Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,85
because he stopped counting abruptly.
The silence stretched out between them.
He broke it first. “So where will you go tomorrow, once you’re finally free of me?”
Straightening, she stretched and somehow managed to keep her voice casual. “Merseyside.” She had shared with him all her other secrets, saw no sense in withholding that one. “I’ll go to the room I keep in Merseyside, pack my things and leave the country.”
“Off to Venice, then?”
“Yes.” Somehow the thought of Italy’s blue skies and sparkling Adriatic wasn’t as appealing as it had once been. “And what about you?”
“I have that business appointment in York.”
“I meant after that.”
She kept her tone light, not demanding, though she longed to know more about him. Everything about him.
He glanced away, and she knew she had made the right decision when they’d left the cave: she hadn’t told him about his delirious ramblings, had kept the knowledge of his painful childhood to herself, not knowing how he would react. Hoping he would volunteer more information himself, without any prodding.
For some reason, it was important, achingly important, that he trust her.
“I’m a planter,” he said slowly, “from the American colonies. I’ll be returning there as soon as I conclude my business in York.”
“I see.” Part of her felt pleased that he had trusted her with that much information.
And part of her did not. A planter? Of all the possible occupations she had imagined for him, that wasn’t one of them. He didn’t seem like a man who belonged in the fields, worrying about crops and weather and weevils.
She wondered whether he was telling her the truth.
And she hated how much it hurt, that he might be lying to her. What right did she have to expect the truth or anything else from him? They were two strangers who had been thrown together by chance. Outlaws who fiercely guarded their independence. Who cared only for themselves.
That had been their bargain all along.
She wondered exactly when that bargain had been broken.
And why it hurt so much.
“I’ve never been to the Colonies.” She refused to let the hurt show in her voice. “What’s it like there?”
Again, he hesitated.
And again, he told her. “Very different from England. Hot. Humid. The... uh, place where I have my plantation is mostly salt marsh. More water than land. I grow indigo, rice, tobacco. There are plenty of fish, and some good hunting. Quail and deer, mostly. It’s not much, but I’ve got a damn fine wine cellar, all the rum and brandy a man could drink, and it beats the hell out of... some of the other places I’ve lived.”
“It sounds nice.”
He choked out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Not quite as nice as Venice.”
She shrugged.
They held one another’s gazes a long time. Then he turned and fished around through the leaves for the creel that held their supplies, and took out the flask. They had filled it with water from the stream before leaving the glade. “Well, in any event, here’s to getting out of England in good health.” He poured water into two cups and handed her one, raising his in a toast. “Here’s to America, to Venice, to freedom.”
“Freedom,” she echoed, with a smile she did not feel.
They clinked their cups together, and their fingers brushed.
Sudden sparks whirled through her, made her catch her breath. “Nick...”
He withdrew quickly. “We don’t have time for... uh... that is, we should get some sleep, your ladyship.”
She noticed that he had been calling her that again, instead of using her name—and she wondered whether he was doing it on purpose. “Nick, I just... I want to...” She sighed in frustration. “I wanted to say...”
“What?” he asked tightly.
She wasn’t sure. What was there to say? Freedom doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it did a few days ago? I don’t want to leave you?
I care about you?
The thought stunned her. It was overpowering, undeniable.
True.
She cared about him. And she couldn’t simply walk away as if he meant nothing to her.
“It doesn’t matter, Samantha.”
“It does matter,” she returned evenly. “You matter to me.”
He stared at her as if in shock.
“You matter to me,” she repeated simply.
He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Why?” She reached out and touched him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.
He flinched as if she’d burned him. “Because,” he ground out. “It’s not right. You’re...” He swore, shutting his eyes. “You’re a lady. A lady who deserves better than—”
“Better than a planter from the Colonies?”
“Better than a man like me,” he finished fiercely,