Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

Assuredly, she had seen more handsome men, but none of them were as striking as Dalton. Not a one had his compelling, dark gaze. A gaze that was fixed directly on her.

She lifted her chin. It was ridiculous to pretend she wasn’t staring.

“An improvement,” she said. “No one will give you a second look at the train station.” That was a lie. Gazes would be drawn to him, for he possessed a shadowed magnetism. It would be deuced difficult to hide him anywhere—another point against him. She would bring that up once they reached headquarters.

He tucked the handkerchief into his discarded shirt, then bent to untie his boots. The movement brought him very close to her, so close that if she leaned forward a few inches, she could put her hands on his shoulders, her lips on the back of his head.

Heat radiated from him, pressing close around her. She caught a trace of her own soap’s fragrance on him, as if they had been in a tight embrace and the scent of her skin had transferred to him.

He looked up through his spiky lashes, and their gazes tangled. For a long, breathless moment, they simply stared at one another, suspended, ensnared.

“Hurry up, Dalton.” Simon’s voice was clipped. “We’ll be at the station soon.”

His words severed the threads binding her and Dalton. A wry smile curled at the corner of Dalton’s mouth, and he finished unlacing his boots. His striped wool stockings followed, revealing calves dusted with more dark hair. The sight of his large bare feet was primal, her own not unsubstantial feet appearing tiny beside his.

After a quick gaze in her direction, he moved to the fastening of his knee-length breeches.

She didn’t want to watch his fingers undoing the buttons, but the sight riveted her. The deftness with which his large hands moved came as a surprise. He tilted his hips to gain enough room to remove his breeches. She forced her gaze back up the length of his chest, fighting to maintain a disinterested expression. Only a few minutes earlier, she’d claimed to be hard to shock. Now she had to prove it.

Though the carriage creaked and jounced noisily across the moors, she was acutely aware of the sound of fabric sliding down Dalton’s hips, then lower. She kept her focus trained on the hollow of his throat, but her mind filled in the details, coaxing her to envision his thighs, roped and hewn. And—there was no helping it—she imagined his cock, nestled in thick dark hair.

Don’t look. For the love of your pride, do not look.

His voice rumbled out of the darkness. “Doesn’t cost anything to have yourself a peek, love.”

“Dalton!” Marco snapped. “Treat Miss Warrick with respect, or I’ll polish your teeth with a bullet.”

She waved a hand. “It’s a small matter if Mr. Dalton encourages me to contemplate his shortcomings.” Then, deliberately, she let her gaze fall to his groin. “My jacket must be extremely warm, for I had no idea the night was so cold. That is the explanation, isn’t it, Mr. Dalton?”

He made a sound midway between indignation and amusement.

Satisfied with his response, she moved her gaze to his face. He might be able to see the heat staining her cheeks, yet there was nothing she could do about her body’s unwanted response. Truly, she had seen men in all states of dress and undress, knew exactly how their bodies looked, and even how they felt. There was no mystery to the male physique. So why was she so affected by the sight of a naked Jack Dalton?

It was purely logical. After all, they had met only hours earlier. He was a stranger, and a dangerous one, at that. No wonder her pulse accelerated when she looked at his penis, the most intimate part of a man’s body.

Despite her belittling claim, she finally had the answer to the question about men with large feet and large hands. They were … proportional.

Consider the spirit of scientific inquiry fulfilled, she thought with an inward smile.

“If you’re quite finished attempting to incite Miss Warrick to a lust-crazed frenzy,” drawled Simon, “get dressed.”

Fortunately, Dalton didn’t complain about Simon’s command. He clearly saw the value of arriving at the train station clothed rather than nude. After undoing the bundle, he removed a shirt, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, and boots.

“None of this is going to fit,” he said. “Not even the boots.”

“We went off your vital statistics from your file,” Marco answered.

“That was before I did five years of hard labor. Gotten bigger since then. My feet spread, too.”

“Stopping at the high street shops is impossible,” she said. “So you’ll have to squeeze into what we’ve got.”

He shrugged, and went about the awkward task of dressing in a moving carriage shared with three other people. She would never admit to anyone her small, internal sigh of relief when he dragged on the trousers. The waist fit him well enough, with actual room to spare, but his thighs strained against the material. He could barely pull his arms through the shirtsleeves. The shirt actually tore a little on the shoulder seams, and he grimaced.

“The waistcoat and jacket will hide that,” she said, brisk.

Except he couldn’t button the waistcoat, and the jacket was taut across his shoulders, its cuffs inches above his wrists.

Marco tried to fasten the collar to Dalton’s shirt. “It’s like dressing a lion as Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

“You’re sodding choking me,” Dalton rasped.

Frustrated, Marco flung the collar to the ground. “Unless we have a spare wheel rim, nothing’s going to work.”

“Just tie the neck cloth around him.” She waved the long piece of silk foulard at Marco, but Dalton snatched it from her hand.

“Can tie my own damned neck cloth.” And he did, though Simon rolled his eyes at the inelegant knot. “There,” Dalton said with a growl. “Now I look like the bloody Prince of Wales.”

“If His Royal Highness were ten inches taller, three stone heavier, and had spent his formative years in a bull-baiting ring,” she said, “you would be his perfect likeness.”

Dalton opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the carriage slowed. “Train station,” Walters called down.

Everyone within the carriage stilled. Their gazes met in silent acknowledgment. Even Dalton understood. They had completed only the first stage of their plan, and the danger was far from over.

CHAPTER THREE

Jack waited inside the carriage as the others got out and made a quick survey of the train station. The screws might be here, lurking just inside so he could tumble right into their trap. He doubted they’d be able to reach the station so quickly, especially on foot, but he couldn’t shake his fear that they were here. He couldn’t let himself get this far only to be dragged back to Dunmoor. With this brief taste of freedom, only one path remained for him: kill Rockley.

His fists clenched in anticipation. He’d run, he’d hide, he’d do whatever he must for as long as necessary. If Rockley met death at his hands, it would all be worth it.

First, he needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and Dunmoor. Then … he’d figure the rest out. He would have to lose these Nemesis people. Or take advantage of them and their wickedly clever schemes until they were no longer useful.

Eva appeared in the door of the carriage. With the lights from the station behind her, he could only see her outline and the shadowy suggestion of her face. She might have been any slim woman. Except he knew her shape now, her scent. The way her breath sped when something stirred her up.

His cock gave an interested throb.

Don’t be a sodding idiot. Got the screws on my tail and a gang of lunatics holding the reins. And she’s one of the lunatics.