Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,37

throat went dry. His hand tightened around the bottle of whiskey and his body suddenly felt too hot. She remained blithely unaware of his discomfort, neatly tying shut the sack of dried beef, sweeping nutshells off the table with her hand, closing the box of biscuits.

His gaze followed her every move, lingering over her smooth skin, her slender fingers. During her toilette outside, she had washed with water from the rain barrel, scrubbing away the day’s sweat and mud, and now she almost seemed to glow in the candlelight, warm and fresh and golden.

Tangles of damp hair clung to her neck... and her bodice, the long strands curling around the soft feminine swell hidden by gown and corset. He suddenly longed to touch her, to feel the delicate textures of her hair, the silk, the warm curve of her breast against his palm—

He wrenched his thoughts back to reality, clutching the bottle tighter, clenching his other hand into a fist. He willed the mad impulse away. What the devil was wrong with him? It felt like he’d been knocked on the head with a belaying pin. Thrown overboard. Like he was drowning in an ocean too deep to fathom.

He blamed it all on exhaustion and pain. That was the only rational explanation for the way his thoughts kept careening out of control.

Miss Delafield stood, reaching across the table to gather up the sacks and baskets. “We can’t carry all of this with us. I suppose we might as well put some of it back for whoever else might happen along.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he said caustically.

She shot him a frown, but he was already getting to his feet, welcoming whatever distraction he could get at the moment. He followed her over to the cupboard, carrying the bottle with him.

He thought it best to keep his hands full.

When they reached the cupboard, he leaned his uninjured shoulder against the wall and watched her replace the leftover foods neatly on the shelves. The complicated lock that she had opened earlier still dangled from the latch on the cupboard door. He plucked it free with his left hand. “You picked this dodger pretty easily, Miss Delafield. Like you’ve done it before. Frequently.”

She glanced at him and there was just enough light on this side of the room to make out a gleam in her eye. A look that held both affront and accusation. Somehow he sensed what she was thinking: when they had first approached the cottage, he had led the attack with gun drawn, coolly, easily. As if he’d done it before. Frequently.

She might be thinking that, but she didn’t say it.

Interesting, he thought with a growing, grudging sense of respect—the lady not only had guts, she was smart as well. Smart enough to know when to keep her opinions to herself.

She turned back to her work. “I’m good at what I do.”

She said it simply, tonelessly. Without pride. Without apology.

Without any emotion at all.

He lifted the bottle and took a long swallow of whiskey, watching her as she closed the cupboard door. “How did you come to be a thief?”

The words spilled out before he could stop them. Too late, he realized that the liquor was not only dulling the pain in his shoulder but loosening his tongue. He didn’t want to venture into these waters. Didn’t want to know a thing about her. Didn’t want to think about her any more than he already did.

Her hand still on the cupboard door, she turned to stare at him. He stared back, almost as surprised as she was. Curiosity about another person was utterly unlike him. He had kept to himself, thought only of himself for years.

But, he reasoned a moment later, he needed to find out all he could about Miss Delafield. She had seen the brand, knew one of his most carefully guarded secrets. He had to evaluate just how much of a threat she might be.

“How did you come to be a thief?” he repeated quietly, casually.

He thought she might tell him to go to hell.

Instead, she told him something else entirely.

“There weren’t any other choices available.” She shrugged and finished closing the cupboard, locked it.

He all but snorted in disbelief. “There are always choices for women like you.”

She turned to face him. “Really? And what sort of woman am I?”

“Well-born. Cultured.” Beautiful. He avoided adding the word beautiful.

The smile that curved her mouth held equal parts derision and irony. “Yes, I suppose most people assume that.” She crossed