of her, and the feel of her coming apart beneath him, and the enormous feat of strength required not to stay inside her and share in her pleasure and take his own.
And somehow, in that act—an act that had ensured that he gave her only what she wished and nothing more—the act that ensured that she obtain ruination, but not regret, Whit had been the one pummeled with regret.
Because the moment he’d had Hattie Sedley naked before him, all he’d wanted was to keep her there forever.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t protect her.
Devil came to his side at the roof’s edge. “Is she in there?”
Whit didn’t reply.
“The boys tell me you’ve been here all day.”
“So has she.” She’d come early this morning, looking like sunshine. She’d entered the building and not exited, and so he’d waited, stillness and uncertainty a wicked test, like Orpheus walking out of hell. “Have we found him?”
Devil shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “No. But the rooftops are watching. If he turns up here or at the docks, they’ll get him.” He straightened. “And you’ve got eyes on your lady.” Not mine. “He shan’t hurt her.”
It was an empty promise. Ewan was wild with grief and anger, and every movement he made was out of passion, not sense. Whit was beginning to understand. “Not once we find him,” he said. “I’ll kill him myself.”
“And claim your lady?”
No. He would destroy Ewan for threatening Hattie. But it wouldn’t change anything—there would always be an enemy. Always a threat. And he would never be able to keep her safe. He looked back to the street, watching as a pair of dockworkers left the warehouse, hooks on their shoulders and smiles on their faces.
Envy coursed through him. Had they seen her?
Devil leaned back on the low wall that marked the edge of the roof. The brothers stood in silence for long minutes, and from a distance, an observer would have marveled at the strength of them, one long and lethal, the other a broad bruiser. “You cannot watch her forever, Beast.”
But he could. He could watch her until she found herself a new life, in Mayfair, far from him. He could watch her until she found another path to a different future. One with another man.
He clenched his fists at the thought, loathing it even as he knew that it was best.
That another man would save her from the danger that Whit could not help but bring down upon her.
He swallowed, watching a pair of men exit the building below, boxes in hand, to deposit them in Hattie’s father’s coach. “What do you want?”
Devil tapped his stick against his boot. “Jamie has received a clean bill of health. The doctor has cleared him to work. He wants onto a delivery rig.”
“No.” The boy had been shot in the side and was at death’s door the last time Whit saw him; he couldn’t possibly be at full health, no matter how good the doctor was. He’d let Jamie return to the rigs once he’d seen for himself that Jamie was at full capacity. “He works the warehouse until he’s ready for the rigs.”
Devil nodded. “That’s what I told him. He doesn’t like it.”
“Tell him to come see me.”
“Ever the protector,” Devil said dryly, flipping up his collar. “Christ, it’s cold.” When Whit did not reply, he added, “Tonight’s wagons are ready.” They had a ship in harbor, filled to the brim with ice and alcohol, playing cards and glass—everything waiting to be moved to the warehouse, then parceled out overland to the rest of Britain. A half-dozen wagons would run to and from the docks tonight to empty the hauler.
Whit extracted his watches from his pocket. Half past six. He looked over the rooftops toward the dock, where a line of ships sat quiet, gilded in the late afternoon sunlight. “And the ice moves when?”
“Nik’s checking the melt, but it’s been draining for two days, and we’ve booked every available hook for half-nine.” Devil pointed across the river, where clouds loomed grey and ominous. “Looks like we’ll have some cloud cover. We hold it for a week.” A pause. “Assuming you think it’s safe to move it.”
The question was in the words—would Ewan come for it?
“He isn’t after the goods. He never was.” Devil remained silent, but tapped his infernal stick. Whit looked to him. “Whatever you’ve got to say, say it.”