He bit into the mutton, thinking as he chewed. Since he alone would be hauled off to London, the marshalmen might take him on horseback or on foot, rather than in a coach or cart. That, at least, was some small cause for hope. It would give him a better chance to escape.
Finishing the water, he pressed the cool pewter mug against his bruised face with a pained sigh. He still had a chance of survival. Not a great chance, but a chance nonetheless.
Perhaps God hadn’t deserted him entirely after all.
A commotion at the door made him sit up straight and set the mug aside. It couldn’t be dawn already.
As soon as the door was thrown open, he realized the marshalmen weren’t coming to collect him. They were bringing in another prisoner—a kicking, bucking, struggling prisoner that two of them fought to restrain.
“Hurry up, Bickford!” one of the men shouted.
“Let me go, you cretins!” The new arrival accompanied the demand with a string of oaths that would burn the ears of a Barbary sailor.
Oaths made all the more remarkable by the feminine voice that uttered them.
The gaol’s awakened inhabitants quickly filled the air with whistles and catcalls.
“Bring ’er ’ere, mates!”
“Give ’em hell, missy!”
“I’ll take her off yer hands!”
Swearing, the marshalmen wrestled her along the row of cells, the gaoler waddling behind, fumbling with the ring of keys at his waist.
“Ow!” one of the guards howled. “She bit me! Bickford!”
“Hold on to her, Swinton, hold on,” Bickford muttered. “It’s hard to see and these ain’t numbered, ye know. I have to find one what fits one of the empty—”
“Unhand me!” the woman cried, lashing out with her heel. “You half-witted, barmybrained gullions, let me go.”
The second guard uttered a yelp as the girl stomped on his foot. “Just pick one, Bickford! Any of ’em.”
“Plenty o’ room in my cell!” one prisoner offered.
Nicholas remained silent. He could see her better by the light of the gaoler’s lantern—though he couldn’t make out much more than a whirlwind of blonde hair, pale yellow skirts, and white teeth.
The first marshalman, Swinton, yelped as those sharp little pearls again chomped on some portion of his anatomy. “Damnation, Bickford!”
The gaoler triumphantly held up a key in the light. “Here’s one.” He pushed past them down the row and unlocked an empty cell.
One right next to Nicholas’s.
“Wait a moment,” Nicholas protested. “Can’t you put her somewhere else?”
“Sorry, mate,” Bickford wheezed, jerking open the door. “Ye’ll be safe enough with these bars to keep her away from ye.”
Swinton grunted in pain as the blonde’s elbow connected with his midsection.
“Just watch out fer them teeth of hers,” the other guard advised, trying to grab a flailing, silk-clad arm without getting his eyes scratched out.
They dragged her toward the open cell, but the girl was now resisting with one last desperate effort.
Swinton finally snapped. “Listen, missy, I’ve had enough of yer nonsense!” He slammed her backward against the bars, knocking the air and the fight from her.
Before she could recover, he pressed up against her, twisting her hair around his fist and giving it a savage yank. His hawklike features burned an angry red and he took her jaw in his other hand, his grip so tight Nicholas could see the marks of his fingers pressing into her soft flesh. Her eyes widened in fear.
“Ye should learn to be a bit more friendly, yer ladyship,” Swinton suggested. “We might take pity on ye if ye were to be... friendly.”
All color fled her cheeks—except for bright scarlet around the marshalman’s grimy fingers. His other meaty hand came up to grope her breast.
The other prisoners cheered him on.
“That’s the way t’ deal with a woman!”
“Let’s ’ave a look at ’er!”
“Leave some fer me, mate!”
Nicholas glanced away. Turned his back. Help no one, trust no one, care about no one. That was the rule he lived by. A rule that had kept him alive for the last twenty-eight years.
The girl made a strangled sound of shock. Of pain.
Nicholas fastened his gaze to a corner of the back wall. He didn’t bother to guess what Swinton was doing to her. He didn’t care. He did not care.
“Here now, missy,” the marshalman growled. “Give us a kiss. I might convey a good word to the mag—”
Swinton never got to finish the word or the sentence.
Nicholas glanced around in time to see a feminine knee finding its mark with a blow that made Swinton yowl and Nicholas wince. She followed it with a swift, sharp kick to the same vulnerable spot.
Swinton collapsed on his back with the gurgle of a dying man, amid the laughter of his companions and hoots of derision from the prisoners.
The girl’s eyes glittered with fury. “Convey that to the magistrate, you filthy piece of rotting gutter slime!”
Before the other two lawmen could collect themselves enough to maneuver the blonde hellion into the empty cell, Swinton was on his feet.
“You little bitch!”
He struck her, hard—a blow across the face with the back of his fist that snapped her head sideways. The girl cried out and suddenly went limp, falling.
Swinton caught her but Bickford shoved him aside before he could inflict any further damage. “Come on, Swinton, ye’ve had yer sport fer the night.” He dumped her in the cell, shut the door, and locked it quickly with a sigh of relief.
“Her ladyship just don’t appreciate yer handsome face,” the other marshalman commented, still laughing as he turned to leave.
Swinton stood there, shaking with fury, glowering down at her.
“Come along, lad.” Bickford walked off, carrying the lantern. “Ye’ve got an early morning of it on the morrow.”
With one last growled curse, and a glare—which he shared equally with the girl and with Nicholas—Swinton turned away and followed his cohorts toward the exit, slowly. Limping.
He slammed the door behind him, and Nicholas heard the sound of a bar being dropped in place, then the heavy clatter of the chain.
The rest of the prisoners, their brief entertainment ended, settled down once more. One man whispered his prayers. Another moaned for a while in pain or simple misery before he fell silent.
Nicholas turned his gaze to his new neighbor.
The girl lay unmoving, her breathing even but shallow. From the force of the blow, she might be badly hurt.
But somehow he didn’t think so.
Leaning one shoulder against the bars that separated his cell from hers, he looked down at her.
She was young, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, he guessed, with a flawless honey-colored complexion framed by a regal mane of tawny hair. A straight little nose that tilted ever so slightly upward at the tip. Thick, dark lashes resting on elegantly high cheeks. It was an aristocratic face. One that should be painted on an expensive cameo, protected in a gold locket, and kept close to some wealthy young lord’s heart.
Nicholas frowned. He was supposed to be making escape plans, not ogling fellow inmates.
He picked up the mutton leg from his interrupted supper and took a bite. “You can get up now,” he said with his mouth full. “They’re gone.”
Her even, shallow breathing suddenly stilled.
After a moment, she opened one eye and cast a cautious sideways glance toward the door. Then she opened the other and glared up at him. “How did you know I was faking?”
“Women have fainted on me before,” he said sardonically. “One learns to tell a true faint from a display of female dramatics.”
She sat up, gingerly touching her bruised cheek, and squinted at him, as if her vision were only now adjusting to the torchlit darkness. Her eyes widened as her gaze traveled from his beaten, bloodied fa
ce down over the breadth of his shoulders and chest.
She quickly, warily moved to the other side of her cell, as far away as she could get. Which wasn’t far. Her slender back came up against the metal bars with a muted clang. She sat speechless, staring at him as if he were some kind of dangerous animal in a zoological park.
Her expression made him feel every bit as rough and brutish as he must look. She regarded him with a trace of fear in her eyes, and something else... a certain disdain, a haughtiness that he had seen before in the eyes of ladies of quality.
It was a look that never failed to annoy him.
And it made him stare all the more boldly back. He allowed his gaze to roam over her, deliberately undressing her with his eyes.
Every rich, creamy inch of her.
He mentally slipped her lemon-colored silk gown from her shoulders and admired the delicate line of her collarbone... the generous swell of sweet feminine flesh below, almost overflowing her lacy bodice... her slim waist and the womanly swell of her hips. Her skirt had tangled around her, revealing a glimpse of long, long legs.
He lifted his gaze slowly, lingering over every ripe, soft curve hidden by the fragile silk. Curves that would fit so perfectly in a man’s hands. His hands.
Honey-colored skin, flaxen hair... spun from gold, she was, burnished and sleek like a treasure plundered from a Spanish galleon.
And the pirate in him had never been able to resist the lure of gold.
He felt a stirring, tightening sensation low in his body, felt his breathing deepen even as he looked at her, imagining those legs wrapped around his hips.
As if reading his thoughts, she quickly rearranged her skirts with a whispered oath.
He lifted his gaze to hers. This close, he could see the color of her eyes, sparkling defiantly in the torchlight.
Gold. She had golden eyes—a light, clear amber color with flecks of pure gold around the center.
Forget the last meal, he thought with a slow, hungry curve to his mouth. One night with her would do quite nicely for a doomed man’s final wish.
Another flash of gold caught his eye—something dangling from a short, pale ribbon attached to the center of her bodice. A strangely shaped medallion or locket. Oblong, like a small barrel. Gasping, she grabbed it in one fist and clasped it against her. As if she meant to protect it from him.
Or as if it had some power to protect her.
He wondered how the devil a pampered chit like her had landed herself in gaol. And where she had picked up the salty language and street tricks she had used earlier.
One thing was certain: if he was any judge of women—and he was—this was easily one of the most beautiful he’d ever laid eyes on. “What did they arrest you for, lady? Caught stealing crumpets at a tea party?”
“What affair is it of yours?” Her frosty tone matched the disdain in her eyes.
He noticed, however, that her gaze flicked to his food with obvious longing.
He settled more comfortably against the bars and finished the mutton leg, noisily cleaning every last morsel of meat off the bone, licking his fingers with a sound of enjoyment. “Just making a bit of friendly conversation.” He tossed the bone aside.
He was definitely not making friendly conversation. If she was a petty criminal, she could sit here and rot until the assizes for all he cared.
But if the charges against her were more serious—and the reward high enough—they might transport her to London tomorrow. With him. Which might mean going by coach or cart.
She could, in short, cause him trouble.
And more trouble was the last thing he needed at the moment.
“Friendly conversation?” She arched one tawny brow. “I am not interested in being friendly.” The locket still clutched in one hand, she added under her breath, “Especially not with one of your kind.”
Tucking the ribbon and its attached bit of metal safely back into her bodice, she looked around, evaluating her surroundings much as he had earlier. She stood up, dusted herself off, and investigated the lock on her cell door, rattling it, studying it for several long moments before she gave up and checked the wooden wall at the back.
“No use,” he advised. “Locked up tight. Looks like you’re stuck here until the winter assizes... unless, of course, you’re charged with some serious offense.”
She slanted him an irritated glance. “Picking pockets,” she mumbled.
Not serious, Nicholas decided with relief.
“Forgery,” she added after a moment.
His relief faded a bit.
She sighed wearily. “And burglary.”
His mood was worsening by the minute.
She slumped against the back wall of her cell, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear it. “And attempted murder.”
He gazed up at her in astonishment and disbelief. “Let me guess, your ladyship—it’s all a terrible mistake and you’re completely innocent?”
She laughed, a humorless rasp that sounded harsh enough to hurt her throat. “Innocent?” She closed her eyes and repeated it, as if it were a foreign word beyond her understanding. “Innocent.” She shook her head, whispering, “No, I’m not innocent.”
The expression on her face held an odd mixture of bitterness and wistfulness.
She hung her head. “And they said something about not waiting for the assizes. There’s a rather large reward out on me.”
Nicholas exhaled a curse. “Lady,” he ground out, “you picked one hell of a rotten time to get yourself arrested.”
“Well, pardon me,” she snapped, her head coming up. “It’s not as if I planned this. So sorry if it’s some sort of inconvenience to you.”
“Oh, no inconvenience. We’ll just be sharing a trip to London tomorrow, in a bloody secure cart—”
“London?”
“That’s where the judges are this time of year. Where did you think they would be taking you? To the fair?”
“Manchester. Or... or Nottingham. It can’t be London! You must be mistaken—”
“No mistake. You and I are going to London tomorrow.”
She paled, looking as if she might truly faint. “Oh, God. Oh, no.”
Sinking to the floor, she wrapped her arms around her raised knees and pressed her forehead against them with a small moan.
“Such is the high cost of having a high price on your head,” he muttered, wondering despite himself what made her so terrified of London.
“And what about you?” she retorted, lifting her head, her tone mocking. “I suppose you were arrested by mistake and you’re innocent of the charges against you?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said dryly, “I was and I am.”
She cast a dubious glance over every battered inch of him. “Certainly.” Her voice held both sarcasm and that annoying haughtiness.
“Completely innocent. They jumped me near the stables when I was trying to hire a horse. They think I’m some local footpad they’ve been hunting for weeks.”
She blinked and studied him more closely. Then her eyes widened. “They think you’re Jasper Norwell,” she declared. “He’s the one they’ve been after. He’s very tall and dark and he has a beard...” Suddenly she started to laugh. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? It was a mistake. You really are innocent.”
“I’m so glad you find it funny.”
She was laughing herself silly. “You’re innocent and I’m not. I can’t tell you how funny that is.” Just as abruptly, she sobered. Her expression turned serious... then oddly thoughtful. “Actually, you’re right,” she said quietly. “It isn’t funny. Not at all.” She stood and went to the door of her cell. “Bickford!”
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Bickford!” she shouted again. “I demand to talk to someone! A terrible mistake has been made!”
Nicholas couldn’t believe his ears—but he wasn’t about to stop her. If she wanted to declare his innocence, so be it.
Reason, bribery, an
d tunneling were useless... but this stunning blonde might just help get him out of here.
“Bickford!” she called again.
A jangle of metal at the door was followed by a grunted oath. “What’s all the racket?” Bickford ambled through the door.
The girl glanced down at Nicholas, then back at the approaching gaolkeeper. “I’m afraid a terrible mistake has been made—”
How noble, Nicholas thought, smiling at her. How kind. How—
“This is obviously the thief who’s been plaguing your town, not me.” She pointed a finger straight at his nose. “And you already had him in custody before I was even arrested. I’m innocent and your men have made a terrible mistake—”
“You lying little wench!” Nicholas snarled, jumping to his feet and immediately regretting it when his head clanged against the barred ceiling, adding a headache to his other pains.
She ignored him completely, appealing to Bickford. “Do I look like a thief?” she asked sweetly. “Now look at him—he’s obviously dangerous. Just look at those cold green eyes! The eyes of a born miscreant, I tell you—”
“Lady, you are lucky there are solid metal bars between us.” Nicholas fastened his hands around the bars as he wanted to fasten them around her throat.
Bickford merely looked annoyed. “Bah!” he spat on the floor. “You roused me from me bed fer this, lass?”
“But I tell you he’s the one who stole the silverware from Lady Hammond’s parlor, not me. I saw him myself! I’ll swear it before the magistrate—”
“The magistrate is at his country house and can’t be disturbed fer the likes o’ you. And I don’t have no say in lettin’ prisoners go once they’re in here.”
“But since you already have the real culprit there’s no point in taking me all the way to London. If I could just speak to the magistrate—”
“Ye’ll have to explain it to the judge in London, missy.” With a disgusted shake of his head, Bickford turned away. “He’ll sort it all out. Now I warn ye—I’ll not be listenin’ to any more of yer yawpin’, so quiet down.”
Run Wild Page 3
