Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,33

to speak, shaking her head with a weary sigh. “... tired.”

That one word seemed to sum up the entire accursed day. Even in the deepening forest shadows, Nicholas could see the strain on her pale, dirt-smudged features, noticed that the stubborn set to her chin, the determined stiffness in her spine had all but disappeared. He felt just as exhausted. Their pace had slowed to a weary trudge. They wouldn’t get any further before nightfall. Couldn’t.

And whatever—or whoever—waited inside the cabin couldn’t be much worse than what they’d already encountered this day.

Reaching behind him, he drew the pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches. There was no sense trying to do this politely. No chance of passing themselves off as travelers lost in the forest. Not with both of them dressed in ripped clothes, covered with blood, and chained together.

“Follow me, Miss Delafield,” he whispered, focusing his gaze on the ramshackle cottage.

“You’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?”

He hesitated a moment, asking himself the same question. “Not unless they shoot at me first.”

Rising in a half-crouch, he began inching forward. The girl picked up the chain to keep it from dragging noisily between them. As they crept closer, Nicholas found himself struck by an eerie sense of how familiar it felt—sneaking up on some unsuspecting target, a pistol in his hand, a fellow outlaw by his side.

Though this was the first time that the fellow had ever been a lady.

It took only seconds to reach a fallen tree a few paces from the door. They knelt behind the trunk, side by side, waiting. Listening. All he could hear was his rough breathing, and hers.

He didn’t hear or see any sign of life in the cabin. No firelight. No smoke. No movement. From what he could make out in the last glimmers of daylight, it looked unoccupied.

Constructed of hand-hewn wood instead of the usual wattle-and-daub used by peasants, the place boasted riches that didn’t belong here in the murky depths of Cannock Chase: a thatched roof, a solid-looking door with iron fittings, glass windows, now cracked and broken. Perhaps some foolish nobleman in a past century had built it as a hunting cottage.

Whatever the intended purpose, it looked as though the little shelter had been abandoned for years. The forest had almost reclaimed it. Ivy and other greenery dripped down the roof and clung to the walls, competing with grass and weeds that rose in a tangle two feet high even in front of the door.

Still, the air of abandonment might have been created by guile rather than by chance. He had the distinct impression that the concealing trees on two sides had been felled not by nature, but by man.

By a man who had reason to hide.

Nicholas cocked the pistol and turned to look at his fellow outlaw. She was trembling, her quick, shallow breathing making her lace-trimmed bodice rise and fall rapidly, but she clenched her jaw and nodded, urging him to proceed.

The lady had guts, he had to give her that. She might be one stubborn, aristocratic pain in the arse, but she had guts.

Rising, he ducked around the fallen tree and led the way to the door. Swiftly. Stealthily. Take the opponent by surprise and minimize casualties.

It all felt hauntingly familiar.

They reached the door. He lifted the latch. Hinges creaked as he pushed at it and then he was inside, dropping back from the spill of light, pistol sweeping the interior in a single smooth arc.

An animal’s screech split the air. Something small and furry exploded out of a corner.

“A wolf!” the girl shrieked, flattening herself against the door jamb as the creature darted past her.

Chuckling, Nicholas flicked the safety on the gun, satisfied that they had just chased out the only occupant. “That, Miss Delafield, was a squirrel.”

She unglued herself from the wall. The waning light slanting in through the open door and cracked glass windows illuminated twin spots of color high in her cheeks. “That was no squirrel,” she insisted archly, dusting off her sleeves.

“Fine, a wolf.” Looking around the cabin, he couldn’t subdue a grin. “Smallest wolf in the history of England.”

She muttered something unladylike under her breath and changed the subject. “This place is larger than it looked from outside.”

Returning the pistol to his waistband, Nicholas nodded as he studied their surroundings. Whether woodsman or noble, the previous owner had outfitted the place with all the comforts a man could ask, though the fine furnishings were now buried beneath layers of