Run Wild (10 page)

Which just might work.

“Maybe if we had some kind of...” Glancing around, she took a handful of slimy mud from beneath the leaves and smeared it over her skin.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the cuff, turning it, swearing at it. “Come on.”

Sam tried to help but he clearly didn’t want her help. Holding her bare foot with one hand and the iron cuff with the other, he turned both at different angles, trying to coax the cuff past her ankle bone.

“It’s too tight and it’s bolted on,” she said finally, exasperated at being manhandled. “It’s not going to come off.”

With a short, expressive oath, he released her. Lowering himself back down into the leaves, he tossed the muddy slipper into her lap. “Perfect,” he growled. “Of all the lady thieves on the run in England, I have to get myself shackled to the one with big feet.”

Sam scuttled backward, as far away from him as the chain would allow. Which wasn’t nearly far enough. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Her tone was frosty, but she feared that even her haughtiest drawing-room airs couldn’t conceal the fact that her cheeks felt hot. Scalding. She rubbed at her ankle, wiping away the mud and the unexpected warmth that lingered from the touch of his callused fingers on her bare skin.

Grabbing her slipper, she put it back on. Her foot and her ankle ached with soreness, felt cool from the gooey muck. She couldn’t understand why they also... tingled.

She decided that the unfamiliar sensation must come from the hours of unaccustomed physical exertion.

“It’s not my fault that the shackles are so tight.” She glared at the man stretched out on the ground, adding in a mutinous whisper, “And I do not have big feet.”

“Doesn’t bloody well matter now,” he grumbled. “Short of a convenient bolt of lightning from above or a blacksmith, it looks like there’s no way for me to get free of you.” Opening his eyes, he peered at the lengthening shadows, almost as if he were measuring the sun in some way. “Two hours of daylight left. You ready to press on, Lady Bigfeet?”

She ignored the sarcasm, every muscle in her body aching at the words
press on
. “No.” She groaned. “No, I’m not. Can’t we stop? Can’t we rest just for a—”

“Not unless you’re eager to wind up back in gaol.” He pushed himself to a seated position. “As soon as word spreads about a pair of dangerous fugitives on the loose, two marshalmen killed, and rewards offered, every lawman and bounty hunter in the north of England will be on our trail. By morning, if not sooner. And if they use dogs...”

He let the sentence trail off, running a weary hand over his face.

Sam felt a surge of fear. Dogs.
Dozens
of men hunting her down. Skilled, experienced men.

And they would know right where to start looking. The young guard Tucker would show them.

Her throat tightened. The rogue was right. They had to keep going. Put as much distance as possible between themselves and the point where they’d disappeared into the forest.

Yet her fear mingled with anger at his apparent nonchalance. “Didn’t you consider any of that before you decided to take a flying leap out of the cart? Didn’t you think that far ahead? Didn’t you think at all?”

“Aye, I did,” he retorted, “but I wasn’t counting on your charming company, Lady Bigfeet. I planned to be long gone by now. You are slowing me down.” He reached up to unfasten the bandage knotted around his shoulder. “But before we go any further, you’d better take a look at this damned wound.”

She felt like spitting in his face. One minute he was insulting her, and the next he expected her to see to his comfort? “If you think I’m going to lift one finger to help you,” she said in a low, even voice, crossing her arms over her chest, “think again.”

He clenched his jaw, wincing as he unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth. “Listen,
angel
,” he said tightly, beads of sweat sliding down his face, into his beard, “if you think you’re in trouble now, just try to imagine what would happen to you if I pass out from loss of blood. Or if I die.”

She had barely started to contemplate the pleasant possibilities when he demolished every single one.

“You’d be stuck here with one hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight chained to your ankle.” His eyes pierced hers. “Helpless as a trussed-up Christmas pigeon when the authorities come looking for you. If their dogs don’t get you first, their guns will make mincemeat out of you. When dealing with fugitives who’ve killed two of their fellow lawmen, they tend to let their bullets do their talking for them.”

The violent image stole the air from her lungs. “But I didn’t kill those marshalmen!”

“I doubt you’ll have time to explain that.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, the truth swirling between them like one of the hot beams of light from the dying sun.

Then he said it aloud.

“If I die, you die,” he put it plainly, his stark words all the more powerful for their lack of embellishment. “If I live...”

For some reason, it took him an extra moment to finish that sentence.

“You live.”

Mute, shaking, she tried to control the fear and resentment careening through her. He was insufferable. Cold-hearted, uncivilized, utterly self-interested.

But he also had a point. As unavoidable as it was true. If they wanted to survive...

They were going to have to work together.

She returned his glare, wrestling with her temper and her pride and the thought of trying to rein in the independent streak honed by years of fending for herself. “It’s bad enough that I already look like your accomplice,” she hissed. “If I help you, that will
make
me your accomplice.”

Not saying a word, his eyes still on hers, he withdrew Swinton’s knife from his boot.

Her heart thudded in her chest.
Dangerous
, she thought. She had forgotten to add
dangerous
. That word described him better than any other.

But he couldn’t kill her. To save his own neck, he couldn’t kill her.

Though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt her.

Even as she thought that, he flipped the knife with a nimble flick of his wrist, catching it by the blade.

And then he held it out to her, the hilt extended like some kind of bizarre olive branch. “But you’re smart enough to know that what I’m saying is true, aren’t you, angel?”

His voice was deep, quiet, and for once, devoid of any mockery.

She hesitated, her gaze flicking from his jewel-green eyes to the silver gleam of the blade in his fingertips.

Then she reached out, slowly, hesitantly, and took it.

As her fingers closed around the hilt, another thought flitted through her head. She had wanted a weapon... and now she had one.

As if reading her mind, he stopped her with only two words. “I wouldn’t.”

The mildness of his tone made his meaning all the more clear. It was a quiet reminder—as if she needed one—that she didn’t dare attack him, and couldn’t hope to defend herself against him. Not even with a blade.

Swallowing hard, she tried to tell herself that everything would be all right. As long as the chain bound them together, they had to keep each other alive and well. Once they found some way to get the shackles off, they would go their separate ways.

For now, she just had to endure his presence and make the best of this deplorable situation. Because her very life depended on it.

Holding up the knife, she lifted an eyebrow. “So what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Get the bullet out,” he said curtly, as if it should be obvious.

Her jaw dropped. “Are you joking?”

“You don’t see me laughing, do you?” Turning his back, he started unbuttoning his shirt and waistcoat.

“B-but I can’t... I don’t know how. I’ve never—”

“Well, there don’t appear to be any physicians on hand at the moment. I don’t have any choice and I don’t have any time. I have to keep moving.”

She noted with exasperation that he kept using the word
I
, as if she didn’t exist. As if she were nothing but an annoying appendage at the other end of the chain.

As for performing surgery on him, the very idea made her stomach lurch with nausea. She had no medical experience whatsoever. The closest she’d ever come was fixing a broken arm on one of Jess’s porcelain dolls when she was twelve.

However, she was quickly learning that it was useless to argue with him once he’d made up his mind about something.

Uneasily, her hand shaking, she edged closer to him, whispering a prayer.

“Never mind asking for God’s help,” he muttered under his breath as he finished unbuttoning his red-stained garments. “I think it’s safe to say He’s not interested in the least.”

He slid the waistcoat off and then removed the shirt, unsticking it from the wound with a quick yank and a stifled curse.

Sam looked away, covering her mouth to hold back a cry. There was so much blood! A wave of dizziness made the forest tilt crazily for a second. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took several quick, shallow gasps of air.

“You’re not going to faint on me, are you?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No,” she insisted.

“Then hurry up and get on with it.” He stretched out on his stomach, bunching up his shirt and using it as a pillow on his crossed arms. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a stick from the forest floor and placed it between his teeth.

Sam’s mouth felt dry as she looked down at her stoic patient. But when she tried to move into position, the chain jerked taut. “I can’t reach it from here. The chain isn’t long enough.”

He bent his right leg, allowing enough slack for her to get closer.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she inched nearer and sat at his side. Determined to prove that she wasn’t the weak, witless female he seemed to believe, she screwed up her courage and lifted the knife.

But when she bent over the wound, she couldn’t go on. It was an actual hole, small and perfectly round, just to one side of his shoulder blade. “It... it looks deep. And... w-we don’t have anything to dull the pain.”

He spat out the stick. “I’d love nothing better than a nice bottle of rum right now. Do you see a pub anywhere?” His voice had taken on a flat weariness, as if he didn’t have much strength left. “Just get it over with, your ladyship.”

“But I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“A piece of lead. Shouldn’t be hard to find.” He put the stick back between his teeth, talking around it. “The bone’ll be white.”

Another wave of dizziness assaulted her. He didn’t say anything more. Just turned his head and closed his eyes, his muscles taut with strain.

Steeling herself, she lifted the knife again, whispering a prayer, despite what he’d said earlier.

Then she gingerly went to work.

H
e had fainted. Sam tossed the metal fragment aside with a shudder and dropped the knife into the leaves. His entire body had gone slack when she finally got the bullet out.

“Thank God,” she whispered. How could anyone endure what he had just endured? She had tried to be as quick as possible, and the bullet hadn’t been as deep as she’d feared at first, but it had still taken her an agonizingly long time.

Her head swam dizzily, her empty stomach heaved, and she felt as if she might faint herself. She had managed to brazen her way through the frightful task, but now that it was over, all the strength and resolve flowed out of her, leaving her trembling like one of the branches that swayed overhead.

She felt around for the scrap of her petticoat she had used to clean the knife, snatched it up, and wiped her hands on it. She bit her tongue to distract herself from the rush of nausea. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

His voice was so soft she barely heard it. She went still, stunned that he was still conscious. Then she had to think for a moment, not sure what she had said.

“Sorry for hurting you,” she managed at last.

His battered left eye flickered open and a weak version of his cynical grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not the... first female to... lay into me with a blade, angel,” he whispered.

Closing his eyes again, he lay very still.

She set the scrap of fabric aside, still trembling, unsure what to make of his comment. Or his condition. He must be in terrible pain. Despite the way he had remained stoic and unflinching throughout the ordeal, his muscles taut, he had groaned once or twice—and toward the end, he had snapped the slender branch between his teeth. Cleanly in two.

But from the marks on his back, it was obvious he had indeed encountered other blades in his life. And perhaps bullets as well. Looking down at his prone form in the late afternoon sunlight, she could see many scars, pale against the deep bronze of his skin.

Including row after row of long, thin marks straight across his back. Perhaps she was mistaken, but it looked as if those had been caused by a lash. They lay beneath some of the others, stretched into uneven squiggles, faint, faded... as if they had happened when he was very young.

Who
was
this man?