Olivia Twist(9)

The shift in Dodger’s expression reminded Olivia of shutters locking tight against a storm. In two strides, he crossed the room and slammed Critch against the shelves, china cups and dishes crashing to the floor at their feet. His face inches from the sniveling Critch, Jack rumbled, “The Dodger’s dead and buried, you hear?”

Critch nodded, a droplet of crimson drawing a line down the pale skin of his throat where Dodger pricked him with a knife that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

“And if I hear of you even whispering that name in your sleep, Critch—” Dodger’s face appeared flat as stone, but the vein in his neck pulsed visibly as he snarled, “You’ll be joining him.”

Dodger gave the terrified Critch a final slam against the shelving, sending a ceramic bowl smashing to the floor, and then turned his flame-blue gaze on Olivia. Her racing pulse stuttered to a halt as he stalked toward her, grasped her upper arm, and steered her toward the door. Brom growled low, digging in his feet. But before she could feel relief at her dog’s heroics, Dodger poked the side of Brom’s neck with two fingers and commanded, “Quiet.”

All the tension left Brom’s body as Dodger took the leash from Olivia’s stunned fingers and led them both into the street.

So much for her loyal guard dog.

“No need to pout, Miss Brownlow. Your mutt merely senses I’m no danger to you.”

Yet. He didn’t say it, but the implied threat in the tone of his voice sent a series of chills skittering down Olivia’s spine, making her knees go weak. He tightened his grip on her arm, supporting her weight until she regained the strength in her legs. What had she been thinking to follow him?

Long gone was the charming Irish gentleman, fake accent and all. Her survival instincts kicking in, Olivia squared her shoulders and spoke over the clatter of horse’s hooves and squeak of wagon wheels against cobblestone. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

Dodger steered them around a pair of street peddlers. One shouted the virtues of rat poison, while the other pushed rag dolls in Olivia’s face, until Brom snapped at her and she scurried away. They turned onto a side street and passed a row of women washing bottles outside a tavern, two of the three stopping their work to stare openly at Dodger. Olivia couldn’t say as she blamed them. She chanced a glance at his profile, the distinct slope of his nose, his black hair resting against the sun-kissed skin of his neck, firm lips relaxed in a perpetual smirk. Olivia shook her head. It would never do. “You’re going to need a better disguise than a beat-up hat pulled over your eyes if you hope to convince everyone you’re dead.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw, and Olivia felt his entire body tense. But honestly, she should know. She’d learned a few things spending the first nine years of her life masquerading as a boy.

“People see what they want to see,” he replied as they turned down a side street.

“Precisely. And it would seem quite a few people wish to see you.”

They turned another corner and stopped. He still held her elbow as he looked down at her, something flaring in his gaze. Respect? Anger? Recognition? He stood so close she couldn’t think, except to notice she only had to tilt her head a bit to see the blue of his eyes. He was barely half a head taller than she was, but his athletic build and the way he carried himself made him appear much larger. His fingers tightened on her arm, burning into her flesh. Brom gave a mournful whine, and Olivia stepped back, yanking her arm from Dodger’s grasp.

They were in a narrow, dead-end passage surrounded on three sides by brick buildings, and, according to the smell, very near the river. Olivia grabbed Brom’s leash and watched as Dodger moved to lean against a wall near the mouth of the alley, crossing his arms over his chest.

He watched her for several seconds before asking in a level voice, “Why were you following me?”

Olivia clenched her hand into a fist and threw out a question of her own. “Why were you robbing the Platts?” Her conscience pricked a bit as she thought of the silver frog. But she had her reasons.

He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Because I can.”

It was so typically Dodger that Olivia bit her lip to keep from smiling. He’d once picked the pocket of an on-duty constable, simply because one of the other boys insisted it could not be done. He’d not only taken the copper’s wallet, but his baton and cuffs as well. “Dodger . . .”

He pushed off the wall, his eyes chips of ice. “It’s Jack.” He stopped in front of her, arms still crossed over his chest. “How is it you think you know me, Miss Brownlow?”

For a fleeting moment, Olivia considered telling him the truth. But the impassive look on his face stopped the words from forming. Instead, she curled her lips and arched an eyebrow in a flirtatious expression she’d seen her cousin, Francesca, use to her advantage with men on several occasions. “What, you don’t remember me?” She tilted her head. “I’m hurt.”

He closed the space between them in a single step. His legs brushed her skirts, and Olivia drew in a startled breath. His scent filled her senses; crisp and clean like the air after a hard rain. In a quick, fluid motion, he untied the ribbon holding her silk cap in place and removed it from her head. His eyes roamed over her face, and her heart beat so hard she felt it in her throat. He leaned forward, bracing one hand against the wall above her head and bent close, his breath tickling the hairs by her ear. “I would never claim to be a saint, Miss Brownlow.” His voice, soft and rich, melted her insides like butter. “But you, I would’ve remembered.”