Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

“We’re clear,” she said.

He moved forward to get out, and she edged quickly back. Keeping more distance between them.

Stepping down onto the gravel outside the station, he squinted toward the lights. Simon stood at the ticket booth, and Marco struck a casual pose nearby, looking for all the world as if he didn’t have an escaped convict’s uniform and boots in his pack. A few other people milled about the platform—some working blokes, a gent in a banker’s suit and with an air of respectability, a woman with two small children—but no sign of the warders or even the local constabulary.

“Stay close to me,” Eva said under her breath. “And try to look inconspicuous, though”—she eyed him—“that’s a rather tall order.”

“I look like an organ grinder’s monkey,” he muttered, fighting the urge to tug on his tight clothes. His boots pinched, too, but the Nemesis gang had been clever in bringing him a change of shoes. The soles of prison-issued boots bore the crow’s foot mark, too. Anyone with half a brain in their head would see his footprints in the dust.

“Trust me, Mr. Dalton, no one would ever confuse you with a playful little monkey. Perhaps one of those terrifying gorillas at the zoo. The ones that beat their chests and roar.”

He held up the back of his hands. “Got less hair.”

“Not in certain places, you don’t.”

Heat settled low in his groin. “Going to put that in my file, too?”

“I’ll save that for my own personal records.”

God, she was a saucy one! And damn him if it didn’t make his mouth water.

She moved toward the driver of the carriage. “What do we owe you, Mr. Walters?”

“The bill’s been settled, miss. You got me my farm back. A little jaunt through the heath ain’t nothing.” The older man glanced at Jack. “Mind you, stay sharp around this ’un. Got a bad look about ’im.”

Jack had heard far worse about himself on a daily basis. He just stared right back at Walters until the driver looked away.

“I promise to be as sharp as a razor,” she answered.

“As if you could be anything less.” Walters chuckled, then, with a tip of his hat and snap of the ribbons, the carriage drove away.

Jack eyed the brightly lit station, the urge to break and run screaming through his body. A film of sweat clung to his back.

“It’s safe.” Eva’s soft murmur startled him. Even more startling was her hand on his sleeve, almost gentlelike.

“Looks so damn normal. I haven’t been around normal in five years.” It was an ordinary country train station, with a waiting room and ticket booth and a single, open-air platform. A farmer nodded in sleep as he sat on a crate, his arms folded over his chest, and a big orange tabby groomed himself near the porters’ stove.

“The inn didn’t seem to bother you.”

He shrugged, the movement cut short by the snug coat. “Had other things on my mind.”

“Like killing Rockley.” She tipped her head toward the station, where Simon and Marco waited. “You’ll get your chance at him soon enough. But we have to get to London first.”

“Right. Yeah.” He exhaled, the sound jagged, then nodded.

When she took her hand from his sleeve, he felt oddly sorry, and they both headed for the station. Marco and Simon watched him, wary as cats, as he approached. Though his boots squeezed his feet, they were a damn sight lighter than those millstones he’d had to wear. He might even float away. Except one of these Nemesis lunatics might shoot him out of the sky. He wouldn’t ask what their plans for him were. Not here, where anyone might be listening.

“Next train to London is coming in twenty minutes.” Simon consulted his pocket watch. A nice bit of gold, that. Could fetch a pretty sum at one of the shops.

Simon caught Jack’s assessing look and glowered. As if he didn’t know what it was to be hungry and see every ring and bauble as a meal. Jack had been hungry. He was born hungry. Exactly what Rockley preyed upon, exploited. A man who wanted to eat was a man easily controlled.

But even a starving man reaches a breaking point.

Jack stared at Simon, then turned away to watch the train tracks. No one in their group spoke, except a low exchange every few minutes among the other three. They didn’t try to make him talk. He didn’t know whether it was to protect him or just because they hadn’t a desire to hear his voice. Either way, he didn’t care. Nobody ever said he was witty like the music hall patter boys. Nobody wanted him for conversation.

To keep from looking around and acting suspicious, he made himself count the slats between the train tracks. There weren’t many visible beyond the gas lamps of the station, so he did it over and over. All the while he thought he felt dozens of eyes on him, thought he heard the warders charging near, thought a hundred things—none of them peaceful.

Eva drifted closer to him. Like the two men, she was calm, giving not a hint of anxiety. In fact, she looked slightly bored, just as a woman might when waiting for a train to take her out of the quiet of the countryside. She didn’t speak, but gave him a small nod. The damnedest thing—that tiny crumb of assurance actually made him feel a little bit better. This, from the woman who’d stuck a gun in his face.

Maybe my time in Dunmoor drove me mad. It’s happened to other men.

Much as he tried to mirror the calm of his three cohorts, he nearly jumped out of his tight boots when a train whistle pierced the air. The train itself sounded awful loud as it chugged into the station. Five years since he’d heard a steam engine or the squeal of the brakes.

The stationmaster stepped out onto the platform. “Ten-fifteen to London, with stops in Doncaster, Grantham, and Peterborough!”

Jack didn’t allow himself to breathe any easier, not when he followed the other three onto the train, not when they seated themselves in a first-class compartment. Jack sat next to Marco, with Eva and Simon taking the facing seats. Only when the train pulled from the station did he exhale. But the screws could still telegraph ahead to other stations, and he’d be met by a mob of the local coppers.

A few minutes passed, silent except for the rhythmic clacking of the train. It didn’t seem as though anyone planned on joining him and the others in their compartment.

“The lot of you, spill.” He fixed his gaze on each of them in turn: blond toff Simon; swarthy, cunning Marco; and her . “You’ve got some scheme for me, and I want to know what it is.”

All of them traded looks, turning his simmer to a full boil.

He jerked his head toward Simon. “You bloody tell me, or I’ll beat that one’s face to a stain on the upholstery.”

“That assumes you’d be able to beat me to a stain,” drawled Simon.

Jack grinned, eager for blood. “Oh, I can. These hands have broken rocks. Your skull is a lot softer than granite.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“The bell has been rung, gentlemen,” Eva snapped. “The round is over, so back to your corners.”

“May as well let him in on the plan.” Marco glanced back and forth between his comrades. “Sooner or later he’s got to know.”

“I ain’t a damn halfwit,” Jack snarled. “I’m sitting right here, so you talk to me, lad, or don’t talk at all.” Prison had glutted him on being talked of like a thing, not a man.

Finally, Eva spoke. “Remember that girl we mentioned, the one who had been ruined by Rockley?” At his tense nod, she continued. “Her father’s just a merchant. He doesn’t have any power, any pull. When he made his complaint to Rockley, demanding either marriage or some kind of restitution, Rockley ignored him.”