Olivia Twist(39)

When she dared glance back at him, their eyes locked for one heartbeat. Two. Three . . .

Did he feel what she felt? This visceral connection?

He cleared his throat, leaned back, and assessed her with a critical eye. “Much better. You should do this every time you’re in disguise.”

Instinctively, Olivia reached up to touch her cheek.

“Ach!” Jack captured her hand and held it away from her face. “You’ll smudge my masterpiece.”

He grinned, and she grinned back. His gaze shifted to her mouth. Then with a shake of his head, he dropped her hand. “Whatever you do, do not smile.”

Olivia felt her face fall at his harsh words. But as he stepped around her and swiped his palms together, ash falling in a cloud to the ground, she heard him mumble, “Those dimples could kill a man.”

With a chuckle, she snatched up her sack and practically skipped back out to the street.

As they neared the river, its eternal reek caused Olivia to endeavor to inhale through her mouth. A lone ferry whistle echoed through the fog, signaling the one o’clock boat, the last of the night, leaving from Warren’s Blacking Factory. This was much earlier than Olivia usually dared venture out on her own.

As if to illustrate her point, a group of men exited Warren’s, their boasting laughter preceding them down the sidewalk. Their clothes were stained such a flat, unrelenting black that the white of their faces appeared disembodied until they stepped into one of the sparse pools of lamplight.

Jack handed Olivia Brom’s leash and then casually moved a hand inside his jacket, where she suspected he would have one of several knives. Olivia preferred not to carry weapons. Having no training to wield them, she relied on her intellect to get her out of sticky situations. Well, that and the mass of fur and muscle by her side.

The men drew closer, and from what Olivia could make out, their exuberance was in anticipation of a visit to the Golden Crown, a tavern known for their strong ale and pretty serving wenches. They seemed harmless enough, and Olivia knew how to go unnoticed. Keeping a firm hold on Brom’s leash, she tugged her hat down and hunched her shoulders. Brom would follow her lead, unless someone gave him reason not to.

As the men approached, Olivia drifted toward the street to give them a wide berth. Jack, she noticed at the last second, moved around the group in the opposite direction, toward the river side of the path. Keeping her eyes fixed ahead, she calculated how much longer it would take to get to the Hill. She gasped when a thick arm blocked her path.

“I was talkin’ to you, boy. Think yer too good for me or somethin’?” Olivia took a step back and followed the line of the burly arm to a face covered in orange muttonchops. Brom snarled, but Olivia gave his leash a quick yank to quiet him.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.” Olivia dipped her head in a deferential nod.

“What are ye doin’ out so late? Don’cha know there’s a price for young ones like you?”

Olivia glanced around, noticing she was surrounded on three sides by men reeking of acrid, tar-like polish. She coughed as the smell stung the back of her throat. A warning rumble began in Brom’s chest.

“Leave the boy. We’ve other business to attend to,” one of the men suggested.

Gloved fingers reached out and grasped her face, tilting it up to the lamplight, and the stench of pitch almost made her gag. “Look at those eyes . . . like gold coins, and that delicate nose. I’m thinkin’ old Kutzle would pay a pretty penny for a girly boy like this.”

“Aye, or mayhaps enough credit to earn us all a night in heaven!” one of them shouted. All the men chortled in agreement.

With her heart pounding in her ears, Olivia jerked her face out of the man’s hand and let go of Brom’s leash. He snarled and leapt toward the bloke who’d touched her, knocking him to the ground. Olivia turned to run and crashed directly into a hard chest.

Almost blind with panic, it took her a moment to realize it was Jack who grasped her arms and steered her behind him.

“This boy’s under my protection. Leave him be.” Jack’s steely voice gave the men pause.

They seemed to freeze for a moment, before glancing at one another in question. As Brom returned to her side, Olivia prayed they would move on. There were four rough-looking factory workers, against one man, a girl, and her dog.

Muttonchops, back on his feet, clutched a bleeding wound on his arm and moved to the front of the group. “I’ve lost blood for this boy. Now, I’ll ’ave him.”

Jack pushed the hat back on his head and met the man’s glare with one of his own. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He stepped into the slightly taller man’s space and growled, “You choose.”

Then, as if by some invisible signal, Jack moved like lightning. He tossed his umbrella up, caught it in his right hand, and slammed the handle into Muttonchop’s chin with a loud crack. The man’s head flew back as he crumpled to the ground, out cold. But Jack didn’t stop. He punched the ruffian to his left in the mouth, and then twirled the brolly into his other hand, spun in a half circle, and rammed it into another man’s gut. Brom jumped into the fray. Hackles raised and jaws snapping, he forced one of the men out into the street.

Jack faced the last man and brandished the pointed end of the umbrella like a sword. The man backed away, wide-eyed, then turned tail and ran.