Run Wild (5 page)

“You lying little
wench!
” Nicholas snarled, jumping to his feet and immediately regretting it when his head clanged against the barred ceiling, adding a headache to his other pains.

She ignored him completely, appealing to Bickford. “Do
I
look like a thief?” she asked sweetly. “Now look at him—he’s obviously dangerous. Just look at those cold green eyes! The eyes of a born miscreant, I tell you—”

“Lady, you are lucky there are solid metal bars between us.” Nicholas fastened his hands around the bars as he wanted to fasten them around her throat.

Bickford merely looked annoyed. “Bah!” he spat on the floor. “You roused me from me bed fer this, lass?”

“But I tell you
he’s
the one who stole the silverware from Lady Hammond’s parlor, not me. I saw him myself! I’ll swear it before the magistrate—”

“The magistrate is at his country house and can’t be disturbed fer the likes o’ you. And I don’t have no say in lettin’ prisoners go once they’re in here.”

“But since you already have the
real
culprit there’s no point in taking me all the way to London. If I could just speak to the magistrate—”

“Ye’ll have to explain it to the judge in London, missy.” With a disgusted shake of his head, Bickford turned away. “He’ll sort it all out. Now I warn ye—I’ll not be listenin’ to any more of yer yawpin’, so quiet down.”

“No, wait!” She strained against the bars, reaching for him.

He kept walking. “Swinton and his men will be comin’ to collect ye both in the mornin’.”

“Wait!” she cried. “You can’t do this! You can’t—”

Bickford closed the door behind him and slammed the bar in place with finality.

The girl slumped against the bars of her cell, eyes closed, shaking. “
Damn
.”

“You treacherous, scheming little liar,” Nicholas spat each word with sharp malice.

“I can’t let them take me to London,” she whispered. “I
can’t
.”

“So you decided to send
me
to the gallows in your place.”

She gave him a glance that almost held a trace of remorse.

Almost.

“It was worth a try,” she muttered.

He studied her with disbelief. She was ruthless. Which made her dangerous.

Not qualities he admired in a female.

“Face of an angel,” he appraised coldly, “but no heart to go with it.”

Her gaze held equal distaste for him. “I didn’t see you leaping to
my
assistance when that guard was trying to... to have his way with me.”

“I look out for myself,
angel
. If you’re looking for some gallant, lackwit knight who makes a habit of rescuing damsels in distress, you’ve got the wrong man. You’re on your own.”

“That’s perfectly fine by me,” she shot back. “I’m used to it. I prefer it that way.”

“That makes two of us.”

They glared at one another silently.

Eyes like stolen treasure
, he thought,
the face of an angel, curves that could tempt a saint into sin... and a ruthless heart
.

That sense of foreboding prickled up the back of his neck again. A sense that this devious beauty had some part to play in the divine retribution God had in store for him.

That somewhere above, God was already chuckling with anticipation.

D
awn. It must be dawn by now. Samantha felt as if she had been here for hours. Days. A lifetime. The pounding of her heart marked off each unbearable second.

She sat pressed against the rear wall of her cell, her spine rigid, her gaze locked on the door at the far end of the gaol. The foul air wrapped around her like a musty fog. Her breath came in shallow little gasps.

The guards had said they would return at dawn.

She kept running one hand along a tear in her yellow skirt. Over and over, as if she could somehow repair the damage with only a touch. Of course she couldn’t. She knew that. But it was her only good gown. And now it was ruined. Ruined beyond repair. Like everything else.

The torches had burned almost out. Surely it was dawn. A bead of perspiration trickled down her neck.

Any moment now, the massive door would swing open. The marshalmen would take her to London, where Uncle Prescott lived.

Her stomach lurched with nausea. The London magistrates—his friends—would need only one look at her to know the truth. To recognize exactly whom they had in custody. To realize that Miss Samantha
Delafield
, wanted for various thefts throughout the English countryside, was in fact Miss Samantha
Hibbert
, long-lost, wayward niece of Prescott Hibbert. Her uncle would be notified. He would come to collect her.

And then he would have her killed.

Or worse.

After all, Prescott Hibbert was one of the most powerful and respected magistrates in all of London.

And her guardian.

An icy tremor went through her and she dropped her gaze from the door. She drew her knees up to her chest, locking her arms around them. But she could not stop trembling.

He could do anything he wanted to her. And it would all be perfectly legal. No one would help her. No one could protect her. No one would believe the truth.

She swallowed hard. If no one had been willing to believe her when she was sixteen, they certainly wouldn’t believe her now. Back then, she had been a naive innocent, newly arrived from the country with her sister Jessica, both of them still in shock over the loss of their parents. But now...

Now she was a wanted woman. A criminal. Alone. On the run since that horrible night she had been forced to flee London.

No one would believe a word she said.

And the charge of attempted murder would be more than enough to ensure her execution.

She was trapped. She was...

Helpless.

Sam closed her eyes, hating that feeling, that word, more than any other. When she fled the city six years ago—without a shilling to her name, with nothing but the clothes on her back—she had vowed that she would never be helpless again. That she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. That she would never be forced to depend on anyone, ever.

Opening her eyes, unwrapping her arms from around her knees, she braced her hands against the cool stone floor and forced herself to stop trembling. For six years she had made her own way in the world—and she hadn’t accomplished that by giving into panic and despair. Or any emotions.

The only way to survive was to keep moving forward, always forward. Away from the past, from the fear... the pain.

She took a deep, steadying breath, touching the filigreed needle case pinned over her heart, hearing a voice in her memory.
You’re the strong one, Sam
. Jessica’s voice. Sweet, kind Jessica, so fragile and pale as she lay in her sickbed, whispering as she pressed the cherished heirloom into Samantha’s palm.
You’ve always been the strong one
.

Sam blinked to clear the hot dampness from her eyes. She would have to be stronger than ever now. This was no time to suddenly change into a feather-witted, fragile female.

Her mind working quickly, she glanced at the distant door, trying to think of some way to escape. There were no weapons at hand. And fighting the marshalmen had failed. And trying to trick her way past the gaoler had only made her predicament worse...

Cautiously, for the first time in hours, she slanted a glance to her left, to the man who would be traveling with her—the surly rogue with the black eye, swollen lip, and blood-spattered clothes.

Unfortunately for her, he looked like the type to harbor a grudge.

Lying on his back with his eyes closed, he didn’t appear particularly threatening at the moment. In truth, despite the fact that he was about to be transported to London, he seemed rather relaxed, his sinewy frame stretched out comfortably, one arm cocked behind his head. The fabric of his shirt stretched taut over distressingly powerful muscles, the white sleeve making his hair and beard look blacker than sin.

She almost thought he was asleep. But after a moment, as if he sensed her regard, he opened his eyes and looked her way.

His gaze cut into her like ice, sharp and unforgiving. And beneath that cold surface she sensed something more sparkling in that emerald glare. Something... hungry and male. It made her shiver almost as much as the thought that he might happily throttle her with his bare hands, given half a chance.

And she had no doubt he could do exactly that. His hands appeared just as large and strong and forceful as the rest of him. He looked like a man who
had
throttled people with his bare hands.

The thought sent a shudder down her spine, but she refused to drop her gaze from his, returning his cool animosity in full measure. Never show weakness. Not with a man. Especially a man much larger and stronger than oneself. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

After a moment, the harsh line of his mouth curved upward in an amused expression and he closed his eyes, apparently unconcerned about either her animosity or the trouble he was in.

Sam frowned. Perhaps the rogue thought that because he was innocent of the accusations against him, he could relax and simply explain everything to the judge in London.

Well,
she
wasn’t innocent. She was guilty as charged.

And she had no intention of going to London.

A sound outside the door made her flinch. The bar and chains clattered. The hinges groaned.

Faced with the moment she had been expecting for hours, she suddenly felt her stomach drop to her toes.

Bickford stepped inside with his lantern, whistling a cheery tune, ignoring the annoyed curses of the awakened prisoners. The marshalmen followed: one... two... three of them, carrying ropes and enough guns to do battle with a brigade. A fifth man—a hulking, swarthy brute she hadn’t seen before—accompanied them, dragging a large sack along the floor.

Sam lifted her chin and rose slowly, gracefully, as if she were in an earl’s parlor rather than a stinking gaol cell. With all the poise her nannies and tutors had instilled, she smoothed her torn skirts and prepared to face whatever she must.

The coarse quintet chortled over some shared joke as they walked toward her.

The rogue in the cell next to hers didn’t get up. Didn’t move a muscle or do anything... but yawn.

Swinton came to stand before her door, an evil gleam in his black eyes. “Mornin’, yer ladyship.” Like a cruel boy tormenting a caged animal, he raked the butt of his pistol back and forth across the bars.

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t reply. She kept her gaze level, her features composed, raising one brow in a purposely haughty expression that usually helped to distance those she wanted to keep away.

“Over here, Swinton.” Bickford searched through the keys on his ring. “Let’s take care of this one first. On yer feet, mate.”

The rogue—it was becoming easy to think of him that way—got up slowly, holding his ribs as if in pain. He stumbled and leaned heavily against the bars, forced to crouch by the ceiling that couldn’t quite accommodate his more than six-foot height.

The marshalmen arranged themselves in a half-circle outside his cell, guns pointed at his broad chest. “If ye make one wrong move...” one threatened, letting the sentence hang.

“No need for violence,” their target said quietly, wincing.

His voice sounded dark and cool, as if it came from the depths of the sea. Something about it brought an odd little flutter to Sam’s stomach.

“W-we should’ve hired an extra hand or two.” The youngest of the guards couldn’t seem to hold his weapon steady. He had a thicket of red hair, wide blue eyes—and a large bruise on his jaw. “Don’t ye think? After the way he cut up Tibbs last night? There’s still time to hire an extra hand or two, ain’t there, Leach?”

“Forget it, Tucker,” the first man replied. “We’re already splittin’ the money four ways.”

“And I ain’t splittin’ it five or six,” Swinton growled, cocking his pistol with an ominous click. “Get yer hands up where I can see ’em, mate.”

“Easy, lads.” Bickford found the key and fitted it into the lock. “Don’t forget he’s worth fifty pounds.”

“The reward don’t say nothin’ about a few holes here and there.” Leach cocked his weapon as well.

The rogue didn’t move, silently studying the array of weapons facing him.

Then he slowly raised his hands.

Bickford turned the key and opened the door, motioning him to step out. As soon as he did so, the marshalmen closed in around him, Leach and young Tucker grabbing him by the arms. They spun him around and shoved him up against the bars—while Swinton pressed a gun to his temple and Bickford hurried to get out of the way. The portly gaoler retreated a few paces and drew his own weapon.

Yanking the rogue’s arms behind his back, they swiftly tied his hands with one of the ropes. Though the bonds looked painfully tight, he didn’t flinch. His jaw remained firm, his eyes unblinking.

“Are ye ready there?” Bickford called to the fifth man who had accompanied them inside.

“Aye, Mr. Bickford, sir.” The swarthy giant, who had hung back warily until now, came closer and emptied his sack onto the floor. A tangle of metal spilled out with a crash. To Sam’s eyes, the debris appeared to be either strange weapons, devices of torture, or—