. . . when her hands moved to the opening of her shawl, gripping the soft white knit there, he leaned forward, drawn to the movement, to the waft of almonds that came with it. Was she cold? Without thinking, he was reaching for his own coat, to shuck it and give it to her.
She spoke before he could, soft and teasing, and with a touch of . . . was that triumph? “And where I found the others.” She opened the fabric, revealing the dress beneath, the perfect moss green now gray in the twilight, a quiet color befitting a spinster doing a market shop.
But it was not the pale color of the frock that sent want thrumming through Whit, stealing his breath; it was the black leather overlaid on it in thick, sturdy straps. Leather he knew like second skin, because it was his second skin.
Christ.
The woman was wearing his holster. Filled with the rest of his knives, gleaming in the twilight as though they belonged with her—a warrior queen.
And the sight of her, proud and strong and stunning, threatened to put him to his knees.
Chapter Ten
She should have panicked at the way his eyes narrowed when she revealed the rest of the knives. She should have quaked at his penetrating stare, at the way he stilled, like a wild animal, tuning every one of its senses to the racing heartbeat of its prey.
And Hattie’s heart did pound. But not from fear.
From excitement.
She raised a brow and lifted her chin, knowing she tempted fate. “Do you believe I have the power to negotiate a deal now?”
A low growl sounded in Beast’s throat before he said, “Where did you get them?”
She couldn’t tell him that, of course. “I’m here to return them, just as I promised I would return the rest. Every pound.”
He came closer, reached for the edges of her shawl, his rough fingers brushing over her gloves, making her wish she wasn’t wearing them. Her breath was shallow as he pulled it closed around her, hiding his knives and looking about, just as she had done, as though searching for witnesses.
As though this man called Beast might reveal the precise origin of that name.
“You know not what you play at, Lady Henrietta.”
A shiver went through her. She should have been terrified. But she wasn’t. She put her shoulders back. “I’ve no interest in playing. I came to find you, and to apprise you of my plans.”
The Year of Hattie.
He didn’t hesitate. He grasped her hand and pulled her through the marketplace, back the way they’d come. She had a dozen things to say and even more questions to ask, but she remained quiet as he led her down a dark cobblestone street, curving away from the market square, to a sole lantern swinging happily above a painted sign. The Singing Sparrow.
“Is this place named for the Singing Sparrow?” The world-renowned singer was revered by Londoners, and was said to have been birthed here, in Covent Garden, where she still sang when she was home from her legendary travels.
With a grunt that might have been confirmation, Whit pushed through the door into the dark tavern, past a handful of men, listing on their chairs. Hattie craned to see the space, tugging at Beast’s grip even as he tightened it, not slowing down as he passed the bar, behind which a great blond man stood, wiping a pint glass. “All right, Beast?”
Another grunt.
The man, who sounded American, turned to Hattie. “All right, miss?”
She smiled brightly. “He doesn’t speak much.”
The American blinked his surprise. “No, he doesn’t.”
“I speak enough for both of us.”
“There’s no both of us,” Beast growled, before opening a door on the far side of the room, pulling her inside, and closing them in—and the barkeep’s laughter out.
She took in the large stockroom filled with crates and casks, illuminated by a small torch high in one corner. “Do you make a habit of commandeering tavern storage rooms?”
“Do you make a habit of commandeering men’s weapons?”
“I hadn’t, until now. But I will admit, they came in quite useful.” His gaze narrowed on her, intense enough to steal her breath. He stepped toward her, and she wondered if he could hear her heart beating in her chest. It seemed he should. It seemed all of London should be able to hear the thunder of it.
“Take them off.”
The growl sizzled through her, and for a wild, mad moment she thought he meant something other than the knives. Something like her