Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,36
into the cabin’s moth-eaten bed, and sleep. “Go and take a few minutes for your evening toilette. I’ll try to avoid intruding upon your feminine sensibilities.”
He let her lead the way to the thicket. He even turned his back. Not that her feelings mattered to him in the least, he assured himself. He merely wanted to avoid any further argument.
He couldn’t, however, resist one last quip.
“Be careful,” he advised quietly, grinning. “Might be a wolf hiding in there.”
~ ~ ~
An hour later, he had yet to get anywhere near the bed.
Darkness cloaked the interior of the cabin, not even a splinter of moonlight breaking through the woolen blankets he had tacked up over the windows. Only the flickering glow of a single stubby candle, burning in the center of the table, illuminated their meager supper.
His chair leaned back against the wall, Nicholas bit off one last mouthful of salt beef, lifted the bottle in his hand, and took a long swallow of whiskey. He let its heat spread through him, dulling the pain in his shoulder.
Miss Delafield had indeed managed to open the lock on the cupboard. It seemed needles weren’t all she carried in her needle case. A specialized lock pick nestled in there amongst her lacemaking tools.
The cupboard hadn’t contained any roast beef, but it had offered up some salt beef. Along with smoked pork, a sack of sugar and another of coffee, some raisins and dried figs, a variety of jellies and marmalades sealed in tins, three small wheels of cheese preserved beneath heavy layers of wax and enclosed in round wooden boxes, a bag of hard peppermint candies, and a basket of nuts.
Not to mention two bottles of aged Scots whiskey.
And a tightly sealed box filled with biscuits. Which were tough as hardtack and a little green around the edges, but he was willing to overlook that. Hell, he had lived on biscuits like these for years at sea.
All in all, it made a banquet fit for a fugitive.
Or rather two fugitives, he reminded himself.
He set the bottle on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wolfed down another biscuit. Miss Delafield flashed him a frown.
All evening, her displeasure had been clear even in the dim light. She didn’t approve of the whiskey. Or his table manners. She sat across the table from him—as far away as the chain would allow—and daintily dipped pieces of smoked pork in an open jar of honey.
Nibbling delicately, she ignored the way he was picking his teeth with a splinter of wood that he had chipped out of the table. “I still say we might risk a small fire in the hearth,” she suggested.
“I’m not going to swing at Tyburn just because you want some coffee.” Nicholas jerked his head toward the door. “I have no intention of alerting every lawman out there.”
She looked up. “You think they are?” she asked uneasily. “Out there, I mean. Already?”
He paused a moment, watching the candle’s glow warm her pale, freshly scrubbed features. Then he flicked the splinter of wood to the floor. “Aye,” he confirmed quietly.
She glanced down at her meal, silent. And didn’t eat any more.
Apparently she’d lost her appetite. He picked up another biscuit from the pile in the center of the table, gulped it down in three bites, and followed it with a long swallow from the bottle. She didn’t ask what made him so certain about their pursuers. He wasn’t sure he could explain if she did.
All he knew was that he could feel them out there. Marshalmen and thief-takers, fanning out through the forest, hungry for blood and bounties. He could feel them with every throbbing ache in his wounded shoulder. With the certainty of a man who’d been hunted for too many years.
He shoved that thought aside. He didn’t want to live that way again. Wouldn’t. If all went as planned, within a fortnight he’d be finished with his business in York and he’d never have to run again. He’d be free.
The trouble was, nothing had gone as planned since he set foot back on English soil.
Miss Delafield put the lid back on the jar of honey, then dabbed at her lips with a serviette she had improvised from another piece of her petticoat.
Nicholas watched her with amusement. There couldn’t be much left of that petticoat.
He instantly regretted that thought. Because it led him straight to an image of her legs. Long, pale, silky... and almost bare now beneath her skirt.