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 clothes.

For a wild, mad moment, she almost did it.

Thankfully—thankfully?—she returned to her senses.

Or did she?

“Not yet.” The reply didn’t seem sensible at all. Not as the words flew from her lips and certainly not when he stepped closer, close enough for the heat of him to envelop her. It had been the first thing she’d noticed about him, that warmth, and now he threatened to incinerate her.

She let her shawl fall open, revealing his weapons, but the movement did nothing to alleviate the heat. If anything, baring herself to him only made her hotter. His gaze tracked the complicated web of leather that held her in its wicked embrace, the weight of the weapons a tempting ache.

He leaned in, the scent of his lemon sweets making her mouth water with memory of their taste. Of his taste. “Not yet?”

She could close the distance between them without effort. All it would take was a little stretch—just enough to press her lips to his. Would he welcome it? He didn’t look like it. He looked . . . irritated.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Hattie supposed. “Not until you agree to the arrangement I’m offering.”

“You are mistaken if you think you are in a position of power, Hattie.”

She swallowed. “M-my father owns a shipping company. You surely know that.”

A grunt of acknowledgment.

“I’m to inherit it.” Surprise flashed through his eyes, there, then gone as quickly as she could name it. This was it. Her first deal as the head of the company. The beginning of the Year of Hattie. It didn’t matter that it was happening in the back room of a Covent Garden tavern with a man who was more criminal than customer.

What mattered was that Hattie would make the deal, and then she would make good on it. The thought cleared her mind. She straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin. “I’m prepared to give you fifty percent of the income on our shipments until we return the forty thousand. Plus . . . ten percent interest.”

A dark brow rose. “Thirty percent.”

It was an enormous amount, but Hattie refused to show it. “Fifteen.”

“Thirty.”

She pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “Seventeen.”

“Thirty.”

Exasperation flared. “You’re supposed to be negotiating.”

“Am I?”

“Do you not run a business?”

“Of a sort,” he said.

Obstinate man. “And as part of that business, do you not negotiate?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Not often.”

“I suppose you just take what you like.”

A black brow rose in reply. “I might remind you that it is your penchant for taking what you like that has landed us here, Lady Henrietta.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with it. I am only here to repair the damage.”

“Why?”

Because that business is the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.

“Because I don’t like thievery.” He watched her for a long moment—long enough for her to become uncomfortable. She shifted on her feet and said, “And so . . . twenty percent.”

He did not move. “So far, you’ve offered me nothing I would not have taken without your offering it. Indeed, you’ve offered less than I intend to take.”

She blinked. “More than twenty percent interest?”