The coach rocked in time with Jack’s heaving innards. He stared at the filth littered upon the hack’s floor. A button lay there, cracked on one edge. His skin pricked with cold sweat, but at his side was warmth. Mary. She held on to him. She hadn’t left, damn her. As much as he wanted to let her go, jump from the coach, and run away until he could catch a normal breath, he held on to her too.
Thankfully, she did not speak as they made their way to God knew where. But the questions would be coming. She always wanted to know more. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. Hell, he refused to think about it a second longer. Memories were acid to his insides.
Black rage hovered at the edges of his sight. Hell’s bells, just seeing that bastard. He flinched. His soul screamed for justice. Go back. Finish him. A soft touch stayed his jerking movements, her thumb brushing over his split knuckles. Jack took a shallow breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should not have gone today, and bollocks to his pride.
The coach rolled to a stop, and Mary descended before he could make himself move to assist her. They were at the end of a small, crooked lane. An older pocket of London, so very dark, with squat wooden houses leaning against each other for support. Hard-packed dirt competed with broken cobbles, and in grimy windows, shadows moved.
Despite the gloom, Mary’s step was lively. She tugged him along, and he realized that she once again had caught up his hand in hers. The embrace felt good, as if he should settle in and stay there.
Mary led them to an ancient, Tudor-style house, its windows comprised of dark bottle glass and heavy lead lattices. The battered wood-and-iron door swung open with ease. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimness, the heady scent of roasting meat making his mouth water even as the smoky interior had his eyes stinging.
It was a tavern, though the patrons appeared to be more interested in eating than drinking. Several tables were filled, men and, surprisingly, women hunched over their meals while conversing in low tones. Heavy green bottles of wine sat on many a table, though a barmaid wove through the crowd, distributing pints of ale as she went. At the far end of the room, a large fire roared in the massive stone hearth. An older woman worked at a grill set up over the fire, and the hiss of sizzling meat grew higher as she flipped thick steaks. Jack swallowed hard at the scent it gave off. Even soul-sick, he yearned for a bite.
A few nodded to Mary in greeting as she towed Jack along to a dark corner table. Deftly she removed her cloak and hat, hanging them upon a hook. His flesh jumped as she smoothed her hands over his chest and eased his coat away. Her touch was fleeting, perfunctory, and still his heart banged against his ribs and his body grew greedy for more, even as she turned to hang his coat, even as she guided him into a chair and then took her own.
“What is this place?” His throat was raw, his words coming out rough yet weak. He did not like to be around others. It made him twitchy. But the feel of the place soothed. The murmur of voices—content and constant—and the scent of meat in the air settled him in small ways.
A lamp illuminated the table and bathed Mary’s features with golden light. “Safe.” She glanced around, and he did too. There was something about the patrons. They all appeared fairly young, healthy, attractive. He sat up straighter, becoming aware of the soft whirring sound that filled the room. Hearts. Many clockwork hearts. GIM.
Jack gave a small start of surprise. GIM did not, to his knowledge, congregate en masse. Like shifters, they were solitary creatures. And as objects of suspicion, they tended to keep to the shadows of the underworld. Jack slid his gaze away as a few men glared at him. He wouldn’t cause trouble for Mary. Not here.
Not when she was looking at him with expectation. Her eyes gleamed like polished topaz. “Our refuge.” She signaled to the barmaid. “And home to some of the best food in the city.” She grinned, and his breath caught. “Likely because the cook is French.”
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
She treated that as the lie it was and ordered them supper when the barmaid arrived. Jack took the opportunity to watch the two men sitting at the opposite wall as they tuned their fiddles. The gentle strains of the instruments relaxed him further.
They did not speak, and when the barmaid set down two platters of sizzling beefsteaks, they ate their meals. Oddly, the silence was not uncomfortable. Mary appeared in no hurry and seemed to enjoy her food. As for Jack, with each bite of the juicy grilled meat, a bit more warmth spread through him. A flagon of wine appeared before him, and he poured for Chase before helping himself. Slowly his shoulders eased, and the jitters that wracked his body quieted.