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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.
    “An improvement,” she said. “No one will give you a second look at the train station.” That was a lie. Gazes would be drawn to him, for he possessed a shadowed magnetism. It would be deuced difficult to hide him anywhere—another point against him. She would bring that up once they reached headquarters.
    He tucked the handkerchief into his discarded shirt, then bent to untie his boots. The movement brought him very close to her, so close that if she leaned forward a few inches, she could put her hands on his shoulders, her lips on the back of his head.
    Heat radiated from him, pressing close around her. She caught a trace of her own soap’s fragrance on him, as if they had been in a tight embrace and the scent of her skin had transferred to him.
    He looked up through his spiky lashes, and their gazes tangled. For a long, breathless moment, they simply stared at one another, suspended, ensnared.
    “Hurry up, Dalton.” Simon’s voice was clipped. “We’ll be at the station soon.”
    His words severed the threads binding her and Dalton. A wry smile curled at the corner of Dalton’s mouth, and he finished unlacing his boots. His striped wool stockings followed, revealing calves dusted with more dark hair. The sight of his large bare feet was primal, her own not unsubstantial feet appearing tiny