Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,98

at a town after leaving Cannock Chase, where he traded the sluggish draft horse for the fastest animal he could afford, wolfed down a hot meal, and bought himself a new set of clothes. In addition to the greatcoat and tricorne, he now wore a waistcoat and breeches of navy blue brocade, a ruffled shirt with a fancy ascot that was choking him, and a frock coat with wide cuffs.

Appearances could be deceiving. And helpful.

Tying his stallion to the hitching post, he pretended to be loosening the cinch on the animal’s saddle while he surreptitiously glanced around, wariness lifting the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

He didn’t see anyone. No one crouched in a doorway, no one peered from nearby windows. No one had been posted on watch.

Of course, the blackmailer was not expecting his arrival. The cove would come here three days from now expecting to find a package—not Nicholas Brogan himself.

With a grim smile of anticipation, Nicholas opened his saddlebag, pausing to light a cheroot, a daily indulgence that he had missed for too long. The smoke curled into the cool night air as he exhaled. A few days and several drenching downpours had made a marked difference in the weather, the long, humid summer finally giving way to the first chilly bite of autumn.

As he tucked the box of cheroots back into his saddlebag, his fingers brushed the white cotton shirt stuffed into the bottom... the shirt he’d stolen from the gypsy wagon.

The one that carried a light trace of Samantha’s scent.

He withdrew his hand, frowning at the rumpled garment, telling himself he should just get rid of it. Leave it behind with everything else he’d brought out of Cannock Chase.

But somehow he couldn’t. He’d had ample opportunity over the past couple of days to dispose of it, yet he kept carrying it around.

He shook his head at his own foolishness, beginning to realize that time and distance were not going to dull these maddening feelings. He couldn’t stop thinking about Samantha. He couldn’t even get used to the strange sensation of not having the shackle around his ankle.

Every step he took reminded him of her.

And while riding in the rain, he had found himself thinking about her thin chemise and skirt, wondering whether she had bought a coat or cape to protect herself from the weather. Or stopped somewhere to seek shelter.

Was she safe? Was she taking care to avoid the lawmen who were almost certainly still searching for the two of them?

Was she afraid?

He closed the flap on the saddlebag with a sharp motion, reminding himself that Samantha had survived on her own for six years before meeting him. She didn’t need his protection. Inhaling deeply of the fragrant cheroot smoke, he blew a blue-gray cloud into the night air.

But he barely tasted what had long been one of his favorite pleasures. He was too busy wondering what Samantha had thought when she found the ruby in her skirt pocket

Wishing he could have seen the expression on her face.

He abruptly realized he was gazing into the night sky with an idiotic grin tugging at his mouth. He blinked hard, trying to come back to his senses, clamping the cheroot tighter between his teeth.

It had been a senseless act of generosity, giving away that jewel. One he would no doubt live to regret. But there was no sense in tormenting himself over it, or anything else concerning his ex-traveling companion. Samantha was no longer his responsibility, no longer... his.

She was never meant to be his, he reminded himself ruthlessly, tying the saddlebag shut. She had been a brief taste of sweetness, a few days of heaven that would haunt him the rest of his life. All he had left were memories.

Samantha laughing as they splashed each other at the stream in the glade. The stubborn little tilt to her jaw when she argued with him. The way she had protected him like a guardian angel during his fever. The emotion and passion in her eyes when he made love to her...

Memories.

And heated images that kept him awake at night.

And a rumpled shirt.

He turned and headed for the pub door, trying to force thoughts of Samantha from his mind. There were only three days left before Michaelmas. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted at this critical point.

He walked swiftly toward the Black Angel, his shiny new boots barely making a sound on the wet paving stones. Reaching the door, he pushed it open and