Author's Note: It's been a while (I have a terrible habit of making you wait, I know!) but finally a new chapter, with lots of Mercy/Tommy goodness for you, and lots of dialogue.
The car ride is here!
Enjoy, and stay safe and healthy in these strange and uncertain times!
"What does a girl like you want in a place like London, when her grandmother lives in a sooty little village outside of Birmingham?" Mercy supposed it was a somewhat tame question, and found herself a little grateful that her perceptive employer hadn't tried to dig too deeply, too quickly. As such, she quirked her head a little and looked over at him, hoping her admiration of his beauty wouldn't betray her.
"It's a good place for employment."
Tommy allowed his eyes to drift from the road to Mercy's sun-shot whisky gaze, filled with something akin to guarded appreciation and hesitance. "Better than my house?" There was a note of levity to his tone, and Mercy wore a teasing, irrepressible smile on those full, pink lips. It was almost a smirk, and it urged his keen need to strip her bare and own her completely.
Mercy, alight and unaware of his darkness, shot back with easy playfulness, "No. But you weren't looking for a nanny five years ago."
Five years ago would have seen Mercy, no more than a girl, aged only sixteen, and Tommy wondered how the shadow and filth of London hadn't sank its teeth into her and dragged her into something unsavoury, like it had so many other young women. There was an air of naivete that often made its way around Mercy, that captured her expression in a painting of childish innocence, and Tommy knew she'd not seen those shadows of the city.
"And what employment did you find? Plenty of opportunities for a pretty young woman in a big city." Tommy half expected her to bristle at the implication, but her eyebrows rose instead, and her tone took on a slightly metallic note of offence.
"Plenty of opportunities for anybody in 1919. The War left a lot of empty spaces… though I wouldn't dream of telling you that."
Tommy caught the steering wheel with his knees, and felt a smirk of victory run over his features at the way Mercy's eyes widened and her hands clenched over the leather of the seat, almost marking it wither her nails. He took another cigarette from the silver case and ran it over his bottom lip, tasting the promise of ash and smoke. "And why is that?" He lit up, returned the lighter and case to his pocket, and grasped the steering wheel again.
Mercy didn't miss the reminder that Mr. Shelby was in complete control, in every way, though it wasn't the reason for her softer tone and half-closed lids. "Because you were there. In France."
"And how do you know that." She recognised that he'd issued her a command, not a request, and while it rattled an ire within her throat it also stirred up something hot and indescribable that made her muscles tense and ache with equal force. It made her swallow in discomfort, and Tommy watched as her little red tongue darted out to comfort her pretty lips.
"The maids talk."
It was true, though if she were being completely honest – which she usually was – she'd overheard the maids talking to one another in the kitchen one evening, not long after her arrival, all giggles and whispers and conspiracy that she was not welcome to.
They'd said how Mr. Shelby was clever, and brave, and strong; a medal-winning hero, with hands hardened by the rough wood of heavy shovels.
Given that all she knew of Mr. Shelby then had been his glacial silence and haunted, frosted expression Mercy had relished in the information.
"Do they now?" Tommy snatched her from her memory, demanding her return to his attention, and she gave him a firm nod and cheeky grin at the hint of mockery towards his staff in his tone.
"Yes. They find you very impressive."
Tommy moved the cigarette from his mouth with a sense of victory and a thrill of deviance. He pinned her with his gaze, and enjoyed the flutter of surprise that danced over her features at his response. "Do you find me impressive?"
Mercy smiled, though her jaw was loose and the shock still etched into her forehead, her mouth stretching over her teeth for lack of a better response. A noise whispered from her throat, something alike a gasp and a laugh. The words spilled forward, as though something in Mr. Shelby's audacity had helped her find her own. "I find you oppressive; does that count?"
Tommy grinned. Now there was the nerve he had been pressing for, and a white fire lit beneath his skin, causing the shadows in his mind to scatter and flicker with manic satisfaction. "And this is before you spend a night with Ada. What a treat you'll be tomorrow."
Mercy laughed, low and little husky, blinking slowly as she recovered from the wicked glee that affected those sharp lines and soft lips. "I'm aware of my place in society, thank you very much; I like my place in society." And she did. She'd told her employer already that she had love for her job, love for Charlie. She was paid well for her service, and it was a service she gave gladly.
Tommy settled back into a self-satisfied expression, and took the bend a gentler speed this time, watching the movement of Mercy's lips as he mocked her: "Being oppressed by me?"
"Being paid by you for something I find a lot of joy in."
Tommy thought of other women he knew who found joy in their position, and who were paid handsomely for the joy they gave. That dark, demonic part of him wound to the forefront of his mind, where it played a picture of dark curls wrapped around his hand and an exhausted smile of sin and corruption on a satisfied, innocent face.
Did this little beauty have any idea who he really was? What he really was?
Did she have any idea what he wanted from her?
"And do you know where that money comes from? That money I pay you for your joy? The money you will be using today to buy pretty things from profiteering department stores?"
Mercy tried not to cough as the cigarette smoke moved in her direction, the breeze from Mr. Shelby's open window causing it to encircle her, and her eyes pricked a little with it as she nibbled at her lower lip and admitted honestly, and cautiously, "I know it comes from a medal-winning soldier."
Hadn't they spoken about this? Didn't he recall her endowing a title upon him that had collared him amused: 'criminal mastermind business mogul', was it? She knew more than his past, he was sure. "And what else do the maids say about where that money comes from?"
There was a pause, and Tommy could read her hesitation and trepidation. She didn't want to offend him, and Tommy couldn't help but enjoy the way she moved herself around him, accommodating his reputation, swilling and tasting words before they left her as she measured her nerve and let her sense win over. "That you have many businesses. Some are factories, some are races, some are pubs… some are not quite as legitimate." He shot her a glance out of the corner of his crystal eyes, and Mercy said with careful deference, "None seem to be any of my business."
Mercy wished she had something to drink: her mouth was dry and her throat felt half-closed as Mr. Shelby graced her with a look of amusement and black pleasure.
"Try telling that to the rest of my household staff."
Shrugging, Mercy watched him flick away his cigarette, her voice casual and eyes a little cooler, "I would, but the maids aren't likely to listen to the nanny's advice."
"Is that right?" Tommy halted a moment, registering the harsh way she swallowed, the light flush over her cheeks, and the darkening of light honey to deep ember in those captivating eyes. He could see why the maids didn't want to put themselves beside her. "Jealousy is a fine thing."
Laughing a little sharply, though not without genuine humour, Mercy's brain didn't bridle the words that left her, and she was thankful her tone was light and teasing, and not as accusatory as it might be. "They're only jealous because you give them cause to be."
"Do I?" Tommy smirked at her brazen comment, and turned his head for a moment longer than necessary to see the nerve in her gaze claw at her self-reproach. The nerve won, and an eyebrow quirked at him as her fingers flexed over the leather of the seat.
"The questions, the dinner, this drive to London – they are only jealous of me because they wish you paid them the same attention." Mercy thought back to Charlie's party and the way the maids had sneered at her when Mr. Shelby had left; she remembered the salmon thrown down in front of her by Dorothy as she sat to her employer's right at his ostentatious dining table. Mercy thought of their whispering and their shady looks her way any time Mr. Shelby was near them.
It was clear to her where her unpopularity stemmed from.
And Mr. Shelby was looking at her that way again. Like she was small and tasty and too easily caught, and he was huge and hungry and ready to strike. It should have frightened her. It didn't. "And why don't I pay them that attention?"
Mercy blinked. "I'm sure I don't know."
Tommy smirked, raised his eyebrows as if disappointed and all too satisfied by her ignorance. "Why do I pay you attention?"
Mercy's breath caught, and the pink blossomed in her skin again, uncertain and unwilling to chance a guess. She tried to measure her response, regulate her breathing, but too much silence had passed between them and Tommy threw her a look full of wickedness at the unbridled depth in her voice.
"I'm sure I don't know that either."
Eyes light and mocking, Tommy played along. "My, my. That's a lot that you aren't aware of, Miss Hale. I seem to have you in a position of weakness."
A tension hung heavy between them, and Mercy thought back to the hum of electricity that lulled Charlie to an easy slumber. A charge akin to that ruptured between them, but it made Mercy feel anything but tired. She forced a little laugh, shaking her head in an attempt to alleviate the strain. "You like having people in a position of weakness."
Tommy smiled, debauched thoughts passing between the monsters at the dark edges of his mind. He teased with inherited ease, enjoying her discomfort, watching her shift a little under the weight that pressed between them. That he was pressing into her. "Trademark of an oppressor."
Mercy hummed her agreement, "It's awfully predacious of you."
Tommy thought of how she liked to use sophisticated vocabulary to regain a sense of control and wetted his lips, fingers desperate to dig into the soft skin of her hips, her thighs; to leave little purple marks in the unmistakable shape of his fingertips that signed his control and authority all over her, that spoke louder and clearer of dominance than her clever words ever could. "Predacious is a fancy word for it." He gripped the steering wheel tighter, disappointed in a resistance he knew the curves of her body wouldn't show.
Mercy knitted her brows together, "For what?"
Tommy paused a little, deliberately teasing, and Mercy felt his words – calloused and somehow soft – cascade from the top of her and all the way down, "For saying that I like having you beneath me."
The noise she made was half a scoff at his implication, and half a laugh of disbelief, and she watched his self-satisfied eyes roam over her. If she'd had the capacity she would have worried over his perusal of her rather than the road, but her thoughts were taken up only by the image of him, and how much she didn't dare to want something from him.
Breaking his hold on her, Mercy looked out of the windshield, and almost muttered her reply, "More like you don't like having anybody above you."
There was a glint of filthy intent behind his eyes, and Tommy grinned with predatory darkness.
"I think you'll find there are certain situations where I am entirely flexible about having someone above me."
Paying her more mind than the road again, Tommy took delicious pleasure in the blush that overcame Mercy, even catching an enticing pink vivify the hollow of her throat. Shock brightened her lovely features, and those eyes that caught him and that mouth that invited him were wide and beautiful and innocent. Tommy's mind and smirk darkened in response.
Her voice was strained, even after she cleared her throat. "The maids certainly haven't mentioned that."
Mr. Shelby laughed, and Mercy was grateful for the way it sliced through some of the tension, allowing her a rare moment of reprieve to find her breathing pattern again and ease the ache in her throat. Tommy found himself enjoying their conversation in more ways than he anticipated, and he worked his jaw a little as he ran the steering wheel through his hands.
A pause, a mercy he allowed his beauty out of a generosity born from the good mood she put him in, and he began his questions again. "Did you find employment that brought you joy in London?"
Mercy let out a long breath, almost a sigh of relief, and contemplated her response, thinking back to old mahogany counters and jars filled with a thousand colours. "Yes and no. I worked in a sweet shop for the first year. Mr. Tessle, the owner, he was going to pass the store to his son, but he died in France. Ypres."
Hesitant to recall any memories of the war in her employer, Mercy left out details of the battle injuries the machine gun had ripped through Adam Tessle, and hoped – she told herself she did so because she was a lovely person – that Mr. Shelby wasn't filling in the blanks she left with his own imagination. His face remained impassive and cool, and his tone was level as always, "I see. And was Mr. Tessle a good employer?"
Mercy grinned, a little teasing, and nodded emphatically, her dark curls bouncing around whisky, wide eyes, "The best."
A little bit of possessive jealousy wound tight around the corded muscles of his forearms, and his grip tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Aye? And what did he do to earn such an honour?"
Mercy thought there was a taste of darkness, a shadow she hadn't seen before, that twisted in Mr. Shelby's countenance. Fighting the urge to run the gentle tips of her fingers over the cutting edge of his cheekbone, to soften the tight cold that had settled there, Mercy laughed happily, "Allowed me free sweets anytime I wanted."
A little disdainfully, Tommy countered, "And that's worth more than the wages I pay you and the roof over your head?"
Mercy grinned, feeling more relaxed and in her element as they continued, letting her mischievous nature free, "It is a very nice roof, but I have a sweet tooth and questionable priorities." She shot him a wide smile, and Tommy wanted to swallow it with his own mouth, "The first place I visited with Charlie was the village sweetshop."
Nodding slowly, Tommy's voice was soft and caressing, intent on tickling her skin, "Hence the bonbons in the gift bags."
Mercy hummed, still smiling, though with an added glimmer of something more heated than her usual warmth, "Yes. Did you try them? They're heavenly." The rapture in her tone did something to him, and he tightened again. It was harder than he wanted to admit to keep his hand from reaching over to the back of her neck, to drag her into him, to taste her fear and excitement and innocence…
He grunted low in his throat, shooting heat right through her, "Did Charlie try them?"
Mercy shook her head. "No. His teeth aren't fully through yet; I'll wait until then at least to corrupt him with delicious and irresistible flavours."
Her sarcasm prompted him back to teasing, "You plan to make my son an addict too?"
Fixing him with a pointed look, she responded easily, implication thick but her voice soft and easy. "There are worse vices to have."
"I'm aware." Looking at him so boldly had a thrill running over Tommy, and he asserted his control with practised ease to remind her that he liked when she played, but she shouldn't ever expect to win. "So, sugar and Mr. Tessle. My list of things you like grows."
Swallowing a little harder than necessary, Mercy looked away from him and back again, shaking away her surprise at the turn in conversation. Back outside of her element. Back to the dining table, and his folded newspaper, and the prying, undressing looks he levelled her with. "I didn't realise people were acceptable list material."
"Because I knew the people you interacted with until now."
Mercy's eyebrows quirked again, "Is that right?"
"Glenn, Margaret, Charlie." Tommy had made himself aware of her conversations, had seen her flutter in and out of the kitchens and laughing in the playroom with his stern housekeeper, who graced her with indulgent smiles. His son loved her, that was certainly an easy tell. And she loved him. That was easy to see too.
Mercy seemed surprised, all the same. "They're on the list?"
"Aye." Tommy smiled slyly, thinking of the growing dossier on his beautiful employee that he knew made her uncomfortable and unnerved. He knew his interest in her made her feel something more than that, but she was less willing to display that to him.
He didn't mind working for it.
Mercy's response was almost automatic, "I interact with you."
Tommy looked at her in that voracious style that made her shiver, watching it work its way through her body, and his voice was so coarse and ragged she felt it scathe over her tense muscles, "And do you like me?"
The car and the gravel it flew over made no sound, and the wind had stopped hissing through the window. No birds chirped, no trees rustled. It was muted silence, like everything had stopped, and her eyes wouldn't let her find air from the blue crystal she was smothered in.
Her voice was, thankfully, clear when it left her, "I don't know anything about you."
Tommy grinned, taking pleasure in the way she let him devour her. Taking pleasure in the way she seemed to warm him as he did. "That's because you haven't asked me any questions."
Her laugh was breathy, and short. She wound her own window down a little, the breeze playing with her curls, searching for air that seemed to escape her. "You don't exactly seem open to them."
Tommy raised a dark eyebrow, "And here I thought you didn't know anything about me."
"That hardly feels the same -"
His words were slow, but he was quick to finish her sentence with a thought of his own, to tease out that warmth in her cheeks and press her edginess at his presence. "As knowing you like hot baths and turn a pretty pink when you're caught off-guard in wet silk?"
He really did like making her uncomfortable, and Mercy felt the spark of heated annoyance and embarrassment flutter through her stomach. "Yes."
He tried not to revel in the victory of her sharp tone, watching in his peripheral vision as his words worked their way under her skin. "You know I fought in France. You know I don't like questions."
"I know you like knowing more about me than I know about you." Mercy felt the need to show him she knew what he was doing, and he only looked forward and nodded, gratification lurking in the corners of his sinful lips.
"Aye. What else?"
She eyed him warily, wondering what path he was leading her down now. "You don't like small talk." He made a noise of confirmation in the back of his throat, "You like whisky, and cigarettes. Cars?" He nodded once, shooting her a glance of amusement, "Salmon." She pulled a face that had him smiling, "Suits and razor blades." That one earned her a look of fire, though it didn't seem reproachful. He was impossible to read. She moved to safer ground. "Horses."
He jumped in before she could continue, revealing the reason he'd set her on that road.
"Employees in wet silk and stained purple dresses."
Mercy didn't think it was possible to be more flustered than she felt in that moment, and could only grin with humility and mutter out a response to knead away at the atmosphere they'd managed to light between them.
"I'll be sure to let the maids know."
Letting out a gruff laugh, Tommy took her in once more. He let his thoughts travel forward in time, to Ada's smoky drawing room, mindless chatter that was intended to impress, fake laughter and the knocking of crystal tumblers. He thought about silk, or satin, red, green, black, white – the feel of it beneath his fingers. The feel of her supple back pressed into his hard front.
It was going to be a wonderful evening.
My amazing readers, please review?
