Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,10
bribery, and tunneling were useless... but this stunning blonde might just help get him out of here.
“Bickford!” she called again.
A jangle of metal at the door was followed by a grunted oath. “What’s all the racket?” Bickford ambled through the door.
The girl glanced down at Nicholas, then back at the approaching gaolkeeper. “I’m afraid a terrible mistake has been made—”
How noble, Nicholas thought, smiling at her. How kind. How—
“This is obviously the thief who’s been plaguing your town, not me.” She pointed a finger straight at his nose. “And you already had him in custody before I was even arrested. I’m innocent and your men have made a terrible mistake—”
“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.
Chapter 3
Dawn. 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