Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,54
little girl, I’ve wanted to go to there. I’m going to buy a small villa and live on the Adriatic.”
She finished her braid, tied the end with a length of yellow silk torn from her tattered sleeve, and waited for his laughter to begin.
“I can just picture you in Venice.”
To her amazement, his tone wasn’t mocking.
She turned to find him regarding her through half-closed eyes.
“In the sun,” he murmured, “beside the Adriatic. Dressed in silks and velvets, glittering like gold. Surrounded by jewels and art and glassware.” A hint of a smile curved his mouth, but it wasn’t sarcastic. “You’d fit in there.”
His voice was more than serious. It was almost... wistful.
Sam hoped he couldn’t see her blushing in the firelight.
His lashes finally lowered completely, as the whiskey or fatigue or both took their toll. “So why haven’t you gone there already? Why stay in England?”
It took her a moment to summon a reply. “Because I didn’t want to leave England impulsively only to wind up in the same dire straits somewhere else. If I’m going to be a thief, better to do that here, where I’m at least familiar with the language and customs. It would be impossible to try and start a new life in a new country with no money.”
“True,” he agreed solemnly. “Very true.”
“I think it’s always better to plan ahead. When I get to Venice, I’m never going to break the law again. I’m never going to have to break the law again. I’ll take a new name, start a new life—”
“Leave the past behind?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent idea. A very good plan.” There seemed to be some amusement creeping into his voice. “I wish you luck, your ladyship.”
“I won’t need luck,” she said firmly. “I have a very practical plan. I’m going to buy a villa and find work in a lacemaking shop and one day open a shop of my own. I’ve even been studying Italian. I’m actually rather fluent. Sei uno sciocco insopportabile.”
“Posso direlo stesso di te,” he replied. “I am not an insufferable oaf. You are rather fluent.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “You know Italian?”
He opened his eyes, grinning. “You’re not the only one with hidden talents, angel.”
Sam noticed that the word “angel” had lost its sarcastic bite.
But she also noticed that his words were becoming more slurred—more than could be attributed to the small amount of liquor he had consumed.
She moved closer, leaning over him, her heart thudding against her ribs. His skin was no longer pale but flushed with color. His eyes were glassy in the firelight.
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes,” he chuckled.
“I’m not commenting on your hidden talents.” She put a hand to his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. You’re burning up!”
A shiver went through him. “Been wondering about that. I thought your little fire was getting hotter.”
He might be joking about it, but a shaft of pure, icy fear went through her. She had no blankets, no fuel to keep the fire going, precious little water, no medicines.
No way to help him.
And with the shackles binding them together...
She would be trapped here, unable to move more than two feet in any direction.
For the first time, genuine terror struck her heart. He might actually die. And she beside him. It had merely been a frightening possibility before. Now it seemed to close in around her as cold and inescapable as the darkness.
“No,” she choked out. “No, you’re going to be all right! You’ve got to be all right!”
He blinked up at her, his eyes glazed, unfocused. “I told you before, I don’t need anyone fussing over...”
He passed out before he could finish the sentence.
Chapter 12
London
Prescott Hibbert reclined against the plush velvet cushions of his coach, lazily nudging off his boots and resting his stockinged feet on the seat opposite him. He loosened his cravat as the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets of Piccadilly, and unbuttoned the brocade waistcoat that stretched too tightly over his rounded stomach.
Cool night air drifted through the curtained windows, carrying the scent of roses from nearby Hyde Park. Settling comfortably, Prescott smiled as he listened to the familiar sounds of the city that he loved and served: the shouts of hackney drivers cursing at one another, the laughter of evening revelers on their way home from the latest plays at Haymarket or Covent Garden.
Protecting all these people from the criminal element was a burdensome job, but it had its rewards. He flipped open his silver pocket watch—a gift from the Lord Mayor—and checked the time.