Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1)

by Shelly Thacker

  Satisfied with her progress for the moment, she settled back against the cart’s wooden side, admiring the clear blue sky overhead. The day didn’t seem quite so miserable anymore.

  Except for the way her stomach kept growling. She winced at the gnawing hunger. It had been…by the graces, how long had it been since she’d had a full meal?

  The few hors d’oeuvres she had nicked at Lady Hammond’s assembly last night hardly counted. She had circulated through the throng only briefly before making her way toward the silver in the sideboard—because she hadn’t had an invitation.

  But then, she never had an invitation. Amazing how the right gown and a few airs could gain one access to all sorts of places.

  Sneaking into last night’s soiree had been a foolish risk, though. She should have left Staffordshire a fortnight ago. Four months working one district was too long. But the elegant country estates offered such easy booty, and she needed only another hundred pounds to have enough.

  Enough to leave England behind forever. To start a new life. To finally be safe.

  Seeing her dream almost within reach, she had been too eager last night, too emotional. Emotion always made her careless. One foolish, amateurish mistake…and Lady Hammond had caught her and immediately turned her in.

  For stealing a half-dozen shrimp forks.

  As if someone like Lady Hammond would even miss a half-dozen shrimp forks.

  Sam grimaced. It was so blasted unfair. She could easily do far more damage if she chose to, but she never took more than a trifling amount from any one person. Partly because greed was the fastest way to gain unwanted attention and land one’s neck in a noose…but mainly because she refused to cause anyone hardship or distress.

  Even someone like Lady Hammond.

  It was a fine line she walked, but one she would not cross.

  Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about food, or her foolish mistake yesterday.

  Or her dreams for tomorrow.

  The cart lurched and tilted as it rolled southward, but her sleepless night coupled with the thick heat soon made her drowsy. She was distantly aware of the horses breathing noisily, their hooves plodding now as the hours wore on into mid-afternoon. The sun climbed higher, baking the air and everything in it.

  A raucous screech startled her awake some time later. She sat up and opened her eyes to find trees towering overhead on the left side of the cart, the road skirting the edge of what looked like a vast forest. A flock of birds high above squawked a warning of the intruding humans.

  She sat up straighter, blinking to clear her vision, fully awake now. The leaf-laden branches blocked the sun and she almost groaned in gratitude. Her exposed skin had already darkened a shade and the road’s grit, like sandpaper, had rubbed every inch of her raw. The cooling shadows felt like a balm.

  Her wrists didn’t feel quite so strangled anymore, either, as if the rope had expanded a bit in the humid air.

  Everyone else seemed just as worn out by the long day of travel and heat and dust. Bickford cursed wearily as he swiped a lazy fist toward one of the ravens that swooped low over his head. Tucker, her savior-to-be, leaned on the cart’s side, his tricorne settled low over his eyes, his freckled cheek resting on the heel of his palm. His pistol lay in his lap.

  Even Leach and Swinton slouched in their saddles, looking as sluggish as their horses.

  Yawning, Sam glanced across the cart, expecting to find the rogue napping.

  He wasn’t. He sat pressed against the wood at his back, head down, but he didn’t seem to be asleep. He shrugged his shoulders and moved his arms, as if to ease the soreness in his muscles.

  The sun glinting through the trees struck glossy highlights from his black hair, and she noticed a peppering of gray at his temples. Odd, she hadn’t thought of him as being that old. She wasn’t sure why, but the impression she had gotten last night was of a youthful, utterly male confidence. Boldness. Arrogance. She found herself wondering how old he was.

  The wheels crunched through a scattering of brittle leaves, the sound like the cracking of eggshells. Sam returned her attention to the forest. It didn’t matter to her how old he was, or who he was, or even what he was. She intended to be long gone from here, from him, from her captors as soon as possible.

  Perhaps they would reach a town before long and stop for the night. She could plead that a lady must have a bit of privacy. Bickford and the others would be immune to her request…but the red-headed lad might be persuaded to fetch a smithy and unfasten the chain. Just for a moment, she would tell him. Just long enough for her to freshen up and attend to the needs of nature.

  Just long enough to escape.

  She smiled in anticipation.

  The road turned sharply east, following the outermost rim of the treeline. She wondered why the path had been cut that way, when it would’ve been much more direct to go straight through the woods.

  Then she realized where they were: in the southernmost reach of Staffordshire. This must be the infamous Cannock Chase.

  She couldn’t keep her mouth from forming a silent O of awe. Before her stretched the most vast, deep, rugged forest in England—a place filled with poachers, malcontents, and brigands of all sorts. Even in this modern age, when much of the countryside had been parceled off and fenced in, the Chase remained uncivilized, virtually unchanged since medieval days. Because criminals favored it as a base for their midnight forays, law-abiding citizens gave it a wide and wary berth…hence the strange turn of the road.

  A sound behind her—a soft metallic ping—drew her attention. She turned to see the rogue sitting up straight, his eyes sharp as he studied the trees beyond her. He wasn’t moving his shoulders anymore. He had gone completely still.

  And she didn’t like the gleam in those green eyes.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but she didn’t like it.

  And what had made that metallic sound? It wasn’t the clanking of the chain.

  His gaze suddenly cut right. Toward Leach, riding in front of them. Far in front of them. The marshalman had allowed more and more distance to grow between himself and the cart as the day wore on.

  Her stomach made an uncomfortable little flip as the rogue’s gaze cut left. He watched Swinton now.

  Swinton, too, was several yards away.

  Her heart started to beat harder. It was almost as if…but no, the blackguard couldn’t be…

  Planning something.

  Not now. Not in broad daylight. The guards might be tired, but one wrong move and some unfortunate person might end up full of bullet holes.

  Like her.

  He couldn’t try to escape in broad daylight. He would have to be insane.

  And she didn’t think this man was insane. Clinging to that thought, she tried to calm down. Even bruised and bloodied, with his slashed cheek and black eye, he had an air of logic about him. Cunning logic, perhaps, but logic nonetheless. He wasn’t a complete brute. An unmistakable intelligence burned in the emerald depths of those eyes, as sharp and keen as his muscles were taut. Beneath that dark beard and unruly tangle of black hair, his face held reason.

  Yet even as she grasped at that hope and stared at his angular, tanned features, she saw again what she had first noticed in the dimly lit gaol: an edge of boldness. Recklessness. Last night it had made her feel wary, but now it terrified her.

  It wasn’t the mark of a young, confident man.

  It was the mark of a man who had nothing to lose.

  He looked from Swinton…to Bickford…to Tucker…then slowly, almost casually, back toward her. He glanced down at the chain that bound them together then his gaze rose from her iron-encircled ankle, up over her legs, her body.

  A wash of heat flushed her sun-darkened skin. But this wasn’t a carnal appraisal like the one he had turned on her last night. No, this was far different—and it stopped her breath in her throat.

  He was studying her with some other intent. Measuring her in some way.

  An
d she thought she saw a strange approval in his expression. But before she could react, his gaze cut left again, seeking the marshalman.

  Sam sat frozen for a breathless moment. Everything seemed to go still. Even the birds in the forest.

  Then one corner of the rogue’s mouth curved upward in a reckless little grin.

  Her pulse exploded through her veins. He was planning something! He was a madman! He couldn’t try to escape now. Not with her attached!

  She moved her left foot, rattling the chain just enough to catch his attention. His eyes met hers. She mouthed a single, silent, urgent word.

  No.

  He lifted a brow, as if he wasn’t used to encountering the word no. At least not from a woman.

  Looking past her, into the forest, he yawned and flexed his broad shoulders in a slow shrug, his expression all innocence, as if he had no idea what she meant.

  His black eye and slashed cheek ruined any attempt at an angelic countenance. And she wasn’t going to be fooled. If there was one benefit to being a thief and a performer, it was that one didn’t fall for the performances of fellow thieves.

  Or rogues of any sort.

  Not even when he settled more comfortably in the hay, looking as calm and unconcerned as a journeyman cobbler enjoying a day’s holiday in the countryside.

  A half-hour passed and still he didn’t make a move.

  Perhaps she had guessed wrong. It was entirely possible she had misinterpreted that fleeting grin.

  Not only possible, she told herself, but likely. She didn’t know the man. Didn’t even know his name. He could have been privately laughing at their predicament, or at the dozing marshalmen, or…

  Or he could’ve been planning something.

  And despite his negligent pose, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still planning something.

  Something unspeakably dangerous.

  Nicholas kept his arms behind his back and tried to maintain his nonchalant pose even as the last thread of the rope binding his wrists finally snapped, with another soft ping.

  Needles of pain flooded into his hands and he fought a grimace. Keeping his features carefully neutral, he slowly, experimentally flexed his numb fingers, letting the rope slip from his wrists down into the hay.

  An ordinary footpad would’ve found it impossible to break free from the marshalmen’s handiwork, but a man who had spent his life at sea, who knew his way around a knot, who was as familiar with the ways of rope as he was with his own face in the mirror, encountered far less difficulty.

  The unseasonably humid weather had expanded and loosened the fibers. And the cart helped as well. Since it was built to haul goods, not passengers, the bolts that fastened the heavy axle to the bottom hadn’t been filed down. After feeling his way around, he had found a protruding metal edge just sharp enough to help cut through his bindings.

  Hunkered down in the hay, he had accomplished that with a minimum of noise, managing to work his way free without notice—thanks to her ladyship. She not only held Swinton’s drooling attention but had secured Tucker’s as well, with her little display of fluttering lashes and pouty lips.

  He subdued a smile, knowing it would irritate her to no end to realize she had unwittingly helped him.

  Still slouched against the cart’s wooden side, he cautiously stretched the burning muscles of his arms while observing her through slitted eyes. The way she had tried to seduce the freckle-faced lad almost made him chuckle out loud again. The role of seductress didn’t suit her at all. Despite the street tricks and gutter language she had used last night, there was a sort of…innocence about her.

  He frowned, wondering where that thought had come from. Perhaps he’d gone mad with the heat. She was an admitted criminal, in chains, on her way to the Old Bailey. Last night she had tried to send him to the gallows to save herself.

  She hardly qualified as a paragon of sweetness and virtue.

  No matter how alluring her dewy skin, honeyed curves, and gold-glittered eyes, he was too experienced to be led astray. Unlike the featherwit lad, he was as familiar with the ways of women as he was with the ways of rope. And the two had more than passing similarities.

  Both could be treacherous. Both tied a man down. Both were best when pliant.

  And both could be either helpful…or dangerous.

  Unfortunately it seemed that this haughty beauty chained to his ankle fell into the latter category. Even her eyes were both lovely and sharp. She had guessed that he was planning something though he hadn’t spoken a word or given any signal.

  Bloody unnerving, that.

  And annoying as well. Though he reclined lazily in the hay, she remained poised, wide-eyed, waiting for him to do something. Her generous bosom rose and fell rapidly, straining against its silky, lacy coverings.

  If she didn’t relax, one of the blasted guards was sure to notice.

  Minutes passed, each like a knife that scraped across his nerves, as he waited for the strength to return to his arms and hands.

  He looked past her, studied the woods. Tried to find a suitable…aye, just ahead. Perhaps thirty yards away. The forest dipped into a ravine, a steep hill thick with evergreens and underbrush right next to the road. About fifty feet deep.

  Perfect.

  But with the cart jolting and rattling so slowly over the ruts, it would take ten minutes to reach that spot.

  And the girl was a hairsbreadth from giving his plan away.

  He tried again to convince her he was spent, weary. Harmless.

  He yawned. She remained tense.

  He closed his eyes as if to take a nap. She kept breathing so fast and shallow he could hear it.

  Damnation, did she enjoy making trouble for him? He opened his eyes, tried glaring at her.

  Instead of cowering in response, she faced him squarely, just as she had earlier—not backing down, not terrified, not even intimidated.

  The chit clearly had no idea whom she was dealing with.

  Another ten yards and they would reach the ravine.

  He flicked a glance to the right, to the left. Leach and Swinton remained half-asleep in their saddles. Just far enough away. He hoped.

  Seven yards.

  He looked at the girl again. Gauged the distance between them one last time. He had to take her with him.

  He had no choice.

  Those golden eyes burned into his. Her small pink tongue darted over her lips. That full, lush mouth formed a silent, imperious command.

  Don’t.

  He smiled in reply. Captain Nicholas Brogan did not take orders from females.

  Three yards.

  He flexed his hands. Tensed the muscles of his thighs. Gathered every ounce of his strength.

  The cart clattered toward the ravine.

  The concealing shadows of Cannock Chase beckoned.

  One wheel struck a rut—and the crunch of dried mud seemed deafening. The entire cart lurched, unbalanced. Tilted precariously.

  And he jumped.

  Like a panther. Like a swimmer diving into the sea. He launched himself forward in a headlong leap. Straight at the girl.

  She screamed. Tried to get to her feet, get out of his way. He grabbed her as he came at her. Caught her with both arms. Yanked her hard against his chest as the momentum of his leap carried them straight over the edge.

  Time seemed to slow for an endless second. He could feel air all around him. The girl’s slender body locked against his. Her heart pounding wildly. Heard shouts and startled curses erupt. A wrenching groan of wood as Bickford’s bulk and the sudden shift in weight unbalanced the cart. Felt muscles straining as he twisted, tried to roll, to aim his shoulder at the ground. Heard the horse’s panicked neighing. A scream. The girl, screaming.

  The sound of the cart crashing onto its side.

  Then the ground rose up. Too fast.

  He slammed into the dirt, taking the worst of it, grunting as his bruised ribs hit something hard and unyielding. The girl’s scream cut short wi
th a yelp of surprise and pain.

  And they tumbled down the side of the ravine.

  The forest floor fell away beneath them at a sharp angle and they fell with it. Trees and sky and grass blurred in an insane jumble as they plunged down the slope. Out of control. A spin of legs and silk skirts and flying blonde hair and jangling iron shackles. The girl was helpless with her hands tied behind her back. Nicholas grabbed for branches. Missed. They kept rolling, faster and faster. He could only hold on to her, one arm fastened tight around her. Branches and thickets snapped and scraped as if the forest itself were trying to kill them.

  Until by some miracle they reached the bottom, rolled to a stop.

  The girl had gone limp in his hold. Nicholas released her, falling onto his back, feeling as if every inch of his body had been battered into fragments. He lay dazed.

  Until a bullet whizzed over his head.

  The report of the pistol shot cracked through the woods a second later.

  “Don’t move, ye bloody bastard!” Swinton snarled from somewhere above them.

  Nicholas could hear him crashing through the underbrush, one of the other marshalmen close behind him.

  He opened his eyes. Blue sky and branches tilted dizzily in his vision. The girl groaned.

  “Get ’em, Swinton!” Leach shouted.

  Nicholas could see them, out of the corner of his eye. Swinton and Leach, charging down the hillside. They had left their mounts at the top. The animals couldn’t make it down the hill—not through the tangle of low-hanging evergreen branches and thick underbrush.

  He had counted on that.

  He closed his eyes, let his muscles go lax. This would have been an excellent time for prayer. If he believed in that sort of thing.

  Forcing all pain to the edge of his awareness, he used every ounce of control he possessed to hold his breath and keep absolutely still.

  “Help me, lad! I think me arm’s broken!” Bickford’s voice drifted down from the top of the ravine. “Get this thing off me, blast ye!”

  Tucker would be occupied above with the portly gaolkeeper. Good.

  Swinton reached the bottom of the hill first, panting, cursing. “Leach…” he wheezed. “I think he’s dead!”