Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,17
He was planning something! He was a madman! He couldn’t try to escape now. Not with her attached!
She moved her left foot, rattling the chain just enough to catch his attention. His eyes met hers. She mouthed a single, silent, urgent word.
No.
He lifted a brow, as if he wasn’t used to encountering the word no. At least not from a woman.
Looking past her, into the forest, he yawned and flexed his broad shoulders in a slow shrug, his expression all innocence, as if he had no idea what she meant.
His black eye and slashed cheek ruined any attempt at an angelic countenance. And she wasn’t going to be fooled. If there was one benefit to being a thief and a performer, it was that one didn’t fall for the performances of fellow thieves.
Or rogues of any sort.
Not even when he settled more comfortably in the hay, looking as calm and unconcerned as a journeyman cobbler enjoying a day’s holiday in the countryside.
A half-hour passed and still he didn’t make a move.
Perhaps she had read him wrong. It was entirely possible she had misinterpreted that fleeting grin.
Not only possible, she told herself, but likely. She didn’t know the man. Didn’t even know his name. He could have been privately laughing at their predicament, or at the dozing marshalmen, or...
Or he could’ve been planning something.
And despite his negligent pose, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still planning something.
Something unspeakably dangerous.
Chapter 5
Nicholas kept his arms behind his back and tried to maintain his nonchalant pose even as the last thread of the rope binding his wrists finally snapped, with another soft ping.
Needles of pain flooded into his hands and he fought a grimace. Keeping his features carefully neutral, he slowly, experimentally flexed his numb fingers, letting the rope slip from his wrists down into the hay.
An ordinary footpad would’ve found it impossible to break free from the marshalmen’s handiwork, but a man who had spent his life at sea, who knew his way around a knot, who was as familiar with the ways of rope as he was with his own face in the mirror, encountered far less difficulty.
The unseasonably humid weather had expanded and loosened the fibers. And the cart helped as well. Since it was built to haul goods, not passengers, the bolts that fastened the heavy axle to the bottom hadn’t been filed down. After feeling his way around, he had found a protruding metal edge just sharp enough to help cut through his bindings.
Hunkered down in the hay, he had accomplished that with a minimum of noise, managing to work his way free without notice—thanks to her ladyship. She not only held Swinton’s drooling attention but had secured Tucker’s as well, with her little display of fluttering lashes and pouty lips.
He subdued a smile, knowing it would irritate her to no end to realize she had unwittingly helped him.
Still slouched against the cart’s wooden side, he cautiously stretched the burning muscles of his arms while observing her through slitted eyes. The way she had tried to seduce the freckle-faced lad almost made him chuckle out loud again. The role of seductress didn’t suit her at all. Despite the street tricks and gutter language she had used last night, there was a sort of... innocence about her.
He frowned, wondering where that thought had come from. Perhaps he’d gone mad with the heat. She was an admitted criminal, in chains, on her way to the Old Bailey. Last night she had tried to send him to the gallows to save herself.
She hardly qualified as a paragon of sweetness and virtue.
No matter how alluring her dewy skin, honeyed curves, and gold-glittered eyes, he was too experienced to be led astray. Unlike the featherwit lad, he was as familiar with the ways of women as he was with the ways of rope. And the two had more than passing similarities.
Both could be treacherous. Both tied a man down. Both were best when pliant.
And both could be either helpful... or dangerous.
Unfortunately it seemed that this haughty beauty chained to his ankle fell into the latter category. Even her eyes were both lovely and sharp. She had guessed that he was planning something though he hadn’t spoken a word or given any signal.
Bloody unnerving, that.
And annoying as well. Though he reclined lazily in the hay, she remained poised, wide-eyed, waiting for him to do something. Her generous bosom rose and fell rapidly, straining against its silky, lacy coverings.