Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,82

ear. “I still say they would have some kind of security around that wagon if it contained any valuables.”

Sam shivered—not from anxiety, but from the little sparks that went through her when his lips brushed against her earlobe. “Sometimes people do the opposite of what you would expect. Hide their best jewelry in a linen drawer instead of their safe. Or tuck several thousand pounds in cash between the pages of a tattered old book. They tend to think they’re smarter than the average thief.”

His teeth flashed white in the moonlight. “Luckily for us, you’re not the average thief.”

“Trust me, they’ve got something valuable in there. No one’s gone near that wagon all day. There have been people coming and going from all the others, but not that one. And if you’ll notice,” she said a bit smugly, “they do have a lock on the door.”

He peered at it through the darkness. “Forgive me for doubting you.” His grin turned to a frown as he studied the lock and the chain attached to it. “How much of a problem is that going to be?”

She withdrew the golden needle case from her bodice, clutching it in her hand. “There’s no way to know until I see it up close.”

They observed the camp a moment longer, watching for any movement. It was essential to their plan that no one know they had been there, or even suspect anyone had visited the camp.

They intended to pay generously for the blacksmith’s services, and his silence—and they didn’t want the man to guess he was being paid with the gypsies’ own money.

Nick took her hand. “Let’s go.”

They broke from the trees, crouching low to the ground, moving swiftly, covering as much distance as quickly as they could while making as little noise as possible. Nick’s hand felt strong and warm around hers. Almost warm enough to make her ignore the icy tingles of fear chasing down her spine.

They made it to the wagon and flattened themselves against the side, standing in its shadow. Sam was gasping, more from fright than from the exertion. She tried to control her breathing, tried not to make any sound at all. Nick seemed unruffled. She had been worried about his condition, feared he might be attempting too much too soon, but he seemed fine.

She marveled at how cool he was in the face of danger, didn’t know whether his attitude came from courage or recklessness or something else.

And there wasn’t time to think about it. He was gesturing toward the door. Nodding in assent, Sam extracted one of the lockpicks from her needle case.

They darted around the edge of the wagon and up the short steps that led to the door. Nick gave her as much room as possible, pressing flat against the door, glancing around the camp. Sam grabbed the lock and went to work.

It was a difficult design, one she had encountered only once or twice before. But she had done this dozens of times, she reminded herself. Tonight was no different from all the other nights she had plied her trade.

But her fingers seemed slippery. The pick didn’t work. The lock refused to budge.

Her heart began pounding. Perhaps she was simply out of practice. Or perhaps she was having trouble because there wasn’t enough light.

A minute passed. Another. Somewhere a baby cried. She bent closer, deftly turning the pick one way and another, trying to feel her way into the lock’s secrets. Her very life depended on success. And his as well.

Why wasn’t this working?

She heard the soft cooing of a feminine voice as the mother went to comfort her child.

“Hurry,” Nick whispered in her ear.

She was about to protest that the tickle of his beard against her neck was distracting—but just then the lock finally gave way.

Almost shaking, she unhinged it, slipped it free of the chain and opened the door. They moved inside swiftly, silently, drawing the door closed behind them.

The moon offered just enough light for them to see a jumble of goods inside: bolts of cloth, lamps, cooking implements.

Nick swore. It was a supply wagon.

Sam muttered an oath under her breath. Quickly, they rifled through the merchandise piled on shelves along the walls, on the floor, in the corners. And found nothing.

At least, nothing of value.

Her heart fell. They had taken a terrible risk... for nothing.

Somewhere in the camp a door creaked open, then shut—and she heard footsteps outside. Coming closer.

Ice shot through her veins. Both of them spun toward the door.