Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,7
on his foot. “Just pick one, Bickford! Any of ’em.”
“Plenty o’ room in my cell!” one prisoner offered.
Nicholas remained silent. He could see her better by the light of the gaoler’s lantern—though he couldn’t make out much more than a whirlwind of blonde hair, pale yellow skirts, and white teeth.
The first marshalman, Swinton, yelped as those sharp little pearls again chomped on some portion of his anatomy. “Damnation, Bickford!”
The gaoler triumphantly held up a key in the light. “Here’s one.” He pushed past them down the row and unlocked an empty cell.
One right next to Nicholas’s.
“Wait a moment,” Nicholas protested. “Can’t you put her somewhere else?”
“Sorry, mate,” Bickford wheezed, jerking open the door. “Ye’ll be safe enough with these bars to keep her away from ye.”
Swinton grunted in pain as the blonde’s elbow connected with his midsection.
“Just watch out fer them teeth of hers,” the other guard advised, trying to grab a flailing, silk-clad arm without getting his eyes scratched out.
They dragged her toward the open cell, but the girl was now resisting with one last desperate effort.
Swinton finally snapped. “Listen, missy, I’ve had enough of yer nonsense!” He slammed her backward against the bars, knocking the air and the fight from her.
Before she could recover, he pressed up against her, twisting her hair around his fist and giving it a savage yank. His hawklike features burned an angry red and he took her jaw in his other hand, his grip so tight Nicholas could see the marks of his fingers pressing into her soft flesh. Her eyes widened in fear.
“Ye should learn to be a bit more friendly, yer ladyship,” Swinton suggested. “We might take pity on ye if ye were to be... friendly.”
All color fled her cheeks—except for bright scarlet around the marshalman’s grimy fingers. His other meaty hand came up to grope her breast.
The other prisoners cheered him on.
“That’s the way t’ deal with a woman!”
“Let’s ’ave a look at ’er!”
“Leave some fer me, mate!”
Nicholas glanced away. Turned his back. Help no one, trust no one, care about no one. That was the rule he lived by. A rule that had kept him alive for the last twenty-eight years.
The girl made a strangled sound of shock. Of pain.
Nicholas fastened his gaze to a corner of the back wall. He didn’t bother to guess what Swinton was doing to her. He didn’t care. He did not care.
“Here now, missy,” the marshalman growled. “Give us a kiss. I might convey a good word to the mag—”
Swinton never got to finish the word or the sentence.
Nicholas glanced around in time to see a feminine knee finding its mark with a blow that made Swinton yowl and Nicholas wince. She followed it with a swift, sharp kick to the same vulnerable spot.
Swinton collapsed on his back with the gurgle of a dying man, amid the laughter of his companions and hoots of derision from the prisoners.
The girl’s eyes glittered with fury. “Convey that to the magistrate, you filthy piece of rotting gutter slime!”
Before the other two lawmen could collect themselves enough to maneuver the blonde hellion into the empty cell, Swinton was on his feet.
“You little bitch!”
He struck her, hard—a blow across the face with the back of his fist that snapped her head sideways. The girl cried out and suddenly went limp, falling.
Swinton caught her but Bickford shoved him aside before he could inflict any further damage. “Come on, Swinton, ye’ve had yer sport fer the night.” He dumped her in the cell, shut the door, and locked it quickly with a sigh of relief.
“Her ladyship just don’t appreciate yer handsome face,” the other marshalman commented, still laughing as he turned to leave.
Swinton stood there, shaking with fury, glowering down at her.
“Come along, lad.” Bickford walked off, carrying the lantern. “Ye’ve got an early morning of it on the morrow.”
With one last growled curse, and a glare—which he shared equally with the girl and with Nicholas—Swinton turned away and followed his cohorts toward the exit, slowly. Limping.
He slammed the door behind him, and Nicholas heard the sound of a bar being dropped in place, then the heavy clatter of the chain.
The rest of the prisoners, their brief entertainment ended, settled down once more. One man whispered his prayers. Another moaned for a while in pain or simple misery before he fell silent.
Nicholas turned his gaze to his new neighbor.
The girl lay unmoving, her breathing even but shallow. From the force of the blow, she might be badly hurt.