They were trapped!
Before she could speak or even think, Nick stepped in front of her, drawing her behind him, the knife raised in his hand as he faced the door.
She blinked at his broad shoulders, astonished. He was protecting her. Had done it without hesitation, as if it came naturally all of a sudden—when he had always insisted he didn’t give a damn about any life but his own.
Before she completed the thought, the footsteps came to their wagon. She inhaled sharply, braced herself.
But the footsteps passed by hurriedly, headed for the forest.
Both of them let out a long breath. Sam felt like sinking to the floor. She unfastened her fingers from Nick’s arm, realizing only after the fact that she had grabbed onto him as if grabbing for life itself.
“Hell of a time for some fool to go relieve himself.” He tossed the knife in the air with a nimble flick of his fingers and caught it, sliding it back into his boot.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Can’t. Not until he comes back.”
Sam realized that was true. For the moment they were stuck in here. Sitting on a sack of grain, she looked around forlornly. She had been so sure of herself, her head filled with tantalizing images of stolen treasure, ropes of pearls, gold, jewels—and it was just a supply wagon. Why the gypsies had put a lock on the door, she didn’t know.
All she knew was that she had failed. And they didn’t dare linger in camp long enough to investigate any of the other wagons. They had been here too long already.
“This is my fault,” she said apologetically.
“Doesn’t matter now.” He poked around in some sacks piled in one corner.
He didn’t seem angry, wasn’t chiding her for the costly mistake she’d made, wasn’t mocking her in any way.
Which only made her feel worse.
He found a pile of garments behind the sacks. “At least we’ll get some new clothes out of it.”
“Those are probably cast-offs,” she murmured absently, looking down at the shackles that gleamed dully in the moonlight. “Gypsies buy them from wealthy landowners in the countryside and sell them as they travel from town to town.”
He picked out a shirt and some breeches. “There are even some decent shoes down here.”
“Those should prove useful,” she said miserably, “since it looks like we’re going to be walking through Cannock Chase for the rest of our lives.”
They both quieted as they heard the footsteps draw near again. Sam held her breath, struck by a sudden, terrifying thought. If the person happened to glance the right way, see the chain hanging free on the door...
The steps grew louder.
And passed by.
Shaking, she stood and turned to leave. She had endured all the danger she could stand for one night. But Nick was still poking around in the corner. Beneath the mountain of clothing, he had discovered what looked like a small barrel. “Hello,” he said with soft interest. “What might this be?”
“Nick, we should go.”
He wasn’t paying attention, too intrigued with his new find. Using the knife, he tried to pry off the lid.
“Nick,” she repeated urgently, tapping him on the shoulder. “We don’t have time.”
He lifted the lid and both of them inhaled sharply.
“Oh, my God,” Sam whispered.
~ ~ ~
Nothing but the silvery spill of moonlight illuminated their place beneath the trees, a mile from the camp. They hadn’t risked a fire, hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to themselves.
Sam hunched over a lustrous jumble of deep green French silk piled in her lap, her needle flashing in the moon’s glow. There hadn’t been time to check the sizes of the garments she had grabbed in the wagon. The white cotton chemise she had taken, with its ruffled bodice and billowy sleeves, would fit, but the skirt was too large. Taking the last few stitches in the waistband, she glanced up at Nick.
She had teasingly offered to sew him into his new breeches, since the chain made it impossible for him to get them on, but he had rejected the idea instantly. Hadn’t seemed to find it the least bit funny. He would change into them, he’d said, after the shackles were removed.
He had been in an odd, quiet mood ever since they left the camp. At the moment, stretched out on his side in the leaves, propped up on one elbow, he barely paid any attention to her at all.
He was too busy counting coins.
The barrel in the wagon had been full to the brim with guineas, shillings,