Run Wild (18 page)

The chain rattled as Sam sat across from him, her stomach knotted with worry. Sliding the fishing creel from her shoulder, she set her makeshift torch-in-a-box on the ground between them.

Looking at her invention through slitted eyes, the rogue grinned for a fleeting second. “At times, your ladyship, you amaze me.”

She met his gaze, but just as 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 couldn’t see much, this section of the cave felt airy and cool. The light, steady breeze must be coming from somewhere. There had to be a way out.

“It’s fairly comfortable in here.” She spoke around a mouthful of nuts. “A little drier, at least, than some of the other parts we’ve been in. Why don’t we stay here for a while? Get some rest?” She hurried to bolster her argument with logic. “The dogs will be busy downstream for hours, so we’ve got a little time—”

“And we’re not going to waste it.” His lashes lifted just a fraction. “Hurry up and finish your luncheon, your ladyship. We have to keep moving.”

Sam frowned. Words were clearly useless where this obstinate male was concerned. Action was the only thing he understood.

So, ignoring his suggestion, she took the remains of the ripped sheet out of the creel. Bunching it up to serve as a pillow, she placed it on the cave floor near him.

Then she reached out, put her hand in the middle of his chest, and tried to push him down toward it.

But he was like a rock, unmovable.

He lifted one brow. “What exactly do you think you’re doing, Miss Delafield?”

“Keeping you alive.”

“I can keep myself alive.” He pushed her hand away.

“You’ve got to get some rest,” she said in exasperation. “You need—”

“What I need is to find a bloody way out of this cave. Preferably before that bloody army of marshalmen comes back with their damned dogs.”

She flinched away from him.

“What I do
not
need,” he continued, glaring at her, “is anyone fussing over me.”

She held her tongue, biting back her own angry retort, hearing a clue to his surly mood in the word
fussing
. For some reason, the man found it difficult, perhaps impossible, to let someone care for him in even the smallest way.

And he seemed confident that the matter was closed. Slowly, he got to his feet, though the effort obviously pained him. He was having difficulty breathing, was visibly unsteady on his feet.

She remained seated, kept her voice mild. “I think you’d better sit back down before you fall down.”

“You’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

“No, I’m not.” She met his gaze squarely. “You’re looking at her.”

His expression hardened. “The mutiny’s over.” He bent and grabbed the fishing creel. “Now let’s go.”

“Your stubbornness is going to kill you,” she retorted. “And if it kills you, it’ll kill me.”

“I’m not being stubborn. I’m being rational.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Move your derriere, Miss Delafield.”

She stared straight into his furious eyes. And didn’t budge. “No.”

“It’s not a request.”

“I don’t care. You can take your orders and stuff them. I’m not moving. And the chain is too short for you to pick me up and haul me off, so unless you intend to drag me out of here by the hair”—she flipped the tangled blonde mass over her shoulders, out of reach, just in case the idea appealed to him—“we’re staying put.”

His emerald gaze glittered with outrage at her defiance. His jaw clenched.

Though her heart was pounding, she stared up at him without flinching.

A long moment passed before she found enough breath to speak. “I don’t understand,” she said softly, shaking her head, unable to make sense of his attitude. “You’re only human. Why are you pushing yourself so hard?”

He grated out a clipped, vivid oath. “On your feet, your ladyship.
Now
.”

She didn’t comply. Silent, she looked up at him, her question lingering in the cool, dark air between them.

And she realized something in that moment: he wasn’t going to hurt her. Despite his threats and menacing glares and repeated insistence that he didn’t give a damn about anyone except himself... he wouldn’t cause her any harm.

Something in him wouldn’t allow it. Beneath scars that bespoke a lifetime of violence beat the heart of a decent man.

Their silent battle of wills lasted one minute. Another. She could practically feel the seconds ticking by.

Then, slowly, she held out her hand. “Let me help you.”

The hard line of his mouth curved downward into an expression that was cynical, mocking. He flicked a glance heavenward. “Just what I need,” he muttered under his breath. “A guardian angel.”

He ignored her offered hand, but sat down again.

Then, stretching out on his stomach, he pillowed his head on his crossed arms and the bunched-up sheet, and closed his eyes.

“No more than an hour,” he growled. “Don’t let me sleep for more than an hour.”

“All right,” she agreed quietly.

Without a watch, she thought with a smile, how could she be expected to know exactly how long an hour was?

After only a few minutes, his tense muscles relaxed.

Looking down at him, Sam felt... satisfied. That was the only name she could put to the feeling. Satisfied. That she had prevailed, that he had finally listened to reason.

Reluctant to examine her emotions any more closely than that, she turned away and busied herself by bundling up the foodstuffs and putting them back in the creel. Then she took inventory of their other supplies: a few stubby candles, two cups and some eating utensils, the reel of fishing line and some hooks, a length of rope, and the horn of gunpowder and a dozen bullets taken from Leach and Swinton—ammunition that was useless now, since they had lost the pistol.

What she wouldn’t give for some medical supplies and some real food, she thought with a frown. And a blunderbuss. Unfortunately, they had no such help in facing their enemies. All they had was...

Each other.

Sam closed the fishing creel and pushed it aside. With the inventory done, she had nothing else to occupy her attention. She glanced around the cave, trying to avoid looking at the rogue.

Because every time she did, she found herself thinking of what had happened between them at the cave entrance. Her humiliating emotional outburst. Even now, she could feel her cheeks burning. She felt horribly embarrassed to have shown such weakness in front of anyone—especially a man. Especially
him
. But for once, he hadn’t mocked her.

Instead, he had held her. With a tenderness she hadn’t suspected he possessed. Just when she thought she had figured out exactly what kind of man he was, he had astonished her.

But what astonished her even more was the fact that she had liked the feeling of his arms around her.

The thought made her shiver. It was an outlandish idea. A dangerous idea. The man was an outlaw. A veteran of the prison hulks. Unpredictable. Not to mention hostile. And impossible.

And she had liked the feeling of his arms around her.

For a moment, just a moment, she had felt... safe, warm. Protected.

That disturbed her in a way she couldn’t begin to explain. Nervously, Sam swept her damp hair around her, busied herself trying to unknot the dozens of little tangles.

But even as she did so, she couldn’t help sliding a cautious, sideways glance at the man who lay stretched out on the cave floor.

How could she have felt safe in his embrace? She didn’t even know his name, for heaven’s sake! Had she lost her mind? Had the tumble over the falls scrambled her senses?

She kept thinking of the words he had whispered:
We just have to trust each other
.

Could she do that? Trust him? She had learned six years ago that it was dangerous to trust a man—even one like her uncle, who had
seemed
so respectable, honorable, and kind at first.

Since fleeing London, she had remained wary and cautious around men. Held herself cool and haughty and remote. Trust meant weakness. Vulnerability. And she would not allow herself to be vulnerable.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she turned away from the rogue. There was no mystery here, no cause for alarm. Her emotions had become momentarily unsettled, that was all. It was perfectly understandable, after the ordeal she had been through the past two days.

What she felt toward him was merely gratitude. Ordinary gratitude that he had saved her life in the whirlpool, at great cost to himself.

Nothing wrong with that. Her gratitude, he could have.

Her trust she could not give him.

Dark shadows flickered around them, and Sam realized that her makeshift torch had burned low. She tried to think of a way to keep the fire burning. She had kept her eye out for twigs or brush or dried leaves as they had walked through the cave, but she had seen precious little vegetation of any kind.

They had no fuel but what they had brought with them. Opening the fishing creel, she took the whiskey bottle out, uncorked it, and poured a bit over the biscuit tin. The flames crackled and sizzled and leaped so high that they almost singed her hair.

“Are you trying to incinerate us, or is that merely a creative way to dry your hair?”

Sam shot a glance behind her, the bottle still in her hand. “I’m trying to keep the fire going. And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Can’t.” The rogue lay on his side, watching her through half-closed eyes. “Do you have to use up
all
the whiskey 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.