Sweet Revenge nu-1 Page 3

  “Damn warders are a bunch of low-pay amateurs,” Simon muttered. “They’ve got no one patrolling the perimeter.”

  “Let’s be grateful for a badly trained workforce.” The dark man reached for Jack, but pulled his hand away when Jack reared back.

  He didn’t want anyone touching him. Nobody did before he went to prison, and he hated it when the screws shoved him around on his way to chapel or to the rock yards. They wouldn’t touch him ever again.

  Turning from the darker gent, he saw the blond one, Simon, straddling the open window.

  “Going to assume you can climb down as well as up,” he said, then disappeared as he eased out the window. Jack had to admit that the toff moved as slick as any second-story man leaving a burglary.

  “That’s Simon, incidentally. I’m Marco.”

  “I don’t give a buggering damn.”

  “You ought, since we’re all that’s keeping your neck from being stretched.” After shouldering a pack, Marco waved him toward the window. “Now climb.”

  Jack bit back a mouthful of curses. For now, he had to play the puppet. When the time came, however, he’d cut the damn strings, and maybe some throats, too.

  After giving Marco a glare, Jack moved quickly to the window and climbed out. Cold air bit through his damp, thin uniform and the moors stretched out dark and empty beneath a sky just as barren. This time of year, he wouldn’t last the night on the heath. Without shelter, he’d be nothing but frozen meat by morning.

  These damned Nemesis people better have something lined up, or we’ll all be freezing our arses off.

  He balanced himself on the worn brick, then clambered down the wall. Glancing up, he saw Marco watching him from the window. Likely making sure he didn’t cut and run.

  Once the ground was near enough, he jumped the rest of the way down, landing in a crouch. Simon waited nearby, his gaze never resting, body poised for movement. The bloke looked like a toff, but he didn’t carry himself like one. More like a soldier, or a thief.

  Jack, too, kept his every sense alert, tense as piano wire. The screws were just inside—he could hear them questioning men in the taproom of the inn. Just hearing the scrape of Lynch’s voice sent hot fury through Jack’s muscles.

  “I ain’t going back,” he muttered.

  “You won’t.” Simon’s words were clipped. “So long as you keep to the terms of our arrangement.”

  Before Jack could ask just what the hell that arrangement might be, Marco dropped down from the window, quiet as a serpent.

  Whoever these people were, they had impressive skills. But it wasn’t the two men Jack thought of. He could hear Eva inside, the low, clear notes of her voice plucking along the back of his neck.

  “Time to run,” Marco said. He nodded toward the west, a long stretch of open moorland that led to nothing. Nothing that Jack could see, at any rate.

  “You can’t just leave her in there.” He wasn’t about to carve Eva’s name into his arm, but it didn’t feel right abandoning her to the warders. There had to be at least eight screws in there. She was only one woman. Bad odds.

  “Eva can take care of herself,” Simon answered.

  Jack looked back and forth between the two men. They held fast to the shadows, but he could see enough of their faces to read complete confidence there. Confidence in Eva.

  He shrugged. She wasn’t his woman. Never would be. If these blokes thought nothing of leaving her with a pack of edgy warders, he wouldn’t stop them.

  “My legs itch,” he said. “Only thing that cures ’em is a run.”

  Simon nodded once and darted off. With Marco right on his heels, Jack followed, plunging into the darkness. It felt good to move again, despite his exhaustion. Too long inside prison walls had given him a permanent hunger for action, the need to feel his lungs and muscles burn from use.

  Yet as he sped into the night, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of Eva, all alone, facing down a gang of warders on the hunt.

  Hope she’s as strong and clever as these blokes seem to think. She has to be.

  * * *

  Eva made her way down the stairs, careful to keep her pace brisk but unhurried. She was just a guest drawn from her room by the fuss downstairs. Her time constraints were narrow, needing to give the others a decent head start, but not so much that she’d have trouble catching up with them.

  Her hand glided along the wooden rail worn smooth by generations of guests walking up and down these same stairs. The wood felt as solid as Dalton looked. He had the immovable will of an ancient oak, too. She could only hope he was following Simon and Marco’s orders, and hadn’t tried something stupid or obstinate, such as attempting to escape.

  She reached the ground floor and, following the sounds of commotion, headed toward the taproom. Fixing a curious but vacant expression on her face, she entered the large room. A group of warders were gathered there, their dark blue uniforms incongruous in the cheerful taproom. She recognized the hard eyes of professional guards, almost as dangerous as the clubs most of them carried.

  Two of the warders were armed with shotguns, and the men in the taproom eyed the weapons nervously. These were firearms meant for hunting men, not grouse.

  One of the armed warders stood close to the innkeeper. He twisted his hands in his apron as the warder interrogated him.

  “He was heading in this direction. Got two eyewitnesses who spotted him making toward this inn.”

  “I’ve been down here in the taproom the last hour, and I haven’t seen anyone.”

  The warder turned toward the other guards. “We split up and search the place. Inside and out.”

  She stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking it. “My goodness, what a to-do!” Inwardly, she shuddered at her breathy, vapid tone, but being part of Nemesis meant she had to do many things she found unpleasant. Including playacting the part of a featherbrained woman.

  “What is all this ruckus about?” She stared with wide eyes at the warders. The guards removed their caps, deference at odds with the brutal bludgeons they carried.

  The one guard who had been grilling the innkeeper spoke. “Are you a guest at this inn, ma’am?”

  “I am, Mr.…” She glanced at the patch on his jacket. “Lynch. Goodness, you gentlemen look like soldiers in your ensembles. I wasn’t aware there were any troops stationed nearby.”

  “We’re warders, ma’am, from Dunmoor Prison. A very dangerous convict escaped today, but don’t worry, we’ll get him back. Alive or dead.” He spoke this last word with particular enjoyment, as though looking forward to the prospect of killing Dalton.

  “Convict?” Her hand came up to flutter at her throat. “You mean, a criminal is on the loose this very moment? But how very dreadful! Like something out of the penny papers.”

  The group of warders tried to edge past her, but she impeded them with a light sidestep.

  “Have you seen any suspicious characters?” Lynch asked. “The man we’re looking for is a big bast—uh, a big man. Dark hair, dark eyes. Answers to Dalton, but he might be using an alias.”

  “I have been alone in my room all evening and saw nothing. Surely if such a large villain had passed this way, I would have noticed something. And anyway, I thought this part of the country was supposed to be safe. Convicts escaping from prison! Never would I have dreamed up such a lurid tale.”

  As she spoke, she moved from side to side, as if thoughts of a fugitive made her restless and frightened. It also had the effect of preventing the warders from leaving the building or getting upstairs. She made certain her accent held the polished notes of a woman of quality, and for once she was grateful for the rigid code of social mores that kept the warders respectfully trapped. They wouldn’t push a lady aside.

  Apparently, though, even this code could reach its breaking point. One of the warders looked back at Lynch, unable to hide his frustration. “Sir?”

  Lynch came closer. “Ma’am, if you’d step to the side—”

  “C
ome to think of it,” she said, “I may have seen someone. I was standing at my window, thinking about how very dark it is here compared to London. Not a streetlight to be seen. Even when the fog rolls in, you know, it’s so terrifically bright. Why, without my heavy curtains, I might never get a wink of sleep.”

  “You say you saw something,” Lynch said through gritted teeth. “Ma’am,” he added.

  “Oh, yes. I was standing at my window, and I saw a figure outside. Exceptionally big, as you say.” She remembered how Dalton had loomed over her, and how he made even the simple act of breathing seem dangerous. “I thought perhaps it was a farmer, out milking his cows or some such rustic endeavor. But cows aren’t milked at night, are they?”

  Lynch’s patience continued to fray. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “As I said, it is exceptionally dark out here, but, thinking on it now, he might have caught a little light from the inn. And I remember clearly now how strange I thought his clothing. All covered with these peculiar arrow markings. I assumed it was some eccentric local dress.”

  Snapping even more alert, Lynch said, “That’s our man. Where was he heading?”

  “Somewhere over there.” She waved her hand toward the east, precisely the direction opposite from which she knew Simon, Marco, and Dalton to be heading.

  The warders did not waste further time. With murmured apologies, they stepped around her and exited the inn. Lynch remained long enough to mutter, “Obliged, ma’am.”

  She decided against using more ridiculous chatter to detain him longer. Any further delays, and he’d grow suspicious. With a nod, she let him pass. Hopefully, she’d bought the others enough time to make decent progress toward their rendezvous point.

  “This is exceedingly distressing,” she announced to the men in the taproom.

  The innkeeper came forward, wreathed in a strained smile. “I can assure you, madam, that such occurrences are quite rare, and that the warders will have that blackguard caught very soon.”

  “Just the same, I believe I’ll retire to my room for the rest of the evening. And I will be sure to lock the door.”

  “Excellent plan, madam.”

  With a sniff, she left the taproom and made sure that her footsteps on the stairs could be heard. Once at the top of the stairs, she waited a moment to see if anyone followed or left the taproom. Everyone remained within, discussing the shocking turn of events.

  Silently, she crept back downstairs, then turned quickly into a hallway not visible from the taproom. There had to be a back or side door she might use. The option remained of returning to her room and going out the window, but likely Marco had locked the door. Picking the lock would be the work of less than a minute, yet she didn’t relish the prospect of climbing down whilst wearing skirts. They had an unfortunate tendency to tangle in her legs.

  Moving noiselessly through the hallway, she tried a door which proved to be a linen closet, and then came upon the kitchen. Peering inside, she found the room empty of everything but pots, pans, a sink with running water, and a huge iron stove. A basket waited by the back door.

  She was outside in a moment, and shut the door behind her. Slipping through a rather barren kitchen garden, she reached a low fence and swung over it, then took a moment to get her bearings. She stood in a narrow lane that ran alongside the inn, and just on the other side of the lane stretched the moorland into which Simon, Marco, and Dalton should have fled. They’d wait for her, but not forever. Right now, Dalton was their most important resource, and they’d get him to safety as soon as possible. Simon and Marco trusted her to take care of herself if they became separated.

  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.”