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

by Shelly Thacker

  What she wouldn’t give for some medical supplies and some real food, she thought with a frown. And a blunderbuss. Unfortunately, they had no such help in facing their enemies. All they had was…

  Each other.

  Sam closed the fishing creel and pushed it aside. With the inventory done, she had nothing else to occupy her attention. She glanced around the cave, trying to avoid looking at the rogue.

  Because every time she did, she found herself thinking of what had happened between them at the cave entrance. Her humiliating emotional outburst. Even now, she could feel her cheeks burning. She felt horribly embarrassed to have shown such weakness in front of anyone—especially a man. Especially him. But for once, he hadn’t mocked her.

  Instead, he had held her. With a tenderness she hadn’t suspected he possessed. Just when she thought she had figured out exactly what kind of man he was, he had astonished her.

  But what astonished her even more was the fact that she had liked the feeling of his arms around her.

  The thought made her shiver. It was an outlandish idea. A dangerous idea. The man was an outlaw. A veteran of the prison hulks. Unpredictable. Not to mention hostile. And impossible.

  And she had liked the feeling of his arms around her.

  For a moment, just a moment, she had felt…safe, warm. Protected.

  That disturbed her in a way she couldn’t begin to explain. Nervously, Sam swept her damp hair around her, busied herself trying to unknot the dozens of little tangles.

  But even as she did so, she couldn’t help sliding a cautious, sideways glance at the man who lay stretched out on the cave floor.

  How could she have felt safe in his embrace? She didn’t even know his name, for heaven’s sake! Had she lost her mind? Had the tumble over the falls scrambled her senses?

  She kept thinking of the words he had whispered: We just have to trust each other.

  Could she do that? Trust him? She had learned six years ago that it was dangerous to trust a man—even one like her uncle, who had seemed so respectable, honorable, and kind at first.

  Since fleeing London, she had remained wary and cautious around men. Held herself cool and haughty and remote. Trust meant weakness. Vulnerability. And she would not allow herself to be vulnerable.

  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she turned away from the rogue. There was no mystery here, no cause for alarm. Her emotions had become momentarily unsettled, that was all. It was perfectly understandable, after the ordeal she had been through the past two days.

  What she felt toward him was merely gratitude. Ordinary gratitude that he had saved her life in the whirlpool, at great cost to himself.

  Nothing wrong with that. Her gratitude, he could have.

  Her trust she could not give him.

  Dark shadows flickered around them, and Sam realized that her makeshift torch had burned low. She tried to think of a way to keep the fire burning. She had kept her eye out for twigs or brush or dried leaves as they had walked through the cave, but she had seen precious little vegetation of any kind.

  They had no fuel but what they had brought with them. Opening the fishing creel, she took the whiskey bottle out, uncorked it, and poured a bit over the biscuit tin. The flames crackled and sizzled and leaped so high that they almost singed her hair.

  “Are you trying to incinerate us, or is that merely a creative way to dry your hair?”

  Sam shot a glance behind her, the bottle still in her hand. “I’m trying to keep the fire going. And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

  “Can’t.” The rogue lay on his side, watching her through half-closed eyes. “Do you have to use up all the whiskey that way?”

  She recorked the bottle and put it back in the creel. “I’m sorry if the noise kept you awake.” She wasn’t about to let the fire burn out. The prospect of being deep in a cave in total darkness was not something she wanted to contemplate.

  “It’s not the noise.”

  His voice was low, almost a groan. Sam frowned in puzzlement, then understood what he meant, what he would not say: the pain was so bad he couldn’t sleep.

  Her stomach gave an uncomfortable little twist. “Is there…anything I can do?” she asked softly.

  “You could hand over the bottle.”

  She hesitated a moment, then took it out again and gave it to him. There was less than two inches of the precious liquid left inside, but she couldn’t deny him.

  He levered himself up on one elbow and took a long swallow.

  The torch flickered again, and the scant circle of light surrounding them shifted and danced. Uneasily, Sam picked over the items in the creel, looking for something she might use as fuel.

  Her fingers touched the powder horn. In a sudden burst of inspiration, she poured a few granules into her palm. Then she sprinkled them over the fire.

  “Your ladysh—”

  A loud pop and a puff of black smoke interrupted his warning. Caught in a miniature cloud of soot, Sam scurried backward, fanning the air in front of her face, wiping sticky black stuff from her cheeks. The chain pulled her up short.

  An amused male chuckle filled the cave. “You may be a talented thief, Miss Delafield, but your knowledge of armaments leaves something to be desired.”

  She dabbed at her watering eyes. “It was worth a try. And I’m not a talented thief.” She coughed. “I’m a quite ordinary thief.”

  “Not according to the bounty on your head.”

  That made her grimace. “Well, I never set out to be a talented thief. The fact that I’m a woman simply seems to work in my favor.”

  “How is that?”

  She shrugged. “Most people look at a young woman who appears well dressed, well bred, and well versed in the ways of polite society and think, ‘How much of a threat could she be?’ ”

  “Indeed. I can see how most people would think that…” Those deep-green eyes of his studied her, tracing over her face. “How much of a threat could she be?”

  The slow, thoughtful timbre of his voice seemed to resonate through her entire body. Resisting the urge to scoot away a few inches, she glanced down into the torch flames and fell silent for a moment. “Is the whiskey helping?”

  “Some.” He lay down again, on his side, not quite managing to hold in a sound of pain.

  Instead of closing his eyes, he kept observing her in that intent way. “Assuming we make it out of here alive, Miss Delafield, and assuming we somehow manage to get these blasted shackles off”—he gestured at the hated things with the whiskey bottle—“what are you going to do? What fiendish plans do you have for spending your ill-gotten gain?”

  His voice was becoming slurred. The whiskey was taking effect. Doubting that he was fully lucid, she thought about telling him the truth for a moment.

  But then she shook her head. “You’ll laugh.”

  “I won’t.” He lifted his free hand and crossed his heart. “Promise.”

  The traditional gesture wasn’t very convincing—not when made over that pitchfork brand.

  “Yes, you will,” she replied softly. “You constantly mock my plans, my ideas—everything I say and do.”

  “Not this time, angel,” he murmured. “Not in the mood.”

  Watching him, she realized what he meant, though again, he wouldn’t say it aloud. Wouldn’t perhaps admit it even to himself.

  He needed something to distract him from the pain.

  She turned her face away, not wanting him to see in her eyes what she was feeling.

  Sliding her long hair over her shoulder, she began weaving the damp strands into a braid. She decided there was no harm in revealing this particular piece of the truth. “Eventually, I want to book passage on a ship to Italy. To Venice.”

  He sounded surprised. “Why Venice?”

  “Because…” She looked up at the cave ceiling overhead, imagining blue Italian skies stretching out over grand piazzas and saffron-colored buildings and sparkling canals. “Because it’s far from England, and it’s
full of sunlight and warmth. And they have the most breathtaking art there.” Her voice softened. “And they’re renowned for their lacemaking.” She looked down into the strands of her hair as she twined them in, over, around each other. “I’ve never seen Venice, but I’ve read a lot. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to go to there. I’m going to buy a small villa and live on the Adriatic.”

  She finished her braid, tied the end with a length of yellow silk torn from her tattered sleeve, and waited for his laughter to begin.

  “I can just picture you in Venice.”

  To her amazement, his tone wasn’t mocking.

  She turned to find him regarding her through half-closed eyes.

  “In the sun,” he murmured, “beside the Adriatic. Dressed in silks and velvets, glittering like gold. Surrounded by jewels and art and glassware.” A hint of a smile curved his mouth, but it wasn’t sarcastic. “You’d fit in there.”

  His voice was more than serious. It was almost…wistful.

  Sam hoped he couldn’t see her blushing in the firelight.

  His lashes finally lowered completely, as the whiskey or fatigue or both took their toll. “So why haven’t you gone there already? Why stay in England?”

  It took her a moment to summon a reply. “Because I didn’t want to leave England impulsively only to wind up in the same dire straits somewhere else. If I’m going to be a thief, better to do that here, where I’m at least familiar with the language and customs. It would be impossible to try and start a new life in a new country with no money.”

  “True,” he agreed solemnly. “Very true.”

  “I think it’s always better to plan ahead. When I get to Venice, I’m never going to break the law again. I’m never going to have to break the law again. I’ll take a new name, start a new life—”

  “Leave the past behind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent idea. A very good plan.” There seemed to be some amusement creeping into his voice. “I wish you luck, your ladyship.”

  “I won’t need luck,” she said firmly. “I have a very practical plan. I’m going to buy a villa and find work in a lacemaking shop and one day open a shop of my own. I’ve even been studying Italian. I’m actually rather fluent. Sei uno sciocco insopportabile.”

  “Posso direlo stesso di te,” he replied. “I am not an insufferable oaf. You are rather fluent.”

  She blinked at him in surprise. “You know Italian?”

  He opened his eyes, grinning. “You’re not the only one with hidden talents, angel.”

  Sam noticed that the word “angel” had lost its sarcastic bite.

  But she also noticed that his words were becoming more slurred—more than could be attributed to the small amount of liquor he had consumed.

  She moved closer, leaning over him, her heart thudding against her ribs. His skin was no longer pale but flushed with color. His eyes were glassy in the firelight.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” he chuckled.

  “I’m not commenting on your hidden talents.” She put a hand to his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. You’re burning up!”

  A shiver went through him. “Been wondering about that. I thought your little fire was getting hotter.”

  He might be joking about it, but a shaft of pure, icy fear went through her. She had no blankets, no fuel to keep the fire going, precious little water, no medicines.

  No way to help him.

  And with the shackles binding them together…

  She would be trapped here, unable to move more than two feet in any direction.

  For the first time, genuine terror struck her heart. He might actually die. And she beside him. It had merely been a frightening possibility before. Now it seemed to close in around her as cold and inescapable as the darkness.

  “No,” she choked out. “No, you’re going to be all right! You’ve got to be all right!”

  He blinked up at her, his eyes glazed, unfocused. “I told you before, I don’t need anyone fussing over…”

  He passed out before he could finish the sentence.

  London

  Prescott Hibbert reclined against the plush velvet cushions of his coach, lazily nudging off his shoes and resting his stockinged feet on the seat opposite him. He loosened his cravat as the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets of Piccadilly, and unbuttoned the brocade waistcoat that stretched too tightly over his rounded stomach.

  Cool night air drifted through the curtained windows, carrying the scent of roses from nearby Hyde Park. Settling comfortably, Prescott smiled as he listened to the familiar sounds of the city that he loved and served: the shouts of hackney drivers cursing at one another, the laughter of evening revelers on their way home from the latest plays at Haymarket or Covent Garden.

  Protecting all these people from the criminal element was a burdensome job, but it had its rewards. He flipped open his silver pocket watch—a gift from the Lord Mayor—and checked the time. Almost midnight.

  He hated to return home from his club this early, but he needed to be at the Old Bailey at seven on the morrow. He had an important felony case to present before the King’s Bench, and he wanted to look his best. Snapping the watch shut, he slid it back into his coat pocket.

  With a sigh of bittersweet pleasure, he savored the memory of this night and the tastes that still lingered on his lips: rare roast beef, fresh oysters, quince pastry, fine port, and an expensive girl.

  The chit he had enjoyed tonight had been a fetching thing freshly arrived from the countryside. Dark hair, a lovely full mouth. About thirteen years old.

  The procurers at his club, the Laikon Society, constantly amazed and delighted him with their offerings. The society catered to men like him, men of importance and responsibility who needed and deserved the very finest in recreation. They had an eye for the best feminine flesh, selecting only the freshest and loveliest girls from the scores who flocked into London every week. Operating with the utmost discretion, they lured the new arrivals with promises of employment and lodgings.

  After the first month or so, most of the girls adjusted to their new circumstances. For those who did not, there was always opium.

  Membership in the club was unspeakably expensive and absolutely secret, operating entirely on passwords and pseudonyms. And it was worth every pound sterling he paid.

  Prescott lit a long cigar, smiling. Tonight’s brunette had been brand new. He customarily requested the most recent acquisitions. She had fought him, of course. He always enjoyed that. Added a pleasant bit of sport to the evening’s entertainment.

  Inhaling deeply of the cigar, he rested his head against the velvet seat and blew a ring of fragrant smoke toward the coach’s ceiling. Life was good. Life was very good indeed. He didn’t see how it could get much better.

  The coach rolled to a stop before his town house. Putting his shoes on, Prescott settled his tricorne on his head and picked up his silk cloak and ivory-topped walking stick.

  His driver opened the door. “Here we are, Your Honor.”

  “Very good, Cragg.” Prescott lowered himself carefully down the steps to the ground. Years of indulgence had brought him a great deal of pleasure, but unfortunately they had also taken a certain physical toll.

  “Same time tomorrow night, sir?”

  “Of course, Cragg.” Prescott slipped him a guinea and headed for the door.

  This was the only part of the day he hated: returning home to his wife. If he was lucky, the old cow would already be asleep upstairs, having half-drowned herself in sherry as was her daily custom. Sometimes, entire blessed weeks went by when he didn’t see her at all.

  As usual, his valet opened the door, waiting with a silver tray that held a glass of warmed brandy.

  But for some reason, tonight the butler was there as well. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening.” Prescott eyed the man curiously as he exchanged his hat, cloak, and cane for the brandy. “What are y
ou doing up at this hour?”

  “You have visitors, sir. The Honorable Mr. Lloyd and the Honorable Mr. Eaton. I explained that you weren’t expected back until late, but they insisted on awaiting your return.”

  “Lloyd and Eaton?” The two were his closest friends, colleagues from the high court, and he saw them almost every day. What could be so pressing that it couldn’t wait until morning? “Where are they, Covey? In my study?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Covey. You’re dismissed for the night.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The butler headed off for the servants’ quarters.

  “You can retire as well.” Prescott dismissed his valet with a flick of his hand, then started down the marble-tiled corridor that led to the rear of the house, swirling the brandy in his goblet. Damn and blast, he hoped this didn’t concern the case he was presenting in the morning.

  He opened the door to his study.

  His two friends waited inside, seated before his desk, enjoying glasses of port. Before the hearth stood two other men he had never seen before—lower-class types, one a portly chap with his arm in a sling, the other a young lad with a shock of red hair and nervous, darting eyes.

  “Hibbert!” Eaton came out of his chair. “We were beginning to think you’d never get here.”

  “Eaton.” Prescott went forward to shake hands. “Lloyd.” He kept looking at the two strangers, his curiosity becoming puzzlement. “What’s this about?”

  Lloyd pumped his hand enthusiastically. “News that couldn’t wait until morning, old man.”

  “We knew you’d want to hear straight away.”

  “News?” Prescott walked around his desk and sat down. “What news?”

  Lloyd gestured to the two men who stood by the hearth. “A spectacular escape, Hibbert—”

  “Near Cannock Chase in Staffordshire a few days ago,” Eaton put in. “These two marshalmen were part of it.”

  “A pair of criminals were being transported here for trial,” Lloyd continued, “when they killed two of their guards and escaped into the Chase. These two brave marshalmen barely escaped with their lives. The entire Old Bailey’s been abuzz about it since they arrived this afternoon.”