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 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.
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. 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 scoundrel 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 this 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 fift
y pounds.”
“The reward don’t say nothin’ about a few holes here and there.” The one named 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—
“Blacksmith’s tools,” her fellow prisoner said tightly. “What the devil do you need with those?”
His captors chuckled.
“We ain’t used to movin’ prisoners t’ither and yon,” Leach explained. “Usually we just holds ‘em fer the assize judge.”
“And we ain’t takin’ a chance of ye gettin’ away,” Tucker said.
The blacksmith plucked one item from the jumble on the floor—a chain made of heavy iron links, with a thick cuff at either end. About two feet long, it looked more suitable for the previous residents of this stable than for a man.
“Wait a moment, mates,” the rogue said in a friendly, reasoning tone. “There’s no need for that. I told you, I’m an innocent man. I won’t give you any trouble—”
“Tell it to Tibbs,” Swinton snarled.
Before their prisoner could protest further, the smithy opened one of the cuffs and closed it firmly around his right ankle.
Sam felt not one whit of pity as she watched the blacksmith fasten the shackle in place with a heavy metal bolt, driving it home with a hammer. In fact, she felt relief.
If she had to share a journey through the countryside with this rough-looking brigand, it suited her just fine that he have his hands tied behind his back—which might keep them from around her throat—and his legs chained, which might subdue him a bit.
While the smithy checked his handiwork and picked up the other cuff, Bickford came over to her cell and unlocked the door. “Come along, missy.”
She obeyed without making any sudden moves, her eyes on the pistol in his hand.
Young Tucker laughed nervously. “Aye, mate, we’re goin’ to make it real difficult for a big bloke like you to get away.”
Leach grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged her forward. “And her ladyship is goin’ to help.”
She didn’t understand his meaning.
Until she glanced away from the pistol aimed at her head and realized that they hadn’t finished chaining the rogue’s legs together.
In fact, the smithy was holding the other cuff open.
“Before ye even think of escapin’,” Swinton chuckled, “think about how this might slow ye down.”
Sam gasped, looking up—and up and up—at the blackguard who stood at her side. Her gaze locked with a stunned emerald stare. He uttered an oath.
And in that very instant she felt the heavy iron shackle being clamped around her ankle.
They jolted over a rut in the road and the cart’s wooden side thumped Sam between the shoulder blades. She didn’t flinch, still numb with disbelief. From the moment the smithy had fastened the iron cuff around her ankle this morning, she hadn’t drawn a complete breath.
She felt dizzy. Sick.
Perspiration trickled down her neck, pasting her hair to her skin in hot, sticky tangles. She couldn’t reach up to brush it away. With her wrists tied together behind her back, she could barely move. Her arms ached from being stretched in the unnatural position for hours. The horses’ hooves stirred up clouds of dust that stung her eyes. And a smell emanated from the moldy straw piled beneath her and around her.
But the worst part of the journey wasn’t the heat or the numbness in her hands or even the band of metal clamped around her left ankle.
It was the searing glare of the dark-haired, uncivilized-looking man who sat across from her.
The man chained to her by eighteen links of iron.
Eighteen. She’d had time to count them. Eighteen solid, black, unyielding rings. A chain thick enough to hold an unbroken stallion in check. When Bickford had shoved her up into the cart, he had chuckled that the shackles were unbreakable, that it would require a blacksmith in London to remove them.
That news hadn’t improved the rogue’s mood in the least. His initial expression of disbelief had given way to an air of surly, simmering resentment. He looked at her with a hard set to his jaw and hostility in his eyes. As if this were her fault. As if she’d purposely set out to cause him trouble.
She responded with a glower of her own. She wasn’t any happier with the situation than he was. Did he think he was the only one who’d been forced to abandon an escape plan? She had harbored some hope of slipping away at nightfall—but shackled to six feet of bad-tempered brigand, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Except straight to London.
Turning away from her hostile traveling companion, she fastened her attention on the open fields around them. Despite the fact that her predicament had taken this appalling turn for the worse, things weren’t entirely hopeless. Not yet. She had to stop feeling frightened and sorry for herself. Had to keep her wits about her. Think.
Plan.
The journey to London would take at least a week. Perhaps somewhere along the way, if a wheel broke or…
No, she amended just as quickly. She doubted the cart would be so accommodating as to break down. The marshalmen had borrowed it from a farmer. Built to haul heavy goods over the deplorable country roads, it boasted a heavy axle and two solid oak wheels. Neither would shatter on the deep ruts that scarred the path.
Her bruised derriere could attest to the vast number of those accursed ruts. They were like furrows in a plowed field, topped with hard ridges, some more than a foot deep, and she felt every one of them.
No, she couldn’t center her plan on a wish that the cart might cooperate.
Nor could she hope that one of the guards might get careless. They kept their eyes trained on their captured prey like a pack of wolves, all four bristling with weapons.
Bickford drove, whistling a cheerful tune that set her teeth on edge. He sat on a wooden platform that jutted out from the front of the cart, a blunderbuss in his lap. Young Tucker fidgeted beside him, nervously glancing over his shoulder every few minutes, eyes wide and pistol at the ready.
The lad kept his finger wrapped so tightly around the trigger, Sam feared the gun might go off accidentally.
Leach led the way, riding a few yards ahead, while Swinton had volunteered to follow behind the cart. He didn’t say a word to her, not a single taunt. His silence rattled her far more than the vulgarities he had snarled at her last night. He rode so close, she swore she could feel his foul breath on her skin.
And she could sense those black eyes following her, watching every small movement, tracing every bead of sweat that slid down her neck. It sickened her to realize he was enjoying her discomfort, wanted her to suffer.
She couldn’t subdue a shudder. Swinton reminded her of Uncle Prescott, in the worst way.
She fought down her terror, wouldn’t give in to tears. She was not going to let Swinton or Uncle Prescott or anyone make her feel helpless.
There had to be some way out of this, something she could do before they reached London.
A fly landed on her cheek. She shook
her head to shoo it away but ended up with a strand of hair in her eye. Frowning, she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, frustrated at being so powerless. She managed to get the hair out, but her eye, already irritated from grit and dust, now brimmed with tears.
Young Tucker turned to look her way just as she lifted her head—and she saw a flicker of something unexpected in his freckled face.
Sympathy. Regret.
Instinctively, she made a decision.
Instead of blinking the tears back, she allowed them to spill over. A single droplet slid down her cheek, cutting a path through the grime. Then another.
She added a dramatic little tremor of her lower lip. Then she lowered her lashes as if ashamed to have him catch her crying. Just for good measure, she sniffled, softly.
When she slowly glanced up again, blinking, chin quivering, she met the lad’s gaze. Tucker’s expression was strained, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He looked all but ready to leap from his seat and cut her free from her bonds.
Yet a moment later, he abruptly turned around.
She frowned. Duty, apparently, had won out over sympathy. Drat.
A privately amused chuckle drifted over from the other side of the cart. Slicing her gaze that way, she found the rogue regarding her with a mocking grin on his bruised, bloodied face, his broad shoulders fairly shaking with silent laughter.
Warmth flooded her cheeks. She lifted her chin, looked away, and wished a pox upon him. She wasn’t interested in his cynical opinions. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t taken in by her performance.
Because it did appear that she had made an impression on the young marshalman.
Every time Tucker glanced her way now, she caught an unmistakable softness in his freckled face. More than that. Pity.
And pity might very well prove helpful.
She slanted another look at the rogue, smiling sweetly. Laugh all you want, you overgrown oaf. We’ll see who’s laughing when I’m free and you’re still in custody.
Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1) Page 4