Then she passed it to him in a calm, civilized manner that twisted the knife in his gut all over again. He almost wished she would throw it at him. Curse him.
Instead she simply started to dress in her new clothes. Didn’t say another word.
Nicholas turned his back. Partly to give her some measure of privacy, partly because he didn’t want her to notice that he couldn’t keep his own hands steady. Pulling his shirt on, he tried to ignore that her warm, soft scent permeated the cloth. He buttoned it to his throat with quick, savage motions, covering the brand on his chest, as he had so many innumerable times in the past. The mark of the Molloch. The indelible evidence of who and what he was.
What he would always be.
Samantha would be better off without him. Soon, she would be on her way to Venice. Which was for the best, he told himself. She already knew too much about him. He would be safer with her out of England. And maybe, when he put some miles between them, all of these blasted feelings would go away.
Besides, she would be happy there. She would have her villa by the Adriatic, her lacemaking work...
And some rich Italian count or baron for a husband.
Bile burned his throat. He clenched his hands, wanting to throttle the bastard—whoever he would be. The vision of Samantha showering her sweet passion on some other man made him want to put his fist through the nearest tree.
And of course, now that he had shown her she had nothing to fear from lovemaking, she would be less reluctant to accept another man in her bed.
He muttered an oath.
“Are you ready, your ladyship?” he asked curtly. “It’s time to go.”
~ ~ ~
The sun, Sam thought, had the most awful way of revealing things. Everything that had seemed dreamy and magical and special last night had been exposed by the glaring light of day.
Transformed into something common and real and painful.
And the worst part was that she could see her own foolishness now, with agonizing clarity.
As she followed Nick through the trees, heading back toward the gypsy camp, their shackles jangling, she kept hearing his biting, cynical words. I never offered you any promises.
It was true. He hadn’t said a word about caring, or any feelings at all. Clearly, he didn’t have any feelings for her. She had been a pleasant distraction to him, nothing more.
And she couldn’t even hate him for it. He had shared with her exactly what he had offered: physical pleasure. He hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t taken anything by force. She had given it all willingly.
She had given him her innocence.
She had given him her heart.
The first he had accepted gladly.
The second he didn’t want.
If she had misinterpreted his soft words and gentle touches, had seen behind them a meaning that wasn’t there, that was her own stupid mistake. Obviously there was a lot she still didn’t understand about lovemaking.
She had thought it involved the heart, not merely the body.
The morning sun felt unseasonably hot, beating down on her, plastering her stolen chemise to her back and shoulders. The coins in the deep pocket of her green silk skirt bumped against her leg now and then. Nick carried the bulk of their stolen money in the coin purse, but he had insisted on giving her a few guineas. She would need to buy food on her way to Merseyside, he had pointed out—after they were separated.
She stared at his broad back as he trudged ahead of her. Those were the last words he had spoken to her. He had barely even spared her a glance since they set out at dawn.
Which was just as well, she thought gratefully. She had come perilously close to tears during their last exchange. If nothing else, she wanted to get out of this with some 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 pay your debt in another way, senorita.”
She almost kicked him—but Nick’s hand was on the man’s shoulder before the smithy could draw another breath. “The lady’s not part of the bargain.”
Nick didn’t hit him, didn’t draw the knife. She heard no threat in his voice.
But something about his grip on the blacksmith’s shoulder made the man release her. Instantly.
“All right, ami, all right. Old Ramon, he thought you might want to save yourself the money, is all.”
“Try not to think, old Ramon. You’ve got work to do.”
“Let me see the money first.”
Nick counted out one hundred in gold guineas. “And how much might it cost to throw a pair of your fine horses into the deal?”
“Another...” Ramon eyed the coin purse, as if mentally weighing it even as Nick emptied it. “Two hundred.”
Sam struggled to hold her tongue. Two hundred! It was outright theft, but they were in no position to argue.
Besides, she reminded herself, it wasn’t their money.
She fought the urge to glance at the wagon they had robbed last night, subdued the grin that tugged at one corner of her mouth.
“Luckily for you, I’m a generous man.” Nick handed over the demanded price. “And there might be more. A little something extra for your silence. If anyone happens along asking questions—”
“I never saw a black-bearded machao and his blonde senorita in all my cursed life.”
“Exactly.”
“How much more?” Ramon asked with a greedy smile.
Nick closed the coin purse and tied it to his belt again. “After you’ve done the job.”
The smithy nodded in agreement. Transferring the money to his own coin purse, he slid it down his shirt. “Who the devil are you, ami?”
“Someone you’re better off not knowing,” Samantha put in dryly.
They were perhaps the truest words Nick had ever said to her.
The blacksmith chuckled. Taking one of the strange-looking implements from the wall, he bent down over the shackles. “Give me your foot again, senorita.”
Sam cautiously inched her foot toward him.
This time he didn’t touch her with anything other than professional intent, apparently keeping either his fee or Nick’s towering presence in mind. He worked at the cuff around her ankle, but gave up after a few minutes, tossing the tool aside.
“Morbleu, whoever put these on you, they did not want them to come off!”
Sam’s heart started pounding. She was half-afraid that the shackles might be permanent after all. That she might really be chained to Nick forever.
And some stupid, reckless part of her was thrilled by that thought.
But Ramon was already choosing other tools from the wall—a small hammer and a sharp-looking chisel. Returning to her side, he lightly placed the chisel against the bolt that fastened the cuff around her ankle.
“Now be very still,” he warned, lifting his hammer.
She bit her lip, looked away, frightened that she was about to lose a foot.
Her eyes locked with Nick’s.
Then she heard and felt the blow all at once—a metallic clang that reverberated through her very bones.
The cuff fell open, slid to the ground.
And the chain was off. They were separated.
She was free.
Chapter 20
Free. Sam could hardly believe it. She stared at the chain, lying harmless on the ground, gleaming dully in the bright morning sunlight. Already Ramon was working on the cuff around Nick’s ankle.
Free. The moment they had been waiting for, working for since that first morning in gaol, when fat Bickford had laughed as they were linked inseparably together. Had it been only a matter of days? It seemed like a lifetime.
But instead of bringing relief or happiness, freedom brought... numbness. It didn’t feel as if she had just been relieved of a burden.
It felt as if she had just lost some part of herself. Some vital, important part.
She released a long, shuddery exhalation, realizing she had been holding her breath. Bending down, she rubbed at her sore, bruised, reddened ankle, chastising herself for such outlandish thoughts.
The shackles had brought her only pain. And a mark that looked like it might be a permanent scar. To mourn their loss was foolish—and she had been a fool too often of late. No more, she vowed.
She would waste no more time on emotions that only brought hurt.
“Which horses?” she asked the blacksmith.
“Eh, senorita? What’s that?” Ramon was still crouched on the ground beside Nick. With a second sharp blow of his chisel, they were both released from the shackles. Both free.
“We just paid you two hundred for a pair of horses.” She pointed toward the line of mounts picketed a few yards beyond his wagon. “Which ones are ours?”
“Ah, sim. The two bay geldings on this end.” Rising, he gestured with the chisel. “They are mine. I hate to see them go.”
“With two hundred pounds,” Nick commented dryly, “you’ll be able to buy yourself a whole herd.”
“True. True, I will,” the smithy conceded with a broad grin.
“How much for saddles and tack?” Nick asked in that same cynical tone.
“Ami, you mentioned some extra when the job was done, no?” Ramon held out his palm. “I would say... another hundred will cover the rest. I have no saddles, but their cabedals, their halters are there.” He indicated some leather harnesses draped over the traces at the front of the wagon.
Nick opened his coin purse again. Sam didn’t waste another minute watching the transaction. She walked over to pick up a bridle—and almost stumbled. Moving freely felt so odd, unfamiliar.
She hadn’t realized how much she had gotten used to the heavy restriction of the shackles, to matching her stride to Nick’s. Without the cuff, her ankle felt strangely light, her steps almost weightless. Unnerved by the awkward sensation, she tried to ignore it, grabbing a bridle and heading for the horses.
“Wait.”
She heard Nick’s imperious command behind her and ignored it as well. She didn’t have to take his orders. Not anymore.
Reaching the bays, she chose the smaller of the two. They were draft horses, meant for pulling wagons, not carrying ladies. It took her a few minutes to figure out which part of the halter was meant for the animal’s mouth. She had often gone riding as a girl, but there had always been a groom to handle this sort of thing.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Nick said.
She glanced over her shoulder to see him walking toward her.
It struck her as utterly strange to view him from a distance. She had never seen him any way but up close before. He strode across the grass, all muscle and overpowering confidence, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt, the sunlight accenting the angles and planes of his body.
She ignored the little flip her heart made and turned back to her task. “I know what I’m doing,” she lied.
“You’re going to end up on your arse in the dirt before you get ten yards.” Reaching her side, he took the halter from her hands.
“I do not need your help,” she protested, piqued at the way he just took over. “You have no right to... to...”
He ignored her ire, deftly bridling the horse for her. “Were you planning to just ride off, your ladyship? No goodbyes?”
“How about good riddance?” She congratulated herself on how cold that so
unded—because her pulse was fluttering wildly. She reached for the leather reins, but he held them back.
An odd expression played around his chiseled mouth. “I’m going to miss you, angel.”
He sounded like he meant it. Which only confused and infuriated her further. “You’ll get over it, I’m sure.” Every fiber of her being urged her to leave. Now. She moved to the side of the horse, intending to mount.
Nick remained in place, leaning against the animal’s flank, blocking her way, his gaze on the ground.
She clenched her fists, glanced uneasily toward Ramon. The smithy wasn’t paying them the least attention. He was sitting on the steps of his wagon, counting his earnings. “Mr. James,” she said under her breath, “you’ve got that pressing business appointment to keep in York, remember?”
Nick still didn’t budge.
She stared at his chest. “Goodbye, all right? Are you satisfied?” Her throat seemed to close off and suddenly she knew why she wanted—needed—to get out of there and fast.
Not because she was angry with him but because she was dangerously close to revealing her real feelings for him. Her voice had already turned quivery with emotion, with words that threatened to spill out.
Words she refused to speak.
She lifted her gaze, trying desperately to pierce him with a cold, uncaring look. “Goodbye. Is that what—”
He pulled her close with one arm, drawing her in tight against him as his lips covered hers in a kiss that was hot, deep, possessive. The feel of his mouth on hers sent cascades of fire through her, but this time she resisted. She pressed her fists against his chest.
But an instant later, she didn’t want to break free. The sound of protest in her throat became a sound of longing. She didn’t want her freedom. Didn’t want to say goodbye. Didn’t want to leave him.
Her resolve, her anger, her pretense of cool control melted in the heat of his embrace. She surrendered to the intoxicating taste and scent and feel of him. He held her as if he meant to brand her body with his, kissing her until the world spun dizzily around her.
Then he broke the kiss just as suddenly, steadied her on her feet until she regained at least some of her balance. She felt breathless, flushed. Speechless. He looked down into her eyes, for a long time.
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