by Zoë Archer
The unknown beckoned. And she would willingly embrace it.
Eva rushed toward the door leading back down to the house.
Simon was right behind her. When they reached the parlor, he said, “Wait.”
“There isn’t time.” It was almost noon. Only thirty minutes until Jack’s train left.
He took her hand and pressed a coin into it. “Cab fare.”
She was on the street and waving down a hansom seconds later. The driver looked dubious as she climbed into the cab—a respectable woman on her own in broad daylight would never take a hansom—but he was more than amenable when she waved money at him.
“Euston Station,” she commanded. “Fast as you can.”
With a snap of the ribbons, the cab pulled out. The driver kept to her instructions, speeding the hansom around pedestrians and slower-moving vehicles. People cursed after them as they raced through the streets. She braced her hand on the cab’s front panel. Her heart pounded, but not from the speed. The timepiece in her pocket revealed the hour to be twenty minutes past twelve. Passengers were likely boarding the train.
The cab lurched to a stop, then crawled forward as traffic around the station thickened. Everywhere were carriages, coaches, wagons, people.
“There has to be a way around,” she called up to the driver.
“Sorry, miss,” he answered. “It gets like this round the height of the day. Nothing to do for it but wait it out.”
She banged her fist against the side of the cab in frustration. There wasn’t much time.
“I’ll walk the rest of the way.” She threw Simon’s coin at the driver, then jumped down from the cab. Weaving her way quickly through the traffic, she saw the soaring Doric columns that marked the entrance of Euston Station up ahead. The moment she could, she broke from the snarl of people and vehicles and ran full-out toward the station.
She dashed beneath the massive portico and into the station’s Great Hall, heedless of the curious looks she received from travelers. For a moment, she stood beneath the hall’s soaring ceiling, trying to get her bearings.
A uniformed porter passed by, and stared at her with surprise when she grabbed his arm. “The twelve-thirty to Liverpool,” she demanded. “What platform?”
“Platform five, miss. But—”
She shoved a coin into his hand and sprinted off. The crowds were thick, passengers and luggage thronging the platforms, and she ducked and twisted through the mob as she made her way toward platform 5.
Please please please don’t let me be too late.
There. Just ahead. Tearing free from the crowd, she ran to the platform.
Just in time to see the train pulling out.
She sprinted after it, calling Jack’s name—though she knew he’d never hear her above the shrill whistle or sound of the engine. The train left the station in a cloud of steam. She trotted to a stop, watching the last carriage grow smaller, then disappear as the track curved. It felt like the disappearance of hope itself.
No—this wasn’t failure. As Simon had revealed to her, she’d fought for others, now she would fight for herself and for Jack. There were other trains to Liverpool. And if his ship sailed before she could reach it, there were other ships that voyaged to Boston. Whatever it took, for however long, she’d find him.
Intending to head straight to the ticket office, she turned.
Jack stood right behind her.
Neither of them seemed capable of movement or speech for several moments. They simply stared at each other. He looked as stunned as she felt.
Hand shaking, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the bead from her gown. “Forgot this.”
“I’ve got another.” He plucked the tiny piece of glass from his coat’s breast pocket. It looked like the smallest bit of punctuation between his thick fingers. Then he tucked it away, right beside his heart.
They spoke at the same time. “You came.” “You stayed.”
She shook her head. “Let me…” Stepping closer, her heart pounding in her throat, she said, “My work is important—but there are people who need justice all over the world. There’s only one you. I…” Her mouth went dry, but she pressed on. “I love you, Jack.”
He closed his eyes, and a tremor ran through him. It stunned her, to see such a large, strong man so shaken. Doubt crept poisonously into her mind. Had he changed his mind? Did he no longer want her? She couldn’t truly blame him if he turned away, but if he did, she’d do whatever she must to get him back.
“I was afraid,” she continued.
“Afraid?” He opened his eyes, looking angry that she might even suggest such a thing. “I’ve seen you storm a brothel crawling with bullies. You marched through the roughest neighborhood in London. Frightened women don’t do things like that.”
“Being with you,” she said, “seeing who I could become—it all taught me something about courage. It’s more than staring down the barrel of a gun. It means running through Euston Station like a madwoman, hoping that it’s not too late to share my life with you.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Please tell me it isn’t too late.”
To the shock and scandal of everyone on platform 5, he pulled Eva tight against him and kissed her. She ignored the gasps of outrage, aware only of him, his mouth, his unguarded need. For her.
It was as though all the meaningless nonsense in the world arranged itself into a poem of aching beauty and clarity.
He pulled back just enough to growl, “Goddamn, I love you. From the first time I saw you, pointing a gun at me, I knew you’d be either my death or my salvation.”
“Not death,” she said. “Not salvation. We are each other’s future.”
EPILOGUE
Manchester, England, 1887
“It’s a jab, a straight right, then a left hook.” Jack demonstrated the combination for the crowd of boys gathered around him. “Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused.
“Not sir,” he corrected. “Either call me Jack or Mr. Dutton, but I’m nobody’s sir.”
Shyly, the boys nodded.
“All right,” he said, clapping his hands, “I want to see everyone practice the combination. And if you’ve got any questions, be sure to ask me.”
The boys broke from their ring surrounding him and began to go over the moves. He walked up and down, making necessary adjustments, offering encouragement. One thing these lads didn’t get enough of outside the school—praise. But when they came to Dutton’s Boxing and Academic Training, he made sure that their mistakes were corrected but their efforts were cheered.
The place had a fancy name, but there wasn’t anything fancy about it. The warehouse he and Eva had converted had a leaky roof, the boxing ring wasn’t more than ropes tied to posts he’d hammered into the ground, and the desks Eva used for tutoring children were mismatched, usually broken castoffs.
But he felt a strange thing when he stood as he did now, watching the rows of boys practicing their boxing combinations and hearing Eva in the next room taking a dozen girls and boys through their mathematics—pride.
They’d made this, him and Eva. It took hard work, and they weren’t living a plush life, but it was theirs.
They’d debated for a while where they would settle. With a new name, a new identity, he could go anywhere. Jack honestly hadn’t cared about where he went, so long as he was with her. So they ultimately decided on Manchester. Less worry that he might run into someone who’d recognize him as Diamond Jack Dalton, but close enough that if the London branch of Nemesis needed them, they were easily reached by telegram and train.
“All right,” he called out after several minutes, “that’s enough for today. Anyone who wants to stay and take lessons with Mrs. Dutton is welcome to.”
It never failed to surprise and please him how many of the boys chose to stick around and work on their learning. It also never failed to fill him with heat and pleasure to call Eva missus. They’d been married almost a year ago in a little, out-of-
the-way church, with the Nemesis operatives as witnesses, and he’d never felt bigger or stronger than he had when she’d said, I do thee wed.
He now ambled over to the partition that served to divide the warehouse—boxing studio on one side, school on the other. Leaning against the door he’d cut into the partition, he watched Eva walking up and down the rows of desks. Just as he’d done with the boxing practice, she stopped here and there to help one of her students with a knotty mathematics problem, or give a pat on the head and praise to the children.
Not all of the children made it out of the grip of poverty. Sometimes the students dropped out to work longer hours at the factories, and he and Eva never saw them again. Sometimes the students just disappeared. But some of the children found a way out, and that was the best he and Eva could hope for.
She caught him watching and smiled, before returning to her work. More warmth spread through him. He’d lie awake at night, half afraid to fall asleep in case he might wake up to find himself back in Dunmoor, and everything had been a dream. But every morning, he was still in the bed he shared with Eva, and she’d snuggle her sleek, naked body against him—and he forgot everything about fear.
He and Eva had new identities, but some things from the past stayed with them. He still had a scar around his ankle from his shackles. Just as her hand was scarred from the nail that had stabbed her.
Battle scars, she called them. They’d have them forever.
He felt a tug on his sleeve and turned. A young girl in a threadbare dress and ragged shoes stood there, her eyes wide and pleading.
“Please,” she whispered, “I’ve got nowhere else to turn. They said I was to find you and your missus.” She trembled.
He placed a reassuring hand on her thin shoulder. “You did the right thing, my dear. Go and wait in the kitchen, and fix yourself a cup of tea. Me and my wife’ll be along in just a minute.”
Tears gleamed in her eyes. Gratitude. “Thank you, sir.” She hurried off to the little kitchen that was right beside the boxing area.
He and Eva had picked Manchester for a reason. A city like this never had a shortage of people who needed justice, who needed someone to listen and to help. Though he and Eva worked for justice, they never pulled their punches going after it. Ruthless as Nemesis, they were. They had to be.
When a situation got too rough for only Jack and Eva to handle, other Nemesis operatives would come up from London to lend a hand. And a few times, he and Eva had been called down to the city. They were all Nemesis now, no matter what part of the country served as home.
Eva had written to her parents, telling them of her marriage and the school she’d established in Manchester. To her utter shock, they seemed to approve—of both ventures. Though she never said it aloud, he knew their approval made her happy, which was all he ever wanted.
Entering the classroom, he walked up to Eva. The pleasure in her face at his approach faded when she saw his frown.
“We’ve got another little bird,” he murmured.
She understood at once. Turning to one of the older students she said, “Clara, you’re in charge. There’s something important I have to do.”
“Yes, missus,” Clara said.
Together, he and Eva left the classroom and headed to the kitchen.
“What do we know?” she asked in a low voice.
“Nothing, yet. But the girl seems desperate.”
“They always are,” Eva said. Yet she sounded determined. Unshakable.
Jack stopped walking and took her in his arms. He kissed her—not a chaste little peck, but a deep kiss, full of heat.
“Not that I’m objecting,” she said when they broke apart, “but what was that for?”
“Because you’re the toughest woman I know,” he answered. “And because I love you.”
She gave him that look, the one that promised a long and busy night. “I love you, too.”
He could hear those words a thousand times and never tire of them. “Come on,” he said, linking their hands and leading her to the kitchen, “it’s time for us to deal out some vengeance.”
Read on for an excerpt from Zoë Archer’s next book
DANGEROUS
SEDUCTION
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
For several minutes, Simon simply watched her. Every so often, he’d lift the cigarette to his lips and take a drag, then slowly exhale smoke. He held the end between his index finger and thumb, which mysteriously fascinated her. All the chaps in Trewyn wedged their cigarettes between their index and middle fingers, but he made this ordinary action exotic. She tried not to watch him, focusing instead on her task, yet from the corner of her eye she caught small details: the shape of his lips as he drew on the end, the way he let his arm casually drop after each inhalation, how his fingers curled around the cigarette itself to keep it protected from the slight breeze. How smoke drifted up from his mouth in a way that was almost.… sensuous.
Alyce had seen dozens, maybe hundreds, of men smoking. But only he made it look like a rough seduction.
“You can’t smoke on the dressing floor,” she said without looking at him. It felt vitally important to act indifferent to him—a kind of balm after the fear that had twisted through her earlier.
He immediately knocked off the cigarette’s smoldering end and pinched it shut, then tucked it in his pocket. “Still learning the rules.”
“Is that why Constable Tippet came to see you?”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Five other men work in the engine house. Tippet could’ve been talking with any of them.”
She swung her hammer again, splitting apart another hunk of rock. “Abel, Bill, and the others, they know their place. The rules. Not you. There’s something about you that warrants keeping an eye on.”
“I’m harmless as eiderdown,” he answered, sticking his hands in his pockets.
She laughed at that. “Don’t forget, I saw everything last night.” Lifting her hammer once more, she said, “You’re anything but harmless.” She swung again and smashed apart more hunks of ore.
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 abo
ut 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.
