Run Wild (6 page)

“Blacksmith’s tools,” her fellow prisoner said tightly. “What the devil do you need with those?”

His captors chuckled.

“We ain’t used to movin’ prisoners t’ither and yon,” Leach explained. “Usually we just holds ’em fer the assize judge.”

“And we ain’t takin’ a chance of ye gettin’ away,” Tucker said.

The blacksmith plucked one item from the jumble on the floor—a chain made of heavy iron links, with a thick cuff at either end. About two feet long, it looked more suitable for the previous residents of this stable than for a man.

“Wait a moment, mates,” the rogue said in a friendly, reasoning tone. “There’s no need for that. I told you, I’m an innocent man. I won’t give you any trouble—”

“Tell it to Tibbs,” Swinton snarled.

Before their prisoner could protest further, the smithy opened one of the cuffs and closed it firmly around his right ankle.

Sam felt not one whit of pity as she watched the blacksmith fasten the shackle in place with a heavy metal bolt, driving it home with a hammer. In fact, she felt relief.

If she had to share a journey through the countryside with this rough-looking brigand, it suited her just fine that he have his hands tied behind his back—which might keep them from around her throat—and his legs chained, which might subdue him a bit.

While the smithy checked his handiwork and picked up the other cuff, Bickford came over to her cell and unlocked the door. “Come along, missy.”

She obeyed without making any sudden moves, her eyes on the pistol in his hand.

Young Tucker laughed nervously. “Aye, mate, we’re goin’ to make it
real
difficult for a big bloke like you to get away.”

Leach grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged her forward. “And her ladyship is goin’ to help.”

She didn’t understand his meaning.

Until she glanced away from the pistol aimed at her head and realized that they hadn’t finished chaining the rogue’s legs together.

In fact, the smithy was holding the other cuff open.

“Before ye even
think
of escapin’,” Swinton chuckled, “think about how this might slow ye down.”

Sam gasped, looking up—and up and up—at the blackguard who stood at her side. Her gaze locked with a stunned emerald stare. He uttered an oath.

And in that very instant she felt the heavy iron shackle being clamped around her ankle.

T
hey jolted over a rut in the road and the cart’s wooden side struck Sam between the shoulder blades. She didn’t flinch, part of her too nauseous from the bumpy ride and the merciless midday sun, part still numb with disbelief. From the moment the smithy had fastened the iron cuff around her ankle this morning, she hadn’t drawn a complete breath.

She felt dizzy. Sick.

Perspiration trickled down her neck and into her bodice, pasting her hair to her skin in hot, sticky tangles. She couldn’t reach up to brush it away. With her wrists tied together behind her back, she could barely move. Her arms ached painfully from being stretched in the unnatural position for hours. Her hands had long ago gone numb. The horses’ hooves stirred up clouds of dust that stung her eyes. And a sour smell emanated from the moldy straw piled beneath her and around her.

But the worst part of the journey wasn’t the heat or the soreness in her muscles or even the band of metal clamped around her left ankle.

It was the searing glare of the dark-haired, uncivilized-looking man who sat across from her.

The man chained to her by eighteen links of iron.

Eighteen. She’d had time to count them. Eighteen solid, black, unyielding rings. A chain thick enough to hold an unbroken stallion in check. When Bickford had shoved her up into the cart, he had chuckled that the shackles were unbreakable, that it would require a blacksmith in London to remove them.

That news hadn’t improved the rogue’s mood in the least. His initial expression of disbelief had given way to an air of surly, simmering resentment. He looked at her with a hard set to his jaw and hostility in his eyes. As if this were
her
fault. As if she’d purposely set out to cause him trouble.

She responded with a glower of her own. She wasn’t any happier with the situation than he was. Did he think he was the only one who’d been forced to abandon an escape plan? She had harbored some hope of slipping away at nightfall—but shackled to six feet of bad-tempered brigand, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Except straight to London.

Turning away from her hostile traveling companion, she fastened her attention on the open fields around them. Despite the fact that her predicament had taken this appalling turn for the worse, things weren’t entirely hopeless. Not yet. She had to stop feeling frightened and sorry for herself. Had to keep her wits about her. Think.

Plan.

The journey to London would take at least a week. Perhaps somewhere along the way, if a wheel broke or... No, she amended just as quickly. She doubted the cart would be so accommodating as to break down. The marshalmen had borrowed it from a farmer. Built to haul heavy goods over the deplorable country roads, it boasted a heavy axle and two solid oak wheels. Neither would shatter on the deep ruts that scarred the path.

Her bruised
derriere
could attest to the vast number of those accursed ruts. They were like furrows in a plowed field, topped with hard ridges, some more than a foot deep, and she felt every one of them.

No, she couldn’t center her plan on a wish that the cart might cooperate.

Nor could she hope that one of the guards might get careless. They kept their eyes trained on their captured prey like a pack of wolves, all four bristling with weapons.

Bickford drove, whistling a cheerful tune that set her teeth on edge. He sat on a wooden platform that jutted out from the front of the cart, a blunderbuss in his lap. Young Tucker fidgeted beside him, nervously glancing over his shoulder every few minutes, eyes wide and pistol at the ready.

The lad kept his finger wrapped so tightly around the trigger, Sam feared the gun might go off accidentally.

Leach led the way, riding a few yards ahead, while Swinton had volunteered to follow behind the cart. He didn’t say a word to her, not a single taunt. His silence rattled her far more than the vulgarities he had snarled at her last night. He rode so close, she swore she could feel his foul breath on her skin.

And she could
feel
those black eyes following her, watching every small movement, tracing every bead of sweat that slid down her neck. It sickened her to realize he was enjoying her discomfort, wanted her to suffer.

She couldn’t subdue a shudder. Swinton reminded her of Uncle Prescott, in the worst way.

She fought down her terror, wouldn’t give in to tears. She was not going to let Swinton or Uncle Prescott or
anyone
make her feel helpless.

There had to be some way out of this, something she could do before they reached London.

A fly landed on her cheek. She shook her head to shoo it away but ended up with a strand of hair in her eye. Frowning, she rubbed her cheek against her shoulder, frustrated at being so powerless. She managed to get the hair out, but her eye, already irritated from grit and dust, now brimmed with tears.

Young Tucker turned to look her way just as she lifted her head—and she saw a flicker of something unexpected in his freckled face.

Sympathy. Regret.

Instinctively, she made a decision.

Instead of blinking the tears back, she allowed them to spill over. A single droplet slid down her cheek, cutting a path through the grime. Then another.

She added a dramatic little tremor of her lower lip. Then she lowered her lashes as if ashamed to have him catch her crying. Just for good measure, she sniffled, softly.

When she slowly glanced up again, blinking, chin quivering, she met the lad’s gaze. Tucker’s expression was strained, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He looked all but ready to leap from his seat and cut her free from her bonds.

Yet a moment later, he abruptly turned around.

She frowned. Duty, apparently, had won out over sympathy. Drat.

A privately amused chuckle drifted over from the other side of the cart. Slicing her gaze that way, she found the rogue regarding her with a mocking grin on his bruised, bloodied face, his broad shoulders fairly shaking with silent laughter.

Warmth flooded her cheeks. She lifted her chin, looked away, and wished a pox upon him. She wasn’t interested in his cynical opinions. It didn’t matter that
he
wasn’t taken in by her performance.

Because it
did
appear that she had made an impression on the young marshalman.

Every time Tucker glanced her way now, she caught an unmistakable softness in his freckled face. More than that. Pity.

And pity might very well prove helpful.

She slanted another look at the rogue, smiling sweetly.
Laugh all you want, you overgrown oaf. We’ll see who’s laughing when
I’m
free and
you’re
still in custody
.

Satisfied with her progress for the moment, she settled back against the cart’s wooden side, admiring the clear blue sky overhead. The day didn’t seem quite so miserable anymore.

Except for the way her stomach kept growling. She winced at the gnawing hunger. It had been... by the graces, how long
had
it been since she’d had a full meal?

The few hors d’oeuvres she had nicked at Lady Hammond’s assembly last night hardly counted. She had circulated through the throng only briefly before making her way toward the silver in the sideboard—because she hadn’t had an invitation.

But then, she never had an invitation. Amazing how the right gown and a few airs could gain one access to all sorts of places.

Sneaking into last night’s
soiree
had been a foolish risk, though. She should have left Staffordshire a fortnight ago. Four months working one district was too long. But the elegant country estates offered such easy booty, and she needed only another hundred pounds to have enough.

Enough to leave England behind forever. To start a new life. To finally be safe.

Seeing her dream almost within reach, she had been too eager last night, too emotional. Emotion always made her careless. One foolish, amateurish mistake... and Lady Hammond had caught her and immediately turned her in.

For stealing a half-dozen shrimp forks.

As if someone like Lady Hammond would even
miss
a half-dozen shrimp forks.

Sam grimaced. It was so blasted unfair. She could easily do far more damage if she chose to, but she never took more than a trifling amount from any one person. Partly because greed was the fastest way to gain unwanted attention and land one’s neck in a noose... but mainly because she refused to cause anyone hardship or distress.

Even someone like Lady Hammond.

It was a fine line she walked, but one she would not cross.

Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about food, or her foolish mistake yesterday.

Or her dreams for tomorrow.

The cart lurched and tilted as it rolled southward, but her sleepless night coupled with the thick heat soon made her drowsy. She was distantly aware of the horses breathing noisily, their hooves plodding now as the hours wore on into mid-afternoon. The sun climbed higher, baking the air and everything in it.

A raucous screech startled her awake some time later. She sat up and opened her eyes to find trees towering overhead on the left side of the cart, the road skirting the edge of what looked like a vast forest. A flock of birds high above squawked a warning of the intruding humans.

She sat up straighter, blinking to clear her vision, fully awake now. The leaf-laden branches blocked the sun and she almost groaned in gratitude. Her exposed skin had already darkened a shade and the road’s grit, like sandpaper, had rubbed every inch of her raw. The cooling shadows felt like a balm.

Her wrists didn’t feel quite so strangled anymore, either, as if the rope had expanded a bit in the humid air.

Everyone else seemed just as worn out by the long day of travel and heat and dust. Bickford cursed wearily as he swiped a lazy fist toward one of the ravens that swooped low over his head. Tucker, her savior-to-be, leaned on the cart’s side, his tricorne settled low over his eyes, his freckled cheek resting on the heel of his palm. His pistol lay in his lap.

Even Leach and Swinton slouched in their saddles, looking as sluggish as their horses.

Yawning, Sam glanced across the cart, expecting to find the rogue napping.

He wasn’t. He sat pressed against the wood at his back, head down, but he didn’t seem to be asleep. He shrugged his shoulders and moved his arms, as if to ease the soreness in his muscles.

The sun glinting through the trees struck glossy highlights from his black hair, and she noticed a peppering of gray at his temples. Odd, she hadn’t thought of him as being that old. She wasn’t sure why, but the impression she had gotten last night was of a youthful, utterly male confidence. Boldness. Arrogance. She found herself wondering how old he was.