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Hibbert. Her uncle would be notified. He would come to collect her.
    And then he would have her killed.
    Or worse.
    After all, Prescott Hibbert was one of the most powerful and respected magistrates in all of London.
    And her guardian.
    An icy tremor went through her and she dropped her gaze from the door. She drew her knees up to her chest, locking her arms around them. But she could not stop trembling.
    He could do anything he wanted to her. And it would all be perfectly legal. No one would help her. No one could protect her. No one would believe the truth.
    She swallowed hard. If no one had been willing to believe her when she was sixteen, they certainly wouldn’t believe her now. Back then, she had been a naive innocent, newly arrived from the country with her sister Jessica, both of them still in shock over the loss of their parents. But now...
    Now she was a wanted woman. A criminal. Alone. On the run since that horrible night she had been forced to flee London.
    No one would believe a word she said.
    And the charge of attempted murder would be more than enough to ensure her execution.
    She was trapped. She was...
    Helpless.
    Sam closed her eyes, hating that feeling, that word, more than any other. When she fled the city six years ago—without a shilling to her name, with nothing but the clothes on her back—she had vowed that she would never be helpless again. That she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. That she would never be forced to depend on anyone, ever.
    Opening her eyes, unwrapping her arms from around her knees, she braced her hands against the cool stone floor and forced herself to stop trembling. For six years she had made her own way in the world—and she hadn’t accomplished that by giving into panic and despair. Or any emotions.
    The only way to survive was to keep moving forward, always forward. Away from the past, from the fear... the pain.
    She took a deep, steadying breath, touching the filigreed needle case pinned over her heart, hearing a voice in her memory.
You’re the strong one, Sam
. Jessica’s voice. Sweet, kind Jessica, so fragile and pale as she lay in her sickbed, whispering as she pressed the cherished heirloom into Samantha’s palm.
You’ve always been the strong one
.
    Sam blinked to clear the hot dampness from her eyes. She would have to be stronger than ever now. This was no time to suddenly change into a feather-witted, fragile female.
    Her mind working quickly, she glanced at the distant door, trying to think of some way to escape. There were no weapons at hand. And fighting the marshalmen had failed. And trying to trick her way past the gaoler had only made her predicament worse...
    Cautiously, for the first time in hours, she slanted a glance to her left, to the man who would be traveling with her—the surly rogue with the black eye, swollen lip, and blood-spattered clothes.
    Unfortunately for her, he looked like the type to harbor a grudge.
    Lying on his back with his eyes closed, he didn’t appear particularly threatening at the moment. In truth, despite the fact that he was about to be transported to London, he seemed rather relaxed, his sinewy frame stretched out comfortably, one arm cocked behind his head. The fabric of his shirt stretched taut over distressingly powerful muscles, the white sleeve making his hair and beard look blacker than sin.
    She almost thought he was asleep. But after a moment, as if he sensed her regard, he opened his eyes and looked her way.
    His gaze cut into her like ice, sharp and unforgiving. And beneath that cold surface she sensed something more sparkling in that emerald glare. Something... hungry and male. It made her shiver almost as much as the thought that he might happily throttle her with his bare hands, given half a chance.
    And she had no doubt he could do exactly that. His hands appeared just as large and strong and forceful as the rest of him. He looked like a man who
had
throttled people with his bare hands.
    The thought sent a