Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,14

She wasn’t any happier with the situation than he was. Did he think he was the only one who’d been forced to abandon an escape plan? She had harbored some hope of slipping away at nightfall—but shackled to six feet of bad-tempered brigand, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Except straight to London.

Turning away from her hostile traveling companion, she fastened her attention on the open fields around them. Despite the fact that her predicament had taken this appalling turn for the worse, things weren’t entirely hopeless. Not yet. She had to stop feeling frightened and sorry for herself. Had to keep her wits about her. Think.

Plan.

The journey to London would take at least a week. Perhaps somewhere along the way, if a wheel broke or... No, she amended just as quickly. She doubted the cart would be so accommodating as to break down. The marshalmen had borrowed it from a farmer. Built to haul heavy goods over the deplorable country roads, it boasted a heavy axle and two solid oak wheels. Neither would shatter on the deep ruts that scarred the path.

Her bruised derriere could attest to the vast number of those accursed ruts. They were like furrows in a plowed field, topped with hard ridges, some more than a foot deep, and she felt every one of them.

No, she couldn’t center her plan on a wish that the cart might cooperate.

Nor could she hope that one of the guards might get careless. They kept their eyes trained on their captured prey like a pack of wolves, all four bristling with weapons.

Bickford drove, whistling a cheerful tune that set her teeth on edge. He sat on a wooden platform that jutted out from the front of the cart, a blunderbuss in his lap. Young Tucker fidgeted beside him, nervously glancing over his shoulder every few minutes, eyes wide and pistol at the ready.

The lad kept his finger wrapped so tightly around the trigger, Sam feared the gun might go off accidentally.

Leach led the way, riding a few yards ahead, while Swinton had volunteered to follow behind the cart. He didn’t say a word to her, not a single taunt. His silence rattled her far more than the vulgarities he had snarled at her last night. He rode so close, she swore she could feel his foul breath on her skin.

And she could feel those black eyes following her, watching every small movement, tracing every bead of sweat that slid down her neck. It sickened her to realize he was enjoying her discomfort, wanted her to suffer.

She couldn’t subdue a shudder. Swinton reminded her of Uncle Prescott, in the worst way.

She fought down her terror, wouldn’t give in to tears. She was not going to let Swinton or Uncle Prescott or anyone make her feel helpless.

There had to be some way out of this, something she could do before they reached London.

A fly landed on her cheek. She shook her head to shoo it away but ended up with a strand of hair in her eye. Frowning, she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, frustrated at being so powerless. She managed to get the hair out, but her eye, already irritated from grit and dust, now brimmed with tears.

Young Tucker turned to look her way just as she lifted her head—and she saw a flicker of something unexpected in his freckled face.

Sympathy. Regret.

Instinctively, she made a decision.

Instead of blinking the tears back, she allowed them to spill over. A single droplet slid down her cheek, cutting a path through the grime. Then another.

She added a dramatic little tremor of her lower lip. Then she lowered her lashes as if ashamed to have him catch her crying. Just for good measure, she sniffled, softly.

When she slowly glanced up again, blinking, chin quivering, she met the lad’s gaze. Tucker’s expression was strained, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He looked all but ready to leap from his seat and cut her free from her bonds.

Yet a moment later, he abruptly turned around.

She frowned. Duty, apparently, had won out over sympathy. Drat.

A privately amused chuckle drifted over from the other side of the cart. Slicing her gaze that way, she found the rogue regarding her with a mocking grin on his bruised, bloodied face, his broad shoulders fairly shaking with silent laughter.

Warmth flooded her cheeks. She lifted her chin, looked away, and wished a pox upon him. She wasn’t interested in his cynical opinions. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t taken in by her