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Because he couldn’t tell her the truth. If he did, Whit had no doubt his brazen warrior would seek Ewan out herself. And he couldn’t have that.
So, he watched without her knowing—ensuring her safety. Ensuring that Ewan couldn’t make good on his threat.
And it was devastating punishment, because he knew he’d hurt her. And that was worse than the loss of her. Almost worse than the memory of her smooth skin and her low laugh and the taste 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.”
“I’m not only worried about Ewan.”
Whit growled. “What does that mean?”
“They’re saying the Bastards have gone soft, because Beast has found a lady.”
I did find a lady. And then I lost her.
“If they worry I’ve gone soft, they can come find me.” He looked back to the Sedley warehouse. “I diversified our business.”
“For business? Or personal?”
“Both,” Whit said, knowing the words were a lie. “It keeps her safe. And now we can ship . . .”
Devil raised a brow. “What?”
“I don’t know. Tinned salmon. Or tulip bulbs.”
“What horseshit. What in hell do you know about tulip bulbs?”
Whit’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m getting a bit tired of being told I’m talking horseshit.”
Devil’s brows shot up. “Oh? Who besides me is speaking truth to you?” His eyes lit, and a smile split his long face. “I’ll tell you what, bruv, I do like her.”
Whit shot him a look. “Don’t like her. She’s not for liking.”
“Is she for loving?”
Memory flashed, unpleasant. I can’t love you, he’d said to her, as she’d dressed with all possible speed, desperate to leave his house after he’d ruined the night they’d had. What kind of an imbecile of a man said such a thing to a woman after making love to her?
Surely, there’d been another way to keep her safe. Something other than insulting her. Christ. He should run himself through as punishment.
It didn’t matter that it was the truth. “Another man would be lucky to love her.”
“Why not you?”
He leveled Devil with a look. “Ewan threatened her, Devil. Outright.”
Devil watched him for a long minute, tapping that infernal walking stick against the toe of his outstretched boot. Then, “If we’re diversifying, we’re going to have to have a conversation about the ships.”
“Why?”
“Well, first, we’d better learn a bit about tinned salmon and tulips, but besides that, they’re sitting empty in the berths, which is bad for them.”
“What do you know about what’s bad for boats?”
“I don’t know a damn thing, but now that we own a fucking fleet of them, I think one of us ought to start, don’t you? Seems like we might need to seek out a boat expert.” A pause. Then, “Do you know anyone with a love of boats?”
