He eyed the pieces of rock. “I could say the same about you. My arms ache just watching.”

“Can’t get paid if I don’t keep swinging. Besides,” she added, “I’ve been spalling nearly seven years now, ever since I got big and strong enough to wield the hammer. Before that, I was carting away deads.” She nodded toward a group of girls carrying barrows heaped with the discards and rubbish that remained after the ore had been cleaned and sorted. “That’s not light work, either.”

Lifting her arm, she flexed. “This isn’t a fine lady’s arm. Not a bit soft.”

She almost jumped when he reached out and gently squeezed her bicep. It was a quick, impersonal touch, but it made her heart leap like a miner catching his first sight of daylight.

“It’s a powerful arm,” he said. “Much better than a limb that’s yielding and weak.”

Was he having her on? From what he’d said about himself, he’d been around working women for years, so he wouldn’t be shocked by a female with muscles. But, outside of mines and factories, women were supposed to be supple, delicate creatures. She’d seen a few fashion journals—though they’d been at least two years out of date. All the ladies in those magazines had smooth, white arms. One could hardly think they had bones, let alone muscles.

Proud as Alyce was of her strength, she knew she wasn’t the height of femininity. Dainty women didn’t put bread on the table. Men did have their fantasies about what women were supposed to be, and that didn’t necessarily mean a woman who could wield a bucking iron.

Yet she thought she saw real admiration in Simon’s gaze, and his voice was low and earnest.

He liked that she was strong. Just as much as she did. A quick, swift pleasure coursed through her.

The constant thump and clatter of the dressing floor stopped. All of the bal-maidens and the other workers stared at her and Simon with open fascination. Women normally didn’t go about flexing their arms and men didn’t squeeze their biceps. Especially not a man and a woman who’d met just the day before.

Damn, there’ll be talk all over the village.

“You’d best be getting back to manning the pump engine. We can’t have our lads swimming down there.”

“That we can’t.” He started to turn from her, then stopped. “Does Tippet report to anyone?”

“Why? Do you want to lodge a complaint against him?” The very idea made her laugh.

He shrugged. “Just wondering if he’s the final word here.”

“It’s the managers who run the circus,” she answered.

“Not the owners?”

She snorted. “They’re snug and oblivious in Plymouth. So long as their profits keep coming, they don’t give a parson’s belch what happens at Wheal Prosperity.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s why you came out here, to ask me about Tippet and the fat-bellied owners?”

It was his turn to chuckle. “I’m just a machinist. As the good constable phrased it, I’m only a cog in the engine. If I’m desperate enough to take this job, I wouldn’t do a bloody thing to make me lose it.”

She had to admit, that made sense. Still she pressed, “Then why’d you come out here?”

He grinned, and she thought she heard some of the other women sigh. “Maybe I find a nice bit of sunshine in your company.”

He tipped his cap at her, and then at the other bal-maidens, before strolling back to the engine house. He didn’t look back.

Once he’d gone, Alyce felt dozens of eyes on her. She stared them all down, until everyone returned to their hammering, shoveling, and carting. She, too, got back to work, but the arm he’d touched continued to pulse with the echo of sensation, and she turned the words over and over, like pretty, smooth stones.

Much better than yielding and weak. I find a nice bit of sunshine in your company.

Careful, she warned herself. He’s still just a stranger. A flirtatious stranger, but unknown, just the same. And if the eyes of the law were on him, she needed to keep a protective distance. She couldn’t make a difference at the mine if the managers and constabulary watched her every move. Better to keep away from Simon—the bright blue of his eyes and his warm grins and the way he matched her, thought for thought, the way no other man in the village had ever been able to.

It was the right choice to hold him off. Yet when she swung her hammer again, it felt a little heavier, as if the pull of gravity had grown stronger.


Praise for SWEET REVENGE

“Sweet Revenge is an intense, fast-paced read. A strong plot, memorable characters, genuine emotions—not to mention plenty of heat. What more can a reader want?”

—Sherry Thomas, author of Tempting the Bride

“Sweet Revenge is a sexy, action-packed romance with a to-die-for hero and a true love that will make you swoon.”

—New York Times bestselling author Courtney Milan

“A dark, riveting tale from beginning to end. Zoë Archer’s books are not to be missed!”

—USA Today bestselling author Alexandra Hawkins


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zoë Archer is an award-winning romance author who thinks there’s nothing sexier than a man in tall boots and a waistcoat. As a child, she never dreamed about being the rescued princess, but wanted to kick butt right beside the hero. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she now applies her master’s degrees in Literature and Fiction to creating butt-kicking heroines and heroes in tall boots. She is the author of the acclaimed Blades of the Rose series and the paranormal historical romance series, The Hellraisers. She has also written the steampunk romances, Skies of Fire and Skies of Steel. Zoë and her husband, fellow romance author Nico Rosso, live in Los Angeles. Please visit her on the Web at http://www.zoearcherbooks.com.