Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,50

quickly glanced away. She hadn’t been able to really look him in the eye since...

Swallowing hard, she tried to banish the memory of his arms around her, holding her. His unexpected gentleness. The way he had offered her his strength and his courage when she could find none of her own.

From the start, she had found it easy to hate this man. But now everything was becoming... confused.

She was doing her best not to think of about it.

Trying to stoke the fire in the biscuit tin, she poked at the burning petticoat with the knife, wondering how much longer the meager flames would last. “Sorry I had to use up so much of your whiskey.” The bottle, wrapped in a length of cloth and cushioned between the sack of sugar and a rolled-up sheet, had survived the river intact. “How’s your shoulder?”

He lifted the flask of water he’d been carrying all morning and took a long swallow. “Fine.”

She studied him from beneath her lashes. He didn’t look fine. He looked like hell. And he must feel even worse.

Saving her below the falls, he had torn his stitches—and opened what had been a fairly small wound into a jagged gash. But he hadn’t told her, hadn’t mentioned it at all the whole time they had sat at the cave entrance discussing what to do next.

Only when she had lit the fire and noticed the wound herself, practically fainted at the sight of him bleeding so badly, had he explained.

She had done her best to stitch it again, but he had lost more blood. Too much more.

And now, observing him in the low light, she felt her stomach clench with concern.

His face looked as pale as the fresh white bandage around his shoulder. His hair, his beard, his brows seemed blacker than raven’s wings against his skin. Those cynical green eyes had drifted closed, and even his lashes looked darker than onyx against his pallid cheeks.

The heavily muscled arms that had fought so hard against the current and the whirlpool now lay limp at his sides. His ragged, blood-stained shirt hung open. He hadn’t bothered to button it again after she had re-stitched the wound in his back.

And though the air was cool this deep in the cavern, rivulets of sweat trickled down his neck, across the matted hair of his chest... over the pitchfork brand in the center.

But his expression worried her most of all, because it was a measure of just how much pain he was in. She could see agony etched in the lines that bracketed his mouth, his eyes. His body might be slack, but his face was a mask of effort. He looked like he was ready to give in and collapse, but he was fighting the weakness for all he was worth.

Sam felt an unexpected rush of emotion sweep through her. Something even stronger than concern or worry. Something she hadn’t felt for him before. Admiration, perhaps, or respect, for his fierce spirit, his unflagging tenacity. She wasn’t sure exactly what the feeling was.

All she knew was that the man couldn’t endure much more. Never mind his tenacity, he needed time to heal. Time and sleep. But he kept insisting he was well enough to travel, had muttered something about learning his lesson, that he wasn’t going to rest for more than brief periods from now on. They had remained near the cave entrance only a short while, just long enough to be sure their pursuers had moved downstream, before setting off.

She turned and opened the fishing creel, determined now. He had to get some rest. That was simply that. She didn’t like the idea of staying in one place too long any more than he did.

But one look at him told her they had no choice.

And since he wouldn’t listen to reason—and clubbing him over the head wouldn’t exactly help his condition—she would have to try something else.

“Do you want anything to eat?” She unwrapped the whiskey bottle, spread the length of cloth on the cave floor, and started arranging a soggy luncheon on it. “I’m sure even water-soaked salt beef is still edible. And the raisins and figs are probably fine—”

“Not hungry.”

His terse reply wasn’t encouraging. “Well, I’m starving.” She opened the bag of smoked pork, carved a chunk from a wheel of cheese, and started to nibble. The mushy food was somewhat less than palatable, but it was filling.

Unfortunately, it didn’t tempt him at all.

She glanced around them in the darkness. Though she