Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

“He’s got no lights out there,” Dalton rumbled. “Going to crash us for certain.”

She turned her attention away from the windows. “Walters knows this countryside better than a man knows—”

“His wife’s arse,” he supplied.

“The back of his hand.” Her mouth curled. “Really, Mr. Dalton, my threshold for being shocked is extremely high. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’d like to try.”

If her cheeks felt warm, it was only because she had been running across the moors. Certainly not from the husky rasp of his voice in the small confines of the carriage, or the erotic challenge of his words.

Simon cleared his throat. He grabbed a cloth-wrapped bundle next to him and tossed it to Dalton. The convict nimbly caught the package.

“A change of clothes.” Simon eyed Dalton’s filthy prison uniform. “Charming as those garments are, they’re not suitable for traveling on a public train.”

“They’re not suitable for a dog to wear, neither.”

“That’s a considerable amount of hatred for an inanimate object,” she noted.

Staring down at his knee-length breeches, Dalton made a sound of disgust. “Never want to see this bloody crow’s foot again. One of the first things they do when you get to prison is take away your clothing and give you a uniform. You don’t think you’ll care, until you see hundreds of men dressed just like you. No one’s got a name, just a number. And this sodding mark, all over your clothes. It’s like you’re nobody.”

Stunned into silence, she could only nod. Up to this point, Dalton hadn’t spoken at such length. More than the extent of his speech, however, she was shocked by how powerfully he’d been affected by the dehumanizing conditions within the prison. Easier for her to believe that he was an unfeeling beast, driven only by an animal need for revenge. The bleakness in his voice belied this.

“Then you’ll find the garments we’ve provided more to your liking.” Her words were flippant, her thoughts anything but.

“Pull over,” he said.

“Carriage sick?” asked Marco.

“I’m supposed to change, ain’t I? So pull over and I’ll change.”

But Simon shook his head. “We’ll lose time if we stop. You’ll have to do it in the carriage.”

Dalton shot her a glance.

“The bodies of men are no mystery to me, Mr. Dalton,” she said. “I won’t fall unconscious at the sight of yours.”

“I’d wager not much would make you faint.”

“She can pull a bullet out of a man without the bat of an eyelash,” Marco said cheerfully. “Took one out of my thigh, calm as a lake. And I’ve got a pretty little scar for a souvenir.”

Dalton chuckled, and the unexpected sound tumbled over her skin like rough velvet. “The bullyboys of the East End would find you damn useful.”

“Sadly for them,” she replied, “I already have employment. Perhaps it’s your delicate sensibilities that are disturbed, Mr. Dalton, by the thought of undressing in my presence.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “Never dare me, love.”

She most assuredly didn’t like him calling her love, but she merely folded her arms over her chest and waited.

Dalton sent glances toward Simon and Marco. “If she becomes lust crazed by the sight of me in the altogether…”

Simon snorted. “We’ll protect your honor should she assault you.”

Dalton grinned, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “Don’t.”

“Oh, get on with it!” She cursed the short temper that allowed her to be so easily baited.

He shrugged his wide shoulders. Then grabbed the hem of his smocklike shirt and pulled it over his head.

Forcibly, she kept her lips pressed together, refusing to make even a single sound of shock or amazement. But, good Lord . The man was … astonishing. Every muscle in his arms and on his torso was sharply defined, as though the primal essence of masculinity had been pared to its elemental state. Oh, she’d seen many bare-chested men, including Simon and Marco, but they were lean where Dalton was broad, men shaped by training, whereas hard labor had formed Dalton into unfettered strength.

Not a dram of extra flesh. He seemed forged from iron, like a brutal but effective weapon.

Against the shrill warnings of her better judgment, her gaze moved across the breadth of his chest, noting the dark hair dusting his pectorals and trailing down in a line along his ridged abdomen. And lower.

“Careful, love.” His deep voice dragged her attention back up to his face. “You’ll set the carriage to blazing.”

She forced herself to turn to Marco. “Hand me your pack.”

He did so, and she rifled through it until she found what she sought. Pulling out a canteen, she gave it an experimental shake. It sloshed, revealing that it was full. Little surprise, as all Nemesis operatives kept themselves in a continual state of preparedness. “Water?” she asked.

“Grappa’s in the flask,” he answered.

She would definitely want that. Later. Right now, water suited her needs.

Tossing the canteen and a handkerchief from her reticule to Dalton, she said, “Doesn’t matter how you’re dressed if your face is filthy.” Since neither she nor Marco and Simon were disguised as laborers, Dalton’s grimy appearance would certainly attract attention on the train.

The little scrap of fabric looked like an elf’s frippery in Dalton’s large hand, its snowy white cotton contrasting with his brown hands. He eyed it warily.

“It’s just a handkerchief,” she said impatiently.

“Don’t have a lot of experience handling women’s dainties.” He held it out, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “If I use this, it’ll be ruined.”

She shrugged. “I have dozens more.” Then she started as Dalton sniffed the handkerchief.

“Smells like lemons and … some kind of flower.”

“Verbena.” She felt strangely uncomfortable, as if he had discovered a closely guarded secret. But there was nothing secret about the type of perfumed soap she preferred, purchased from a shop just down the street from her lodgings.

“Pretty,” he rumbled, and that strange sensation intensified. “But I don’t want to smell like a lady.”

“For God’s sake.” Simon clenched his hands. “Better you reek of perfume than peat and bog.”

Muttering something about blokes who smell like flowers, Dalton unscrewed the cap on the canteen and wet the handkerchief. He scrubbed at his face, stripping off layers of grime. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin. Even behind his ears and along his neck. The motion brought the muscles of his arms into high relief as they flexed and released.

Finally, he was done. He gazed at the handkerchief. It was, indeed, ruined, streaked with so much dirt that a laundress would weep in despair. “Guess I’ll keep this.”

“Burning it would be a better option.” Yet her offhand words belied her keen interest. For the first time tonight, she looked upon the face of Jack Dalton.

She had seen his photograph in the file. It had been taken before he’d been incarcerated, before prison regulations had demanded he shave his generous mustache. She had thought that he might be passably attractive, if one was attracted to hard-eyed ruffians. Now he was clean-shaven. Though shadows filled the carriage, enough light remained that she had a good sense of his face.

He wasn’t handsome, not in Simon’s aristocratic fashion, nor did he possess the Continental charm of Marco’s half-Italian lineage. In fact, of the three men, both Marco and Simon would be considered better looking. Yet Dalton had a rough, raw masculinity, his jaw square, his mouth wide. He had a pugilist’s nose, slightly crooked with a distinct bump on the bridge. A scar bisected his right eyebrow, and there was another just over his top lip, on the left. The face of a man who had lived hard, who expected little and was often not surprised when little was given.