Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,53
that way?”
She recorked the bottle and put it back in the creel. “I’m sorry if the noise kept you awake.” She wasn’t about to let the fire burn out. The prospect of being deep in a cave in total darkness was not something she wanted to contemplate.
“It’s not the noise.”
His voice was low, almost a groan. Sam frowned in puzzlement, then understood what he meant, what he would not say: the pain was so bad he couldn’t sleep.
Her stomach gave an uncomfortable little twist. “Is there... anything I can do?” she asked softly.
“You could hand over the bottle.”
She hesitated a moment, then took it out again and gave it to him. There was less than two inches of the precious liquid left inside, but she couldn’t deny him.
He levered himself up on one elbow and took a long swallow.
The torch flickered again, and the scant circle of light surrounding them shifted and danced. Uneasily, Sam picked over the items in the creel, looking for something she might use as fuel.
Her fingers touched the powder horn. In a sudden burst of inspiration, she poured a few granules into her palm. Then she sprinkled them over the fire.
“Your ladysh—”
A loud pop and a puff of black smoke interrupted his warning. Caught in a miniature cloud of soot, Sam scurried backward, fanning the air in front of her face, wiping sticky black stuff from her cheeks. The chain pulled her up short.
An amused male chuckle filled the cave. “You may be a talented thief, Miss Delafield, but your knowledge of armaments leaves something to be desired.”
She dabbed at her watering eyes. “It was worth a try. And I’m not a talented thief.” She coughed. “I’m a quite ordinary thief.”
“Not according to the bounty on your head.”
That made her grimace. “Well, I never set out to be a talented thief. The fact that I’m a woman simply seems to work in my favor.”
“How is that?”
She shrugged. “Most people look at a young woman who appears well dressed, well bred, and well versed in the ways of polite society and think, ‘How much of a threat could she be?’ ”
“Indeed. I can see how most people would think that...” Those deep-green eyes of his studied her, tracing over her face. “How much of a threat could she be?”
The slow, thoughtful timbre of his voice seemed to resonate through her entire body. Resisting the urge to scoot away a few inches, she glanced down into the torch flames and fell silent for a moment. “Is the whiskey helping?”
“Some.” He lay down again, on his side, not quite managing to hold in a sound of pain.
Instead of closing his eyes, he kept observing her in that intent way. “Assuming we make it out of here alive, Miss Delafield, and assuming we somehow manage to get these blasted shackles off”—he gestured at the hated things with the whiskey bottle—“what are you going to do? What fiendish plans do you have for spending your ill-gotten gain?”
His voice was becoming slurred. The whiskey was taking effect. Doubting that he was fully lucid, she thought about telling him the truth for a moment.
But then she shook her head. “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.” He lifted his free hand and crossed his heart. “Promise.”
The traditional gesture wasn’t very convincing—not when made over that pitchfork brand.
“Yes, you will,” she replied softly. “You constantly mock my plans, my ideas—everything I say and do.”
“Not this time, angel,” he murmured. “Not in the mood.”
Watching him, she realized what he meant, though again, he wouldn’t say it aloud. Wouldn’t perhaps admit it even to himself.
He needed something to distract him from the pain.
She turned her face away, not wanting him to see in her eyes what she was feeling.
Sliding her long hair over her shoulder, she began weaving the damp strands into a braid. She decided there was no harm in revealing this particular piece of the truth. “Eventually, I want to book passage on a ship to Italy. To Venice.”
He sounded surprised. “Why Venice?”
“Because...” She looked up at the cave ceiling overhead, imagining blue Italian skies stretching out over grand piazzas and saffron-colored buildings and sparkling canals. “Because it’s far from England, and it’s full of sunlight and warmth. And they have the most breathtaking art there.” Her voice softened. “And they’re renowned for their lacemaking.” She looked down into the strands of her hair as she twined them in, over, around each other. “I’ve never seen Venice, but I’ve read a lot. Ever since I was a