Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,93

shred of her pride intact. At least she had one saving grace: she hadn’t humiliated herself completely by telling him that she loved him.

If he insisted on keeping his secrets, at least she still had one of her own.

Though that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She could hear sounds coming from the gypsy camp: women chatting as they prepared the morning meal, the laughter of children playing.

And the metallic, clanking rhythm of the blacksmith at work.

Nick led the way as they crept closer. They remained within the trees, cautiously circling around until they were positioned a few yards from the smithy’s wagon, and stopped.

He slanted her a measuring glance. “This is it, your ladyship. Remember, if anything goes wrong—”

“I remember the plan,” she bit out. “Let’s get on with it. I want this chain off as much as you do.”

“Snapping at each other isn’t going to help.”

“I promise I’ll put on a convincing performance. I’ll be a picture of ladylike sweetness and light.”

“Samantha,” he growled.

“Don’t worry about me. You just do your part.”

“Just remember to let me do the talking.”

She gave him an icy stare. “Trust me.”

If her barb stung him in the least, he didn’t show it. Nothing seemed capable of penetrating his armor to pierce his heart. She was beginning to wonder if he had one at all.

But then, he had trusted her with his life before. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about that. His life, he would willingly place in her hands... but not the truth.

“Fine.” He hefted the coin purse in one hand. “Let’s get on with it.”

They left the concealing forest behind, heading straight across the clearing toward the blacksmith’s workplace.

Boldness was a key element of their plan.

“Good day to you, sir,” Nick called out. “I wonder if you could help us with a small problem.”

The man straightened, squinting at them in the bright morning sunlight. Sam felt her heart pounding, but pasted a friendly smile on her face.

This was the crucial moment. If the lawmen had passed through here, told the gypsies about a pair of fugitives on the run, mentioned a reward...

“And who might you be, machao?” the smithy asked suspiciously, his voice thick with an accent that sounded vaguely Spanish or French to Sam’s ears. “On vacances, on holiday?”

“Not exactly,” Nick said smoothly. “Merely some fellow travelers fallen on a bit of bad luck.”

They stopped a few paces away. The man’s gaze fell to the shackles. “Travelers.” He chuckled mockingly, muttering something to himself in his native tongue. “Ah, sim. Of course. Travelers.”

“You can see we’re in need of a man with your skills.” Nick lifted the heavy coin purse. “And we’re ready to reward you handsomely.”

Sam felt a knot in her stomach, tried to remain outwardly calm. There was little to prevent the gypsies from surrounding them and taking the money if they chose. The two of them had no weapons but the knife.

And Nick’s impressive fighting skills. She had seen him in hand-to-hand combat—and didn’t care to witness a repeat performance.

The blacksmith looked them both over from head to toe, especially Nick, sizing him up. “I might be able to help you, ami... for the right price.”

They were starting to attract attention—a few curious children, some women walking by with baskets of laundry. Most of the men were apparently still in bed.

“I’m sure you can appreciate,” Nick said quietly, “that we’d prefer to keep this a private matter.” He nodded toward the gathering onlookers. “Unless of course you’d like to share your fee with your companions?”

The smithy glanced around, then eyed the coin purse greedily. He waved away the interested parties, shouting at them in that strange language, including what sounded like a few curses.

Whatever he said, his words and surly glares took care of even the most curious. The women and children obeyed him quickly.

Apparently the smithy was not a man to be toyed with.

“Told them you were old friends come to visit,” he explained. “Follow me.” He led them around to the back of his wagon, where an array of tools hung from the side—all manner of picks, axes, hammers, and many wicked-looking implements Sam couldn’t identify.

Nick got right to the point. “How difficult will it be to get these off?”

“Difficult.” The smithy crouched down on his haunches, studying the shackles with an expert eye. “I would say at least...” He shifted his gaze to the coin purse. “A hundred pounds difficult.” He spat in the dirt. Then he stroked Sam’s ankle. “Unless you like to