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“You’re soaked with sweat. And the cargo is on its way. The men will need you strong enough to help when it arrives.”
Devil did not reveal his surprise at the information; if the cargo was on the move, the sun had set and darkness had fallen in truth, making it near midnight, hours since he lowered himself into the dark hold and began his work.
“I shall be strong enough when it gets here. I’ve built the whole fucking hold, haven’t I?”
Whit’s assessing gaze tracked the room. “You have.”
Devil nodded, ignoring the chill that ran through him—perspiration cooling him the moment he paused in his work. “Then let me get back to it. And you worry about your own strength.”
Whit watched him for a long moment, and then said, “Grace is gone.”
Devil stilled, turning to his brother. “For how long?”
“Long enough for us to get Ewan under control. He won’t like that you’ve won the girl.”
“I haven’t won the girl.”
“I heard she clocked him.” Whit paused. “Felicity Faircloth, name like a storybook princess, right hook like a prizefighter.”
Devil didn’t reply. He didn’t think he’d be able to find words around the tightness in his throat at his brother’s pride in the woman he loved.
After a long stretch of silence, Whit added, “At least put your coat back on. You know what happens in the cold, Devil; you can’t save the girl if you’re dead.”
Devil looked to his brother, letting his fury into his gaze. “I’ve already saved the girl.”
Whit’s brows rose in silent question.
“You don’t see her anywhere near the Garden, do you? Now get the fuck out.”
Whit hesitated, as though he might say something, and then turned to leave. “They’ll be here in thirty minutes. Then the real work begins.”
And it did, right on time, a line of strong, strapping workmen heaving boxes and barrels, crates and casks—the largest shipment the Bastards had ever imported—into the hold. After that, more ice. Thousands of pounds of it, and Devil stayed, ignoring the thirst and hunger that teased around his edges, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and the burn of the work.
He’d take all of that over what awaited him above in a world without Felicity.
The men made quick work of their load—a valuable skill that had come with years of practice. The hold was only useful if the cargo was brought in and hidden as quickly as possible, preventing too much melt and, by extension, possible discovery.
An hour before dawn, as the sky outside edged from black to grey, Devil came up from the hold, lantern in hand, to confirm that the delivery was complete. The work crew was clustered together upstairs—sixty men and boys in total, plus Nik and a handful of young women from the rookery who worked for her, keeping the business running smoothly.
On the other side of the warehouse, Whit climbed up on one of the massive wooden scaffolds to address the men. A ripple went through the group; Whit was not one for grand speeches. Or any speech at all. And yet, here he was.
“This was a good night’s work, lads”—he found the women in the crowd, looked each one in the eye—“and lasses. It stays here until we’re sure we can move it and keep you all safe. As you know, we lose money every day we keep cargo in the hold . . .” He shook his head and met as many of his men’s eyes as he could, the accent of the rookery edging into his words. “But don’t for a moment think you lot ain’t the most important fing in this buildin’. Devil and I—we know that better than any. And while we’re at it, might as well point to our darlin’ Annika, with a brain smart as ’er mouth.”
A cheer rose up from the group, and Nik gave an elaborate, flourishing bow before straightening and cupping her hands to her mouth. “You talk too much, Beast! When can we drink?”
Laughter followed, the corners of Whit’s eyes crinkling with satisfaction as he looked over the crowd. When he found Devil in the back, he lifted a chin in acknowledgment before saying, “Calhoun is keepin’ the Sparrow open for us, as a matter of fact. Ale is on the Bastards this morning, bruvs.”
Another raucous cheer sounded as Whit leapt to the ground, weaving through the men, aiming for Devil, who tipped his head and said, “You’re as good as Wellington with your rousing speeches.”
“Ending with drink helps. Come with us?”
Devil shook his head. “No.”
“Fair enough.” Whit clapped Devil on the shoulder, and he hissed in pain. Shocked, Whit immediately released him. “You’re going to hurt in a few. You’re soaked through with sweat. It’s a miracle you’re still standing; go home and get them to pull you a hot bath.”
Devil shook his head. “In a bit. I’ve got to finish the last of the wall and lock the hold. The men deserve the celebration.”
“You worked all day down there. You did more work than any of us. You deserve the rest.” When Devil said nothing, he added, “I’m going to send word home. They’re going to pull you a bath in one hour. Be there for it.”
He nodded, not wanting Whit to know the truth—that he didn’t want to go back to that building that was full of memories of how he’d hurt her. “Go. I shall finish up and find a bed.”
“I don’t suppose it will be a bed warm with Felicity Faircloth?”
The idea stung. “I prefer you not talking.”
“Next time you take the girl to the roofs, Dev, call off the watch.”
He cursed roundly. “There’ll never be a word about Felicity Faircloth from the watch.”
“Of course not. Besides, once they hear she decked Marwick in front of the Duchess of Northumberland, they’ll love her even more.”
“Even more?”
Whit’s eyes darkened. “There are whispers that she makes you happy, bruv.”
She does. God above, Felicity made him happy—happier than he’d ever been, if he was honest. He wasn’t the kind of man who was afforded the luxury of happiness, except in her arms. And in her eyes. “I don’t wish to discuss Felicity Faircloth. And I’ll sack anyone else who does. She’s not for the Garden.”
His brother watched him for a long moment, unmoving, before he nodded once and turned away.
The group made quick work of leaving, the first group of watchmen making their way to the roof. No one would get into the building without a bullet in him first. Not without express permission from the Bastards themselves. So Devil was alone when he lowered himself from the dark warehouse into the dark hold, where a single lantern had been left burning.
He was alone when he took the hook to the final row of ice, lifting and moving until the blocks were even in a perfect wall, topping seven feet, this exertion, on top of the rest of the day’s, was a great deal, and his breath was harsh and labored by the end of his task. He moved slowly to the door, collecting the lantern, and let himself out of the hold, setting the lamp to the floor and closing the interior steel door behind him, eager to work the locks quickly and be rid of the darkness.
As though he’d ever be rid of the darkness now.
Before he’d even touched the first lock, a voice sounded from it. “Where is she?”
Devil spun to face Ewan in the shadows. “How did you get in here?”
His brother came closer, into the dim light of the lantern, fair-haired and tall and broad—too broad to be an aristocrat. It was a miracle no one had noticed his lack of refinement—a mark of his baseborn mother—though Devil imagined the aristocracy saw what they wished to see.
Ewan ignored the question. Repeated his own. “Where is she?”
“I’ll gut you if you’ve hurt another one of my men.”
“Another one?” the duke said, all innocence.
“It’s you, isn’t it? Thieving our shipments?”
“Why would you think that?”
“The toff on the docks, watching our ships. The timing—thefts began just before you announced your return. And now . . . here you are. What, it is not enough that you threatened our lives? You had to come for our livel
ihood, as well?”
Ewan leaned back against the wall of the dark tunnel. “I never came for your lives.”
“Bollocks. Even if I didn’t remember the last night at the manor house, when you came at us with a blade sharp enough to end us, you’ve been coming for us for years. We met the spies, Ewan. We ran them off. We raised a generation in the rookery on one, single rule. No one talks about the Bastards.”
Silver flashed, and Devil’s gaze flickered to his brother’s hand, where he held Devil’s walking stick. His heart began to pound, and he forced a laugh. “You think to silence me? You think you’re still the killer among us? I’ve twenty years in the rookeries on you, toff.”
Ewan’s lips flattened.
Devil pressed on. “But even if there were a chance of you taking me, you wouldn’t.”
“And why is that?”
