Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel)

chapter 17




Moonlight trickled through the interlaced tree branches, falling in shimmering pools, dancing across the forest floor. The silver-blue glow faintly lit their way as they crept closer to the gypsy camp. Sam could barely breathe past the fear that clamped around her chest like a band of steel. Nick led the way, stealthy, silent. She couldn’t believe he could be so calm. So coolly assured that this insane plan would work.

Midnight’s hush had fallen over the woods, broken only by the flutter of wings through the leaves overhead as a bird took flight... an occasional cough or snore from one of the wagons... the bark of a dog. The chain made little noise. She had sacrificed the remains of her petticoat to muffle the shackles, braiding the cloth in and around the iron links to render them silent.

Or at least as silent as possible.

If the gypsies had appointed sentries, or if one of their dogs caught a scent, or a sound, she and Nick could quickly find themselves facing a group of suspicious people, questions they could not answer. And loaded pistols.

The vividly painted wagons loomed out of the shadows like a handful of jewels scattered across the clearing. Only a few more yards and they would reach their target.

Still within the cover of the forest, Nick halted, his voice scarcely a whisper as he pointed at one of the wagons. “That one?”

“I think so.”

They moved toward it, along the edge of the trees, both glancing around, cautious. All afternoon, they had circled the camp, studying it from every angle, engaged in a heated debate. As evening fell, they had snuck closer for a bit of careful reconnaissance, and finally faced the facts: stealing a horse would be useless because they couldn’t hope to ride—not wearing the chain. And they couldn’t exactly burst in and hold the camp’s blacksmith at knifepoint, demanding that he remove the shackles.

So they had come up with a different strategy. One that would free them from the chain once and for all and net them a horse or two.

If they didn’t get killed first.

They stopped in the shadows at the point where the forest gave way to the clearing. At least ten yards of open ground lay between them and their destination.

“That’s the one,” Sam whispered, crouching beside Nick in the underbrush.

He shook his head. “No guards, not even a dog.” His voice was no more than a faint, warm breath against her 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. 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, farthings—a treasure chest worthy of a pirate, overflowing with gold and silver. They had taken handfuls, scooping them into his stolen shirt.

A second barrel beside the first had contained the kind of jewelry Sam had imagined—chains and pearls and gems—but she had argued that they shouldn’t take any of it. Each piece was unique, all of it too easy to identify.

But Nick had helped himself to a single jewel. A ruby the size of a small egg.

He held it up now in the moonlight, admiring its delicately cut facets.

“I still say it was a mistake to take that,” Sam said in disapproval, tying off a length of thread. “If anyone happens to check that barrel and notice it missing—”

“We’ll be long gone by then.”

“But we can’t use it to pay the blacksmith. He might recognize it.”

“I have no intention of offering it to him.” He tossed the jewel a few inches into the air and caught it, smiling as if he savored the feel of it in his palm. “This one’s for me, angel. Me and no one else. This little bauble makes up for some of the hell I’ve been through on this trip.” He slipped it into the pocket of his worn, ripped black breeches.

“It was a risk we didn’t have to take,” she said quietly as she put away her sewing supplies.

“Your ladyship, some people are satisfied with moonlight and sunshine.” He sat up, stuffing gold guineas into his coin purse. “And some people prefer shiny things of a different kind.”

“You act as if you’ve never seen money before.”

His head came up sharply and he started to say something... but then he just smiled. “Not for a lot of years,” he said coolly, chuckling. “Not for a whole lot of years.” He patted his pocket. “This little trinket is going to make life at home better than it’s been in a long time.”

He returned his attention to the coins he had been sorting. Sam folded her new skirt and set it aside, questions tumbling through her mind as she watched him. Home? Where is your home? What do you do there? Are you a tradesman? A criminal? A military man? A tavern keeper?

What became of that small boy after he survived the prison hulk?

Who the devil are you?

Even after all they had been through together, all they had shared, she still didn’t know the answer. He had hardly been forthcoming about his past. Or his present. He seemed intent on keeping his secrets.

“Besides,” he concluded flatly. “I’m owed.”

She didn’t ask what he meant by that comment either. Because she suspected he wouldn’t tell her. “How much money do we have? Is there enough?”

“Over five hundred.”

She whistled softly. “I would say that’s enough.”

“Enough to make one blacksmith fat and happy and set two fugitives free.” His eyes met hers. “Within a few hours, your ladyship, we’ll be miles from here.”

“Free to go our separate ways. At last.”

An awkward silence fell, broken only by the clink of the coins he was counting.

Free at last. She should be ecstatic.

So why did the thought make her feel so... wretched?

She pulled up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. Resting her cheek on her knees, she observed him in the scant light. The silvery glow played over his features, made his new white shirt gleam, his black hair seem all the darker. With a gem in his pocket and gold at his fingertips, he looked happier than she had ever seen him, his eyes alight, his smile easy and broad. It seemed he was in his element, somehow. And it made him appear relaxed, confident... undeniably handsome.

Even though she didn’t approve of his reckless little ruby theft, she liked seeing him happy.

A now-familiar warmth unfolded within her, that feeling she had never been able to name. Except that this time it brought an ache as well.

Only a week ago she had been ready to send this man to the gallows to save her own neck. But that was before he had saved her life, comforted her when she thought her whole world without comfort, laughed with her...

Touched her in a way no man ever had.

His tenderness had banished her fears. Taken them away as easily as he had plucked that blood-red gem from the gypsies’ treasure.

Free? She had never truly been free until she was shackled to him.

And the thought of leaving him, of never seeing him again...

He lifted his head—and some of what she felt must have shone in her eyes, because he stopped counting abruptly.

The silence stretched out between them.

He broke it first. “So where will you go tomorrow, once you’re finally free of me?”

Straightening, she stretched and somehow managed to keep her voice casual. “Merseyside.” She had shared with him all her other secrets, saw no sense in withholding that one. “I’ll go to the room I keep in Merseyside, pack my things and leave the country.”

“Off to Venice, then?”

“Yes.” Somehow the thought of Italy’s blue skies and sparkling Adriatic wasn’t as appealing as it had once been. “And what about you?”

“I have that business appointment in York.”

“I meant after that.”

She kept her tone light, not demanding, though she longed to know more about him. Everything about him.

He glanced away, and she knew she had made the right decision when they’d left the cave: she hadn’t told him about his delirious ramblings, had kept the knowledge of his painful childhood to herself, not knowing how he would react. Hoping he would volunteer more information himself, without any prodding.

For some reason, it was important, achingly important, that he trust her.

“I’m a planter,” he said slowly, “from the American colonies. I’ll be returning there as soon as I conclude my business in York.”

“I see.” Part of her felt pleased that he had trusted her with that much information.

And part of her did not. A planter? Of all the possible occupations she had imagined for him, that wasn’t one of them. He didn’t seem like a man who belonged in the fields, worrying about crops and weather and weevils.

She wondered whether he was telling her the truth.

And she hated how much it hurt, that he might be lying to her. What right did she have to expect the truth or anything else from him? They were two strangers who had been thrown together by chance. Outlaws who fiercely guarded their independence. Who cared only for themselves.

That had been their bargain all along.

She wondered exactly when that bargain had been broken.

And why it hurt so much.

“I’ve never been to the Colonies.” She refused to let the hurt show in her voice. “What’s it like there?”

Again, he hesitated.

And again, he told her. “Very different from England. Hot. Humid. The... uh, place where I have my plantation is mostly salt marsh. More water than land. I grow indigo, rice, tobacco. There are plenty of fish, and some good hunting. Quail and deer, mostly. It’s not much, but I’ve got a damn fine wine cellar, all the rum and brandy a man could drink, and it beats the hell out of... some of the other places I’ve lived.”

“It sounds nice.”

He choked out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Not quite as nice as Venice.”

She shrugged.

They held one another’s gazes a long time. Then he turned and fished around through the leaves for the creel that held their supplies, and took out the flask. They had filled it with water from the stream before leaving the glade. “Well, in any event, here’s to getting out of England in good health.” He poured water into two cups and handed her one, raising his in a toast. “Here’s to America, to Venice, to freedom.”

“Freedom,” she echoed, with a smile she did not feel.

They clinked their cups together, and their fingers brushed.

Sudden sparks whirled through her, made her catch her breath. “Nick...”

He withdrew quickly. “We don’t have time for... uh... that is, we should get some sleep, your ladyship.”

She noticed that he had been calling her that again, instead of using her name—and she wondered whether he was doing it on purpose. “Nick, I just... I want to...” She sighed in frustration. “I wanted to say...”

“What?” he asked tightly.

She wasn’t sure. What was there to say? Freedom doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it did a few days ago? I don’t want to leave you?

I care about you?

The thought stunned her. It was overpowering, undeniable.

True.

She cared about him. And she couldn’t simply walk away as if he meant nothing to her.

“It doesn’t matter, Samantha.”

“It does matter,” she returned evenly. “You matter to me.”

He stared at her as if in shock.

“You matter to me,” she repeated simply.

He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Why?” She reached out and touched him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.

He flinched as if she’d burned him. “Because,” he ground out. “It’s not right. You’re...” He swore, shutting his eyes. “You’re a lady. A lady who deserves better than—”

“Better than a planter from the Colonies?”

“Better than a man like me,” he finished fiercely, opening his eyes, those emerald depths ablaze.

“Well, that’s too bad, Mr. James. Because I’ve been living my own life and making my own choices for too long to change now. I know what I want.” She slowly curved her fingers around his arm, realized how taut his muscles were beneath the smooth, white cotton. “I know what I feel.”

He stared at her with that dangerous fire in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.” She leaned closer, breathed against his lips the way she had learned from him, asking without words for his kiss. “I know what I want.”

“Samantha...” He said it like a warning, his body rigid. “No.”

“Yes, Nick,” she insisted. “Yes.”

She felt him tremble, heard him groan, a sound of anguish that seemed to come from the very depths of his being.

Then all at once, he circled her with his arms and pulled her against him. His mouth covered hers, plundering, hot.

And she abandoned herself to the fire in the moonlit darkness of Cannock Chase.