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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,