Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,3

damn thing—”

“Masud, for my purposes, all I need is a blade,” Nicholas said slowly, “and I’m carrying several. What do I need with a gun? I’m an ordinary planter traveling to York on a matter of business. No one will bother me.” He forced a laugh and raked a hand through the thick black beard that covered his cheeks, the silver-peppered hair at his temples. “And who the hell could possibly recognize me? Most of the coves who knew me well enough to identify me are dead—Falconer went down with his ship, Spears was shot by his own crew, Blake was killed fighting the French, Davison hanged at Execution Dock—”

“And that’s exactly where you’ll end up if you get caught,” Masud countered. “If someone—anyone—figures out who you are, you’ll be hanged before you can say ‘pieces of eight.’ ”

“I won’t get caught.” Nicholas flashed a shadow of his once-infamous sardonic smile. Then he turned to stare at the drowsy little village on the shore, at the glow from the hearths, and repeated it softly. “I won’t get caught.”

Chapter 2

The unsteady flame of a single torch glowed red on the black iron bars of his cell. Nicholas closed his eyes with a groan and allowed himself to just lie there for a moment, on his side, letting the cool stone of the floor soothe his stinging cheek. He wanted to sink back down into unconsciousness, but the pain kept him awake—pain throbbing in his temples, in his jaw, in his stomach, everywhere. He recognized the sharp, metallic taste on his tongue as blood. His own.

Sounds of human misery assaulted him from all sides, the wretched sobs and moans leaving no doubt about where he was. He coughed, wincing.

First-rate job of it, Brogan. Back in England less than a day, and already you land yourself in gaol.

For something you didn’t even do.

He might have laughed at the irony of it, but his bruised ribs brought a stab of pain that choked off his breath in the back of his throat.

Gritting his teeth, he lifted one hand to inspect the damage. His ribs didn’t seem to be broken. His left eye had swollen almost shut. His lip felt about twice its normal size. And beneath the thick bristle of his beard, a deep cut along his right cheekbone still bled. He moved his jaw cautiously and discovered to his surprise that it wasn’t broken. There was no permanent damage. He would heal.

If he lived that long.

Letting his hand fall back to the stone, he lay there with his eyes closed and muttered curses under his breath, each one hurting his battered lips. He cursed himself. Cursed the local marshalmen who’d jumped him in the darkness, mistaking him for some footpad they’d been hunting for weeks.

Most of all he cursed God for deserting him. Again.

Rolling slowly onto his back, he opened his eyes—or at least his right eye—and glared up at the iron bars overhead. His vision, such as it was, slowly adjusted to the meager, flickering light. He could see that his cell was in the middle of a row of cells, each made entirely of iron bars. Including the ceiling, which was less than six feet overhead. He wouldn’t even be able to stand up straight.

It was like a stall. A kennel.

A sudden knot clenched his stomach. The local lawmen might be bumblers when it came to identifying a suspect on a moonless night... but their gaol appeared secure. Alarmingly secure.

He fought the unease rising within him. He’d survived worse situations than this. Much worse.

At present, however, he couldn’t remember any one in particular.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow, steadying breath, telling himself he was in no immediate danger. They didn’t know his true identity. They had no reason to suspect.

But in rural areas like this, even those charged with minor crimes—even accused footpads—had to wait for the arrival of the assize judge to have their cases heard. And the assize judge only visited from London twice a year: summer and winter.

Which meant his honorable lordship wouldn’t be arriving for several months.

Long after Michaelmas Day.

Nicholas flattened his palms against the floor and pushed himself up to a sitting position, gritting his teeth. His injured ribs ached and his swollen eye throbbed and the haze of pain made it difficult to think—but he bloody well had to find some way to escape.

Turning his head, he realized that the back wall wasn’t made of bars, but of wood. He reached out