Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

Except he’d done far too much waiting in the past, and it scratched him now. If everything went well in the next few minutes, he’d be that much closer to finally gaining vengeance. If everything didn’t go well, tomorrow Tiffield would be showing off his corpse to some new interested buyer.

A sick despair climbed up his throat, and he spat upon the ground to rid himself of it. Now wasn’t the time to think about the shortness of his life, or how he’d leave this world without a soul to care whether he was alive or taking up space in the city morgue.

No, that wasn’t true. There was Eva. He’d seen how she had looked at him back in that place of death. As if he mattered to her. More than a pawn in Nemesis’s game. More than a former brawler, failed murderer, and escaped convict.

New energy moved through him. Like he used to before a fight, he danced lightly on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms, stretching his neck. He had to succeed. He’d never lost a match back when he was a boxer. He wouldn’t take a dive or lose this one.

He kept himself loose, even when the clock struck four and Rockley’s carriage drove up to the front. The bastard himself emerged from the club, gleaming in his evening clothes. His bodyguard took the lead, scanning up and down the street, then giving Rockley a nod that everything was clear. Rockley moved toward his waiting carriage.

Now.

Jack darted out from the shadows with a burst of speed. He ran in front of the club, close enough for Rockley and his bodyguard to see him but not close enough to be within decent firing range. His legs burned with the urge to carry him to Rockley, not past him. Maybe he could try it. Maybe he could be fast enough to smash the son of a bitch’s head against the stone steps before his bodyguard could shoot.

No—he had to stick with the plan. He halted in the middle of the street and stared at Rockley. The bastard had to see him in order for the scheme to work.

Rockley looked at him. Jack looked back. A distance of only twenty feet separated them.

For a moment, time shuddered to a stop. The street fell away, the club, the whole sodding city.

Jack hadn’t been this close to him in years. He’d aged a little—more lines fanned around his eyes and a few bracketed his mouth—and wrinkles in his evening clothes revealed it had been a long night.

Rockley’s eyes widened when he saw Jack. And Jack had to pretend that he was just as surprised to be spotted—as though he’d been spying on Rockley and had been accidentally caught while trying to slip away.

Despite his plan to simply be seen and then run away, Jack snarled, “Filthy murderer. I’m still going to make you pay.”

Rockley’s shock vanished, replaced by a look of bitterest hate. “Trash is all you are, Dalton. All you will ever be. You cannot touch me.”

“Don’t want to touch you,” Jack spat. “Just kill you.” His feet carried him closer, his hands already curving to wrap around Rockley’s throat.

Rockley paled and took a step back. He smacked his silver-topped walking stick against his bodyguard’s arm. “You idiot,” he growled. “Take care of him!”

Ballard shook his head like he was rattling his thoughts straight. Then reached into his jacket and pulled out a big, mean pistol.

Thoughts of crushing Rockley’s windpipe scattered as soon as Jack saw the gun. Right. The plan.

Time to go .

He ran. Speeding down the dark, empty street, he listened to make sure the bodyguard followed. There. The tread of thick boots—like his—on the pavement. Ballard ran with the grace of a heavy wagon. Instinct shouted to run as fast as possible, lose the thug in the maze of streets leading toward the river. Instead, Jack paused at an intersection, waiting for Ballard to catch sight of him.

The bodyguard shouted, “Oi!” He leveled his pistol.

Jack ducked as a shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the wall behind him.

Cursing at his missed shot, Ballard rushed toward Jack. Jack spun around and ran. After waiting and watching for so long, and not having enough action, it felt almost good to throw himself into this chase, his blood pumping, his body moving.

There, just up ahead, he spotted the Embankment. If he ran straight toward it, he’d corner himself. If he turned down this alley, he could shake off Ballard.

He headed to the river. It was a thick, black snake twisting in front of him, a few small wherries bobbing over its surface.

At the edge of the Embankment, Jack spun around to face the approaching bodyguard.

Ballard’s steps slowed as he got Jack in his sights. He lifted his gun. “Diamond Jack Dalton,” he jeered. “You ain’t so grand. I’m protecting his lordship now.”

“You’ll be pulling his knife out of your back soon,” Jack said. “Unless you wise up. But maybe you can’t wise up. Maybe you’re too sodding stupid.”

Ballard sneered. “I ain’t the one who went and cornered myself.” He pointed his revolver. Cocked the hammer.

Jack’s heart slammed inside his chest as he waited. This had to be perfectly timed. Wait. Wait.

The gun fired. Three times.

Jack toppled backward into the water. The river closed around him, dark and heavy as death.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From her position a hundred feet down the Embankment, Eva stiffened when she heard the shots, then the splash of a person falling into the river. Did someone cry out? Had Jack been hit?

She peered down into the black water, straining for any sight of him. Her arms wrapped about her waist, tight, as if to hold herself back from jumping into the river and searching for him. Vile as the Thames was, she’d readily swim it to find him and end the doubt that clutched at her stomach. But she couldn’t. She had to stand here in the shadows, her only company a corpse that eerily resembled Jack, and wait.

God—it had been too long. “Where is he?” she muttered. A hundred fears assailed her with their sharp, poisoned claws.

A darker shape appeared in the water. The chains around her stomach eased, then she growled in frustration. Only a large river rat swimming through the refuse that floated atop the Thames.

Then—something broke the surface, gasping. It moved toward the bank.

She threw off her cloak and hurried down the waterman’s steps leading to the river. A man swam toward her. Jack. He didn’t appear to be injured, either. Thank God. Relief robbed her of breath, as though a fist squeezed her lungs.

Dropping to her knees, she reached out, grasping his arms, and attempted to haul him out of the river. She panted with the effort. He did indeed weigh sixteen stone, if not more. Both she and Jack struggled to get him onto the shore. Finally, with a heave and groan, he pushed himself out of the water.

She fell backward, with him sprawled atop her. Long moments passed as they lay like this, him huge and wet, gasping, with enough presence of mind to brace himself on his elbows so his full weight didn’t crush her. The front of her dress was instantly soaked, and clung to her damply. The chill water smelled dank and fetid, but she hardly noticed the scent.

He was on her, his legs between hers, their bodies pressed close. His clothes were plastered to him, and with her own sticking to her skin, she felt everywhere the movement of his muscles, his raw animal strength. Their hearts seemed to be battering their way toward each other. His heat burned away the river’s chill.

They stared at each other, both still panting, their breath mingling, intimate as a confession. Hardly any light reached the riverbank, yet she was powerfully aware of the darkness and ferocity of his eyes, the hard contours of his face. His curved lips, so close to hers.