Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,34
dirt, cobwebs, and scattered leaves that had blown in through the broken windows.
A table and chairs with curving, spindly legs filled one corner, beneath a rack that held dangling iron pots, a kettle, cooking implements. A brick hearth took up most of the adjoining wall, and a trio of fishing poles had been left leaning against the mantel, amid a jumble of baskets and woven fishing creels on the floor.
Most appealing of all was the bed opposite the hearth, made of hand-hewn wood topped with a fat straw mattress and moth-eaten blanket. A four-poster draped with silk in a Grosvenor Square boudoir couldn’t have looked more welcoming at the moment.
Resisting the urge to sink down on the bed and slip into unconsciousness, Nicholas turned his attention to a large cupboard on the wall beside the door. A locked cupboard.
“What was so important that he had to lock it up?” he murmured, moving toward it, the girl trailing along, shackles jangling.
“I could—” She sneezed, waving a hand in front of her face to ward off the dust particles that spun around them in a musty whirlwind. “I could probably open the lock.”
“Right.” Nicholas chuckled. “With what? Your magic needle?” He yanked on the cupboard door, coughing when he got a faceful of dust for his efforts. Despite its age, the lock didn’t give. “Damn.”
His companion had already turned her attention to the dark corner next to the cupboard. “Food,” she breathed, lunging in that direction.
Nicholas felt the tug on his ankle and gave in for the moment, following her. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a set of corner shelves that held a collection of dust-covered jars, all the same size.
She grabbed one. “Oh, please let it be something to eat.” The jar appeared to hold some sort of thick liquid. She tugged at the lid.
“Hold on, your ladyship,” he warned. “There’s no way to know what the devil is in there—”
“I don’t care as long as it’s edible.” Her stomach growled noisily as if on cue. Struggling with the lid, she shot him an accusing look. “At least you arrived at the gaol last night in time for supper. Which you didn’t deign to share.”
He remembered enjoying his meal shamelessly, the way he had teased her by licking his fingers one by one. “I pride myself on timing.” Taking the jar from her hands, he unfastened the lid, lifted it, and took a sniff.
A breeze drifted through one of the cabin’s windows and caught the jar’s sweet aroma, the scent overpowering in the stale air.
“Honey!” she said ecstatically. “Perhaps this was some sort of beekeeper’s cottage.”
He was about to replace the lid when she reached over and dipped two fingers into the jar, lifting a drippy, golden mass of the liquid to her mouth. Closing her lips around her fingers, she uttered a sigh that turned into a moan of pleasure, her lashes drifting downward.
Nicholas froze, the open jar almost sliding from his fingers. Exhaustion and pain faded from his consciousness and he could only see, hear, feel the image before him: her lips, her soft moan, his heart suddenly beating too hard, a blaze of heat burning through his body, tightening every muscle below his belt.
He shut his eyes. She had acted out of hunger, not seductiveness. She didn’t even realize the effect she had on him. Didn’t know that she had just taken vengeance for the way he had tormented her last night.
Complete, swift, painful vengeance.
He managed to open his eyes at last, but she hadn’t noticed his distress. Her golden gaze bright, she was looking at the shelf. “I wonder if he kept any other foods here besides honey.”
“Maybe a nice roast beef.” Nicholas shoved the jar and lid into her hands. “We can search later. I want to look around outside while there’s still enough light.”
He turned on his heel, the chain jangling. Not arguing for once, she followed him out the door, content with her jar of honey for the moment.
The sound of her licking her fingers played on his nerves as he walked the perimeter of the cottage. He tried to block her tantalizing little sighs from his mind, examining the shelter with an eye to security.
Someone at some point had artfully concealed the place with brush, branches, and those carefully felled trees. He doubted any beekeeper would’ve gone to such trouble. The cottage had clearly been used as a hiding place, probably by some previous outlaw. He wondered