blades, the return of the security of his business, and Augie would tell their father that Hattie should run the business. And Hattie would finally have the life she’d planned. And, somehow, she’d get this man, too. Or at least a taste of him. She’d get his kiss and his touch and he’d show her the full experience he’d promised her the night before.
The Year of Hattie had only just begun, and it was proving to be properly auspicious.
She couldn’t help her smile.
“You like that?”
She nodded.
“You don’t know what you agree to.”
Hattie ignored the dark promise in the words. Instead, heart pounding, she came up on her toes, unable to stop herself from reaching for him. From making him keep that promise. He pulled back just before their lips touched. “Not here.”
“Why not?” The words were out before she could stop them, embarrassment hot on their tail.
“It’s not private.”
She looked about the room. “The door is closed, the light is dim, and the place is silent as the grave.” She stopped before saying outright, Kiss me, dammit.
“This is one of the most raucous taverns in Covent Garden, and will soon be filled with scores of people all waiting for the nightly entertainment. Calhoun will require access to his stockroom the moment they start to drink. It’s not private.”
Hattie had the unreasonable instinct to stamp her foot. “Then where?”
“I’ll find you when it’s time.”
She blinked. “You’re sending me home?”
“I am.”
Hattie was not a fool. She’d lived a full twenty-nine years and knew a thing or two about a thing or two, not the least of which was this: If a man was interested in tupping a woman in the taproom of a Covent Garden tavern, then he would likely get the job done there and then. Unless, of course, he wasn’t entirely interested to begin with. “I see.”