Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,103

trapped. Helpless.

Oh, God, please.

Nick, help me.

“The marshalmen might spend the next several weeks chasing their tails, but they’re never going to find you, my dear. No one’s ever going to see you again. Now, off we go.” He shoved her ahead of him toward the door. “We mustn’t waste any time.”

“You’re not taking her anywhere, your honor.”

Sam froze in the middle of the room, staring in shock at a dark silhouette that filled the entryway.

“Who are you?” Uncle Prescott demanded.

“Call me a concerned bystander.” The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Sam didn’t recognize the voice, and she couldn’t see him very well in the moonlight. Her rescuer was a tall, slender young man with dark hair, dressed in a black frock coat and breeches. A man she had never seen before.

And he was brandishing a gun.

A second later she realized with a shock that the right sleeve of his coat hung empty. He had only one arm.

“See here,” Uncle Prescott snarled, “I am in charge of this investigation. If you’re with the marshalmen—”

“Wrong guess.”

“Do you have any idea who I am—”

“Oh, I know who you are.” The young man chuckled. “It’s been in all the papers.”

“Then you know I could have you arrested for pointing a gun at me. Assaulting a magistrate is a serious offense. I advise you to leave here before I call the marshalmen.”

“You’re not going to call anyone. It would ruin your plans. Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you take the lady with you. Step out of the way, Miss Delafield.”

She started to move.

“Stop right there, Samantha.” Uncle Prescott snarled, aiming his pistol at her. “I’d hate to damage one of your lovely legs—but you know I’ll do it.”

Sam froze, trapped in the line of fire between the two men, her heartbeat chaotic.

The stranger advanced fearlessly toward Uncle Prescott. She could see him better now. He had blue eyes, dark stubble on his jaw, angular features. And he couldn’t be any older than she was.

“I don’t mean to be unreasonable,” he said calmly, “but I need to ask the lady some questions. And I can’t do that if you take her to London.”

“Fire one shot and this place will be swarming with lawmen.”

The stranger slid the gun smoothly into the waistband of his breeches at his back. “We can do this quietly, if you prefer.” A blade suddenly flashed in his hand.

Fear gleamed in Uncle Prescott’s eyes. “Do you think I’m afraid of a cripple?” he sneered.

A muscle twitched in the young man’s tanned cheek. “I think you’d be a fool to underestimate me,” he returned smoothly.

Uncle Prescott laughed at him—a cruel, familiar sound that made Sam shudder.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I’m offering you a choice. You can leave here right now and live, or stay and die. Which will it be?”

Uncle Prescott sobered. After a moment, he slowly began to lower his pistol.

But then he suddenly turned it to use as a club and attacked.

The stranger dodged out of the way. He aimed an agile kick at Uncle Prescott’s hand, knocking the gun from his grasp. Uncle Prescott lunged in again and the two men locked together, wrestling for the knife. The younger man grunted in pain as her uncle landed hard blows to his ribs.

Sam darted toward the door but the violent fight blocked her way before she could escape. She flattened herself against the wall, could only look on in horror as the struggle went on for terrifying minutes. Uncle Prescott had a clear advantage. Already he was turning the blade toward the young man’s neck. But then the stranger used his strength and evident experience to fight back, kicking, twisting.

And the struggle ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Suddenly Uncle Prescott was sinking to his knees, clutching at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest, eyes wide as he turned desperately toward her. He reached out one hand as if to plead for help. A second later, he fell forward.

Sam staggered away from him, tripped over something and fell to the floor. She lay there stunned, numb with shock. He was dead.

Uncle Prescott was dead.

Looking up at the stranger who stood over the body, she didn’t know whether to feel grateful—or more terrified than ever.

He kicked her uncle onto his back, staring down into the sightless eyes for a moment. Sam almost thought she saw remorse in the young man’s face, just for an instant. Then he knelt, yanked out