“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.

“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.

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.