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But she felt them, nonetheless, curling into his warmth. “So here I am, as requested.”
“Mmm,” he said, holding her tight to him. “On our ship.”
She smiled, turning her face into his chest, a hint of embarrassment coming with understanding. Whit had refused to allow the ship, once called the Siren, to become a part of Sedley-Whittington, pointing out again and again that the level of sin the vessel had hosted made it much better suited to the Bareknuckle Bastards. Hattie had rolled her eyes at the theory . . . until he’d rechristened it the Warrior. And then she’d rather liked that he kept it for the business that had been with him the longest.
“Nik wanted to get it out before low tide, but I told her I have plans for it tonight.” The words were low and dark, and Hattie shivered at the promise in them.
“What kind of plans?” she sighed.
“The kind of plans that end with my wife naked under the stars.”
Her arms wrapped about his neck, and she tucked herself into the warmth of his coat. “Well, it is my birthday.”
“So it is.” Whit leaned down and kissed her, nipping her full lower lip with his teeth. “I was thinking more about how it is a new year.”
She raised a brow. “It’s September.”
“Ah, but the Year of Hattie is complete. And you’ve ticked off your items, have you not?” He pulled her tight and whispered at her ear. “Body.”
She sighed as he nipped at her ear, then kissed down the side of her neck, and her hands came to his shoulders, clinging to him for balance. “You did very well with helping me with that one.”
“I wonder if perhaps we might revisit it,” he said, walking her back and lifting her up to sit on the edge of the ship, holding her tight and tucking himself between her thighs, pressing against her core.
“I think it could be arranged.” She laughed as he licked at the curl of her ear. “What else?”
“Business and fortune,” he growled.
“Oh, I did quite well with that. I married a rich man with a head for business.”
Another grunt. “I believe it is more that he married a rich woman with a head for it.”
Hattie had barely left the infirmary after Ewan’s attacks on the docks when Whit produced a special license for them to marry. The wedding had been in the Covent Garden church, and was followed by a wild celebration on the docks, with lanterns and music and food and lemon ice and raspberry treats for anyone who wished them.
After that, Hattie and Saviour Whittington had built a shipping business that rivaled anything the city had seen before—employing every able body in Covent Garden and the Docklands and gaining the admiration and the envy of most of London’s aristocrats and all of London’s businessmen.
“One might even say Sedley-Whittington threatened to turn the Bareknuckle Bastards into upstanding gentlemen,” Whit said, kissing down the column of Hattie’s neck.
“Mmm. Thankfully, that threat never came to fruition.” She smiled, the dimple in her right cheek flashing. Whit kissed the divot, one of his large hands coming to her belly, where their child grew, healthy and strong. And awake. Sensing its father’s touch, it kicked, and Whit’s eyes went wide, wider still when Hattie said, “She’s preparing to be a Bareknuckle Bastard.”
His laugh was perfect, and then he said, softly, “Home.”
She met his eyes. “You are home.”
The reply earned her another kiss, long and lingering, until she was clinging to him, and wishing they were anywhere but here, and anything but clothed.
But Whit wasn’t ready to be done with talking, remarkably. “And so? What will come next? How shall we top your first Year of Hattie—a rollicking success?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t a success, you know—not a rollicking one, at least.”
“What does that mean?”
“Only that there is one item left on my list.” She pulled him close, the sun disappeared behind London, darkness falling over the docks, cloaking them in nothing more than each other. “Would you help me with it?”
“Anything,” he whispered, holding her gaze. “Name it.”
She grasped the lapels of his coat and pulled him close. “The future.”
He growled, low and lush. “You’ve had that from the start.”
