Zoë Archer: Sweet Revenge

If she could avoid sleeping in a frigid barn, she’d do so. And she wanted to be in London for the planning of their operation against Rockley.

Quickly, she crossed the lane and headed into the sweep of moor rolling beyond. The voices of the warders came far too close for her liking, but she judged them to be on the other side of the inn, following her false lead.

She set up a brisk trot as she moved farther into the darkness. It would be a clean getaway.

A warder’s boots crunched on the rocky ground. Hell. She had to keep going.

“Oi, ma’am, you oughtn’t go out there!”

Without turning around, she gave him a little wave and kept going.

“Ma’am! You’d best come back now! Ma’am!”

Suddenly, there was Dalton, right in her path. He seemed a myth conjured from the darkness, an Iron Age warrior pulled forward in time.

“You should’ve stayed with the others,” she hissed.

“And you were taking too long.” He gripped her wrist, and, despite their circumstances, the feel of his rough hand against her skin made her pulse stutter.

The warder let out a shout. “I see ’im! It’s Dalton!” He blew the whistle that hung around his neck.

With her free hand, she gathered up her skirts. “Run,” she said.

They ran.

* * *

Jack had more important things to think about besides Eva’s fine-boned wrist beneath his palm. The screws were coming, including Lynch, chasing after them, their whistles and shouts stabbing the quiet. He’d be lucky if all they did was capture him and drag him back to Dunmoor.

As he and Eva ran across the moor, he kept his mind and body focused on speed. But he couldn’t shake his awareness of touching her. The strength in her came as an eye-opener, and not a surprise. He ought to know that if a woman looked comfortable holding a revolver, she probably didn’t have fragile doll limbs.

Those legs of hers had a hell of a lot of speed, too. Despite her skirts, she kept pace with him, running like she was born to it.

A shotgun blast tore through the air. He pulled them both into a crouch.

“Keep going.” Her words were tight but steady. “They won’t fire directly if I’m with you.”

Made sense. Likely they thought her his hostage, not the woman who blackmailed him into collaboration.

He and Eva kept running. The shapes of Marco and Simon emerged ahead.

“The hell, Dalton?” That was Simon. Jack was beginning to know the toff’s smooth, fancy-bred voice even in the dark.

“Sounded like a screw was going after her. Don’t know about you nobs, but I don’t leave nobody behind. How long would it take them to figure out where we were headed once they had her?” It had been a rule drilled into him by Catton, taught to him when he was no bigger than a keg. His years as a housebreaker were behind him, but the lessons remained gouged into his brain.

“Your help wasn’t necessary,” she said.

“I’m choking on your gratitude.”

The four of them sped on, the warders in full pursuit. Another shotgun blast was fired into the air. It wouldn’t be long before Lynch got tired of warning shots and took direct aim.

“Wherever the hell we’re going,” he panted, “it better not be far.”

“Don’t look,” said Marco.

“What?”

Eva snapped, “Cover your eyes.”

He was about to ask why, when Marco suddenly turned and pulled something from the pack slung across his shoulders. Marco lobbed the object toward the warders, turning away as he did so.

There was a small concussion, followed by a huge flash of light. The screws fell back, and then Jack had no idea what followed because he couldn’t see a damn thing.

“What was that?”

“Phosphorous and a quick-burning accelerant,” Marco answered.

Meaningless words. “You sodding blinded me.”

“Told you to cover your eyes.” There was no sympathy in Eva’s voice. “It’s short-term, anyway. Lasts long enough for us to temporarily hold back the warders.” Now it was her hand around his wrist, pulling him forward. He could only stumble on in her wake as she led him. What lay ahead, he didn’t know. All he could do was trust her—and he trusted no one. Especially not a woman with strong hands, clever eyes, and a revolver in her reticule.

* * *

Though the warders had retreated, Eva couldn’t be easy. Not until they were safe at headquarters. The guards weren’t the only threat. Blinded and angry as a bull, Dalton stumbled behind her. She suspected the only reason he wasn’t swearing like a fishmonger was to make sure the warders could not follow the sound of his voice. No doubt he thought any number of vile things, however. She could practically hear him cursing her, Simon, and Marco. Yet he let her lead him.

Only to save himself . Without her guidance, he’d stumble around the moors and right into the hands of the pursuing warders. If given the opportunity, Dalton would break their necks.

It was like leading a lit cask of gunpowder. The only thing to wonder was when he’d explode.

Finally, the outline of a carriage appeared on the crest of a hill. Dalton slowed, his muscles tensing.

“I hear horses,” he said, low.

“Our means of escape.” She and the others approached slowly.

“Come any nearer and I’ll use my whip to give you a shave!” The driver lifted his arm.

“It’s us, Walters,” answered Simon.

“Oh, Mr. Addison-Shawe! Nearly stopped my heart, you did.” He peered down at them. “Get your man?”

“We did.”

“Hop in, then.”

Marco climbed into the carriage, and she started to do the same, tugging Dalton behind her. But he easily broke her hold on him, pulling away. He must have gotten his sight back, because he glared at the carriage and the driver.

“I’m not getting in there until you tell me who this bloke is and where you’re taking me.”

“I’m a friend, I am. Nemesis did me a good turn,” Walters said before she could answer. “Got me my farm back when the law wouldn’t help. If they need me, I’m theirs.”

Dalton raised his brows at this, but still did not get into the carriage.

Casting a concerned glance over her shoulder, she strained for signs of the pursuing warders. “We don’t have time for your suspicions.”

“A lady who travels with a gun in her pocketbook, a man who carries exploding bombs, and a toff who acts like a crack thief. Trustworthy lot.”

She exhaled, frustrated. “Walters is taking us to the nearest train station. We’ll catch the express to London, where we’re headquartered.”

“And then?” he demanded.

“And then we’ll talk.”

He snorted at that. But whatever his reservations, the prospect of waiting around for the warders seemed less appealing. Muttering, he stepped into the carriage, and it tilted until he found his seat. Good God, was the man made entirely of muscle?

She turned to Simon. “My doubts still stand,” she whispered.

“He’s a brute and a criminal,” Simon answered low, “but he’s our best weapon against Rockley. The plan moves forward.”

There was nothing she could do. Not standing out on the moors in the middle of the night, with a gang of armed warders hunting them. She checked the contents of her reticule—money, Webley, keys, handkerchief, chloroform. She hoped they wouldn’t need to use the chloroform on Dalton. Carrying him would be like lifting a mountain.

Satisfied that everything was in place, she climbed into the carriage, seating herself opposite Dalton. He stared at her, eyes gleaming like jet, as Simon took his seat next to her.

Marco rapped on the roof, and the carriage was in motion. Before long, they sped through the moors, rocking over the rolling heath.