His Captive Bride

by Shelly Thacker

Forced to work together to survive, the outlaws find themselves locked in a battle of fierce wills and fiery passions. From a remote forest in Staffordshire to a secret hideout in London’s most elegant square, they must learn to trust one another as they face old enemies, dark secrets... and discover a love more priceless than any gem they’ve ever stolen.

  “4 stars (highest rating). This could be the romance that takes Shelly Thacker to the big time: the hardcover contract, the fan club... Thacker always spins a good story, but Run Wild is her best ever. This time out, there’s a new depth of soul to go with all that heart.” – The Detroit Free Press

  London, 1741

  Stretched out on the forest floor, with his disheveled black hair and glittering green eyes and bloodied shoulder, he looked like he belonged here in this wild place. Fit in with the other untamed things. A wounded predator. Dark and fierce... and capable of all sorts of unpredictable behavior.

  His gaze skimmed downward, coming to rest on her legs. He was still breathing harshly. “Come here.”

  Sam stiffened. His voice sounded weaker than before, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Shifting her eyes quickly left and right, she sought some weapon she might use to protect herself. A rock. A branch. Anything.

  “I said come here,” he repeated impatiently.

  When she didn’t comply, he reached out and grabbed her foot.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Unhand me!”

  “Gladly,” he said tiredly—yet he hung on to her, pushing himself up on one elbow. Snagging her ruined slipper with his other hand, he flipped it off her foot. “I’d like nothing better than to unhand you, unchain you, and be done with you.”

  Instead of attacking her, he attacked the shackle around her leg.

  Sam gave up her struggle, even though she knew she could kick her way free. One blow to his wounded shoulder and he would let her loose. But he was already in a foul mood and she didn’t want to make it worse.

  Besides, she realized what he was trying to do. He pulled at the shackle, trying to slide it off over her foot.

  Which just might work.

  “Maybe if we had some kind of...” Glancing around, she took a handful of slimy mud from beneath the leaves and smeared it over her skin.

  “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the cuff, turning it, swearing at it. “Come on.”

  Sam tried to help but he clearly didn’t want her help. Holding her bare foot with one hand and the iron cuff with the other, he turned both at different angles, trying to coax the cuff past her ankle bone.

  “It’s too tight and it’s bolted on,” she said finally, exasperated at being manhandled. “It’s not going to come off.”

  With a short, expressive oath, he released her. Lowering himself back down into the leaves, he tossed the muddy slipper into her lap. “Perfect,” he growled. “Of all the lady thieves on the run in England, I have to get myself shackled to the one with big feet.”

  Sam scuttled backward, as far away from him as the chain would allow. Which wasn’t nearly far enough. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Her tone was frosty, but she feared that even her haughtiest drawing-room airs couldn’t conceal the fact that her cheeks felt hot. Scalding. She rubbed at her ankle, wiping away the mud and the unexpected warmth that lingered from the touch of his callused fingers on her bare skin.

  Grabbing her slipper, she put it back on. Her foot and her ankle ached with soreness, felt cool from the gooey muck. She couldn’t understand why they also... tingled.

  She decided that the unfamiliar sensation must come from the hours of unaccustomed physical exertion.

  “It’s not my fault that the shackles are so tight.” She glared at the man stretched out on the ground, adding in a mutinous whisper, “And I do not have big feet.”

  “Doesn’t bloody well matter now,” he grumbled. “Short of a convenient bolt of lightning from above or a blacksmith, it looks like there’s no way for me to get free of you.” Opening his eyes, he peered at the lengthening shadows, almost as if he were measuring the sun in some way. “Two hours of daylight left. You ready to press on, Lady Bigfeet?”

  She ignored the sarcasm, every muscle in her body aching at the words press on. “No.” She groaned. “No, I’m not. Can’t we stop? Can’t we rest just for a—”

  “Not unless you’re eager to wind up back in gaol.” He pushed himself to a seated position. “As soon as word spreads about a pair of dangerous fugitives on the loose, two marshalmen killed, and rewards offered, every lawman and bounty hunter in the north of England will be on our trail. By morning, if not sooner. And if they use dogs...”

  He let the sentence trail off, running a weary hand over his face.

  Sam felt a surge of fear. Dogs. Dozens of men hunting her down. Skilled, experienced men.

  And they would know right where to start looking. The young guard Tucker would show them.

  Her throat tightened. The rogue was right. They had to keep going. Put as much distance as possible between themselves and the point where they’d disappeared into the forest.

  Yet her fear mingled with anger at his apparent nonchalance. “Didn’t you consider any of that before you decided to take a flying leap out of the cart? Didn’t you think that far ahead? Didn’t you think at all?”

  “Aye, I did,” he retorted, “but I wasn’t counting on your charming company, Lady Bigfeet. I planned to be long gone by now. You are slowing me down.” He reached up to unfasten the bandage knotted around his shoulder. “But before we go any further, you’d better take a look at this damned wound.”

  She felt like spitting in his face. One minute he was insulting her, and the next he expected her to see to his comfort? “If you think I’m going to lift one finger to help you,” she said in a low, even voice, crossing her arms over her chest, “think again.”

  He clenched his jaw, wincing as he unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth. “Listen, angel,” he said tightly, beads of sweat sliding down his face, into his beard, “if you think you’re in trouble now, just try to imagine what would happen to you if I pass out from loss of blood. Or if I die.”

  She had barely started to contemplate the pleasant possibilities when he demolished every single one.

  “You’d be stuck here with one hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight chained to your ankle.” His eyes pierced hers. “Helpless as a trussed-up Christmas pigeon when the authorities come looking for you. If their dogs don’t get you first, their guns will make mincemeat out of you. When dealing with fugitives who’ve killed two of their fellow lawmen, they tend to let their bullets do their talking for them.”

  The violent image stole the air from her lungs. “But I didn’t kill those marshalmen!”

  “I doubt you’ll have time to explain that.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, the truth swirling between them like one of the hot beams of light from the dying sun.

  Then he said it aloud.

  “If I die, you die,” he put it plainly, his stark words all the more powerful for their lack of embellishment. “If I live...”

  For some reason, it took him an extra moment to finish that sentence.

  “You live.”

  Mute, shaking, she tried to control the fear and resentment careening through her. He was insufferable. Cold-hearted, uncivilized, utterly self-interested.

  But he also had a point. As unavoidable as it was true. If they wanted to survive...

  They were going to have to work together.

  Swallowing hard, she tried to tell herself that everything would be all right. As long as the chain bound them together, they had to keep each other alive and well. Once they found some way to get the shackles off, they would go their separate ways.

  For now, she just had to endure his presence and make the best of this deplorable situation.

  Because her very life depended on it.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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  Buy this book now: Run Wild

  Excerpt from the Lawless Nights Series

  After Sundown

  (Lawless Nights Series, Book 1)

  He vowed to bring her to justice...

  U.S. Marshal Lucas McKenna has brought down some of the most notorious outlaws in the West. Now he’s on a personal mission: hunting the woman who killed his brother.

  Antoinette Sutton is running for her life. The evidence against her is overwhelming—and no one will believe the truth about what happened. Lucas captures the dark-haired beauty in Colorado, but before he can take her back to Missouri to stand trial, the two are snowbound in a remote mining town. During the firelit nights of a Rocky Mountain winter, lawman and prisoner are caught in a dance of danger and desire... until Annie loses her heart and Lucas faces an impossible choice: will he do his duty and turn her in, or set her free and become an outlaw himself?

  An RWA RITA Award Finalist: Best Historical Romance of the Year

  “Fast-paced and poignant. One of the best romances of the year.” – The Oakland Press

  Colorado, 1878

  As she crossed the street, her gaze on the dust, something made her glance up. Maybe a shift in the wind. The sound of a door creaking as it swung open. A strand of her unruly hair blowing into her eyes. She wasn’t sure.

  But that was when she saw him. Watching her.

  A stranger. He stood in front of one of the saloons, directly ahead of her, almost hidden by the darkness and shadows beneath its balcony. Silent and still. In the shifting afternoon light, she got only an impression of a tall, lean figure standing alone. But her heart started beating harder. She didn’t know why, couldn’t even tell what had drawn her attention to him, what made her so certain he was staring at her.

  But some instinct lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Even as she looked right at him, she could glimpse no more than an outline of broad shoulders. A western hat tilted low over his eyes. A pistol holstered on his hip.

  And all at once, the fear that she had thought burned away by sorrow came rushing back in a flood. She almost stopped in her tracks, almost turned around, but forced herself to keep walking. Steadily, casually.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t seem especially threatening. Wasn’t nearly as big and frightening as Big Horace.

  She tried to breathe evenly, calm herself. He was probably just another miner who’d come in from his claim after weeks away from civilization. Was probably staring at her because he hadn’t seen a woman in a long time. Or maybe he was a traveler passing through, newly arrived on the stage and drunk from his visit to the saloon.

  He stepped down from the saloon’s porch and started across the street. Directly toward her.

  And the way he moved wasn’t drunken or casual, but slow and purposeful. And Annie knew right then that there was something different about this man.

  Something dangerous.

  Her heart thudded a hard stroke. A single panicked thought rioted through her mind.

  She’d been found.

  All the breath seemed to leave her lungs. She had thought she no longer cared about being captured—but she’d been wrong.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. She lowered her gaze and remembered the letters in her hand. Started leafing through them as she walked. Told herself she looked like any ordinary homesteader who’d just come from collecting the weekly mail. She tried to hum but couldn’t remember a single tune.

  She could hear his footsteps now as he came closer, the sound heavier than she would’ve thought for a man who seemed so lanky. Muscle, some part of her brain supplied. Every lean inch of him must be pure muscle.

  An uneasy fluttering sensation filled her belly. Dear God, what should she do? Think damn it.

  Annie lifted her head and nodded politely and said a cheerful, “Good afternoon.”

  Without saying a word, he reached up to touch the brim of his hat. His fingers were long and tanned, his face as lean and spare as the rest of him, his jaw stubbled by a dark beard, his mouth bracketed by deep lines. He had black hair that curled below his collar.

  And clear, green-gold eyes that fastened on her with an intensity that made her legs feel weak.

  Cowboy, she thought desperately as they passed almost shoulder to shoulder. Maybe he was a cowboy. He was dressed like one, had the rough, hard look of a man who’d spent his life on the range. And cowboys were reputed to be men of long stares and few words.

  But what would a cowhand be doing so far from the cattle trails?

  It seemed to take her forever to reach Dr. Holt’s house on the corner. Her hand trembled as she knocked on the front door, barely aware of the sound over the rising buzz that filled her head. There was no reply. A tingling feeling began between her shoulder blades.

  Like she was about to be shot in the back.

  Unable to stop herself, she nervously glanced behind her. The dark stranger stood in front of the general store.

  Watching her.

  She forced a smile.

  He didn’t return it.

  Annie knocked on Dr. Holt’s door again, her heart hammering now. Open the door. Open it. Please, Dr. Holt, open the door!

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Buy this book now: After Sundown

  The Making of HIS CAPTIVE BRIDE: The Story Behind the Story

  —

  SPOILER ALERT

  —

  Dear Reader,

  I always love those “Behind the Scenes” bonus features on DVDs. I enjoy learning what inspired the stories, characters, and settings of my favorite movies. I love getting a peek at how the costumes were made, how the sets were built, and what changes were made in the editing room. When I first set out on this digital publishing adventure, I knew I wanted to include a “Behind the Scenes” bonus feature in each of my ebooks.

  But I realize that some people dislike “Behind the Scenes” features. For them, hearing the nuts-and-bolts of the creative process ruins their enjoyment of the story. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s enjoyment of my books, so if you’re someone who typically skips “Making of” features on DVDs, it’s probably best to skip this section.

  Also, if you haven’t finished the whole book yet, you’ll want to finish before returning to this page. I’m about to give you an inside peek at the creative decisions that went into writing this story—so plot twists may be revealed and characters’ secrets spilled.

  So... if you’ve skipped ahead to this feature, please click back and finish the book. I totally understand the skipping-ahead impulse, because I’m a chronic skipper-aheader myself. But really, now is the best time to skip back. Before you see any spoilers.

  When you’re all done, return to this page. I’ll be waiting right here for you.

  Ready? Here we go.

  Inspirations

  It’s the #1 question readers ask novelists: “Where do you get your ideas?” I wish I had an intriguing, exotic answer, but the truth is: anywhere and everywhere. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have scenes and characters and dialogue dancing around in my head. From the time I was old enough to hold a pencil, I’ve had notebooks and scraps of paper filled with ideas for stories.

  The original idea for His Captive Bride popped up while I was researching an earlier book, my swashbuckling romance Silver & Sapphires. While studying eighteenth-century seafaring, I kept coming across descriptions of explorers who were obsessed with finding the fountain of youth. The search for a magical spring that would bestow eternal health and life had tantalized mankind since the time of the Ancient Greeks. But no explorer ever located it. The “waters of life” remained a legend, a myth.

  Which made me wonder, what if the fountain of youth really existed? What if they just missed it because they were looking in the wrong place?

  Four years later, that question, jotted on a scrap of paper, became the first spark of His Captive Bride. Another spark came from the hit TV series “Highlander,” about an immortal named Duncan MacLeod who lives secret
ly among mortals in modern-day Europe and America.

  I loved the idea of exploring the problems faced by immortals living in the mortal world. But that subject has been covered thoroughly by other authors and screenwriters. If I was going to write about immortals, I knew I had to give my story a fresh twist.

  In my novel, immortality would be conferred not by a gene or a germ or by blood, but by a place. An island. A remote island where the fountain of youth really existed. And this gift of eternal health and life would carry a price: remain on the island, and you might live forever—but if you leave, you die.

  Then I added another complication: the inhabitants of the island don’t know exactly what it is that makes them immortal.

  Now I had a story that intrigued me, and I began building my fantasy world. Instead of setting my book during the Age of Exploration, when the search for the fountain of youth was at its zenith, I moved it back to the Middle Ages. Instead of Spanish or Dutch or English explorers, my islanders would be Vikings. That allowed me to pair my immortal hero with a favorite character from one of my earlier books: Lady Avril de Varennes, the feisty young widow who vowed in Forever His that she would never love again.

  I wrote up a proposal and sent it to my agent in October 1995. She absolutely loved it, and submitted it to my editor at Avon Books.

  Who absolutely hated it.

  This particular editor (who shall remain nameless) had strong opinions about what a romance novel “should” and “shouldn’t” be—and this book fell solidly into her “shouldn’t” category. She had no interest in buying a book that blended the fantasy and romance genres. She considered it too risky because “no one else has published anything like this” and “there’s just no market for paranormal romance.” She explained that my proposal reminded her of “a vampire book without the teeth and blood”—and there was nothing she hated more than vampire books.

  I can only imagine how that poor editor has suffered in the years since, forced to grit her teeth as vampires rose up to completely take over the publishing industry. I can just imagine her telling her authors, “This would sell better if you made it a paranormal. Can you put a vampire in it?”