But the glancing blow only earned him a jolt of agony across his shoulders. With a scrape of metal on metal, the axe blade bent. Though it wasn’t rusted, it wasn’t up to the job.
The accursed chain remained solid. Untouched. Unbreakable.
“Damn,” he growled. He really would need a blacksmith to get the blasted thing off. He tossed the axe into the woodpile. Turning, he started to lead the way back inside.
“Wait,” she protested, lagging behind. “I have to…I…”
He stopped and turned to face her. “What is it now?”
The day’s last light chose that moment to vanish, leaving them in the gray darkness of early evening.
“It’s…I…that is…” She sighed, made an uncomfortable little grumble, and he could hear her putting the lid back on the jar. Her tone abruptly became brisk. “We’ve been on the move all day and there hasn’t been time to…to…heed the call of nature.”
She said the last five words all in a rush, so quick it took him a minute to decipher what she had said.
“Oh.” He shook his head, not sure whether he was amused or annoyed. He wasn’t used to considering anyone else’s needs but his own. And he certainly had no experience in considering the delicate sensibilities of a woman.
It was damned inconvenient.
When he didn’t say anything more, she filled the silence with another rush of words. “There’s a deep thicket right there.” If she was pointing, he couldn’t see. “And a rain barrel in the corner where I could wash off some of this grime and mud. I thought if you could…I mean…perhaps give me a bit of privacy.”
Her maidenly nervousness and innocence kept taking him by surprise. Perhaps because they seemed so at odds with everything else about her. “That’s going to be rather difficult.” He moved his foot, rattling the chain just as she had done earlier.
He could practically hear her turning scarlet. “Well, you don’t have to make this any more difficult than it already is. We need to…to face certain facts here. I’ve waited as long as I can, and at least it’s dark out now and—”
“Enough, your ladyship.” He held up a hand, willing to do anything at the moment to stop her from arguing. All he wanted was to go back inside, fall into the cabin’s moth-eaten bed, and sleep. “Go and take a few minutes for your evening toilette. I’ll try to avoid intruding upon your feminine sensibilities.”
He let her lead the way to the thicket. He even turned his back. Not that her feelings mattered to him in the least, he assured himself. He merely wanted to avoid any further argument.
He couldn’t, however, resist one last quip.
“Be careful,” he advised quietly, grinning. “Might be a wolf hiding in there.”
An hour later, he had yet to get anywhere near the bed.
Darkness cloaked the interior of the cabin, not even a splinter of moonlight breaking through the woolen blankets he had tacked up over the windows. Only the flickering glow of a single stubby candle, burning in the center of the table, illuminated their meager supper.
With his chair leaned back against the wall, Nicholas bit off one last mouthful of salt beef, lifted the bottle in his hand, and took a long swallow of whiskey. He let its heat spread through him, dulling the pain in his shoulder.
Miss Delafield had indeed managed to open the lock on the cupboard. It seemed needles weren’t all she carried in her needle case. A specialized lock pick nestled in there amongst her lacemaking tools.
The cupboard hadn’t contained any roast beef, but it had offered up some salt beef. Along with smoked pork, a sack of sugar and another of coffee, some raisins and dried figs, a variety of jellies and marmalades sealed in tins, three small wheels of cheese preserved beneath heavy layers of wax and enclosed in round wooden boxes, a bag of hard peppermint candies, and a basket of nuts.
Not to mention two bottles of aged Scots whiskey.
And a tightly sealed box filled with biscuits. Which were tough as hardtack and a little green around the edges, but he was willing to overlook that. Hell, he had lived on biscuits like these for years at sea.
All in all, it made a banquet fit for a fugitive.
Or rather two fugitives, he reminded himself.
He set the bottle on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wolfed down another biscuit. Miss Delafield flashed him a frown.
All evening, her displeasure had been clear even in the dim light. She didn’t approve of the whiskey. Or his table manners. She sat across the table from him—as far away as the chain would allow—and daintily dipped pieces of smoked pork in an open jar of honey.
Nibbling delicately, she ignored the way he was picking his teeth with a splinter of wood that he had chipped out of the table. “I still say we might risk a small fire in the hearth,” she suggested.
“I’m not going to swing at Tyburn just because you want some coffee.” Nicholas jerked his head toward the door. “I have no intention of alerting every lawman out there.”
She looked up. “You think they are?” she asked uneasily. “Out there, I mean. Already?”
He paused a moment, watching the candle’s glow warm her pale, freshly scrubbed features. Then he flicked the splinter of wood to the floor. “Aye,” he confirmed quietly.
She glanced down at her meal, silent. And didn’t eat any more.
Apparently she’d lost her appetite. He picked up another biscuit from the pile in the center of the table, gulped it down in three bites, and followed it with a long swallow from the bottle. She didn’t ask what made him so certain about their pursuers. He wasn’t sure he could explain if she did.
All he knew was that he could feel them out there. Marshalmen and thief-takers, fanning out through the forest, hungry for blood and bounties. He could feel them with every throbbing ache in his wounded shoulder. With the certainty of a man who’d been hunted for too many years.
He shoved that thought aside. He didn’t want to live that way again. Wouldn’t. If all went as planned, within a fortnight he’d be finished with his business in York and he’d never have to run again. He’d be free.
The trouble was, nothing had gone as planned since he set foot back on English soil.
Miss Delafield put the lid back on the jar of honey, then dabbed at her lips with a serviette she had improvised from another piece of her petticoat.
Nicholas watched her with amusement. There couldn’t be much left of that petticoat.
He instantly regretted that thought. Because it led him straight to an image of her legs. Long, pale, silky…and almost bare now beneath her skirt.
His throat went dry. His hand tightened around the bottle of whiskey and his body suddenly felt too hot. She remained blithely unaware of his discomfort, neatly tying shut the sack of dried beef, sweeping nutshells off the table with her hand, closing the box of biscuits.
His gaze followed her every move, lingering over her smooth skin, her slender fingers. During her toilette outside, she had washed with water from the rain barrel, scrubbing away the day’s sweat and mud, and now she almost seemed to glow in the candlelight, warm and fresh and golden.
Tangles of damp hair clung to her neck…and her bodice, the long strands curling around the soft feminine swell hidden by gown and corset. He suddenly longed to touch her, to feel the delicate textures of her hair, the silk, the warm curve of her breast against his palm—
He wrenched his thoughts back to reality, clutching the bottle tighter, clenching his other hand into a fist. He willed the mad impulse away. What the devil was wrong with him? It felt like he’d been knocked on the head with a belaying pin. Thrown overboard. Like he was drowning in an ocean too deep to fathom.
He blamed it all on exhaustion and pain. That was the only rational explanation for the way his thoughts kept careening out of control.
Miss Delafield stood, reaching across the table to gather up the sacks and baskets. “We can’t carry all of this with us. I suppose we might as well put some of it back for whoever else migh
t happen along.”
“How thoughtful of you,” he said caustically.
She shot him a frown, but he was already getting to his feet, welcoming whatever distraction he could get at the moment. He followed her over to the cupboard, carrying the bottle with him.
He thought it best to keep his hands full.
When they reached the cupboard, he leaned his uninjured shoulder against the wall and watched her replace the leftover foods neatly on the shelves. The complicated lock that she had opened earlier still dangled from the latch on the cupboard door. He plucked it free with his left hand. “You picked this dodger pretty easily, Miss Delafield. Like you’ve done it before. Frequently.”
She glanced at him and there was just enough light on this side of the room to make out a gleam in her eye. A look that held both affront and accusation. Somehow he sensed what she was thinking: when they had first approached the cottage, he had led the attack with gun drawn, coolly, easily. As if he’d done it before. Frequently.
She might be thinking that, but she didn’t say it.
Interesting, he thought with a growing, grudging sense of respect—the lady not only had guts, she was smart as well. Smart enough to know when to keep her opinions to herself.
She turned back to her work. “I’m good at what I do.”
She said it simply, tonelessly. Without pride. Without apology.
Without any emotion at all.
He lifted the bottle and took a long swallow of whiskey, watching her as she closed the cupboard door. “How did you come to be a thief?”
The words spilled out before he could stop them. Too late, he realized that the liquor was not only dulling the pain in his shoulder but loosening his tongue. He didn’t want to venture into these waters. Didn’t want to know a thing about her. Didn’t want to think about her any more than he already did.
Her hand still on the cupboard door, she turned to stare at him. He stared back, almost as surprised as she was. Curiosity about another person was utterly unlike him. He had kept to himself, thought only of himself for years.
But, he reasoned a moment later, he needed to find out all he could about Miss Delafield. She had seen the brand, knew one of his most carefully guarded secrets. He had to evaluate just how much of a threat she might be.
“How did you come to be a thief?” he repeated quietly, casually.
He thought she might tell him to go to hell.
Instead, she told him something else entirely.
“There weren’t any other choices available.” She shrugged and finished closing the cupboard, locked it.
He all but snorted in disbelief. “There are always choices for women like you.”
She turned to face him. “Really? And what sort of woman am I?”
“Well-born. Cultured.” Beautiful. He avoided adding the word beautiful.
The smile that curved her mouth held equal parts derision and irony. “Yes, I suppose most people assume that.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, her hands clenched into fists. “But I’m living proof that being well-born doesn’t guarantee anything.”
“So why turn to theft? I thought you were a seamstress.” He avoided glancing at the pendant that rested between her breasts.
“There aren’t any positions available these days, except among the aristocracy in London, and I…had to leave London,” she said cautiously. “Rather suddenly. Several years ago. I won’t go back.”
Standing there in the flickering candlelight, chin raised, she looked determined, defiant. And impossibly small and vulnerable. He thought her too trusting for telling him so much. For telling him anything.
And he urged her to tell him more. “There had to be safer ways to earn a living.”
“You mean as a governess or servant? One needs references for that.” She shook her head. “I didn’t set out to become a thief. I didn’t choose this life.”
She turned away abruptly only to be brought up short by the chain. If she had thought to flee, it was futile. She couldn’t even take another step unless he moved.
And he didn’t move. He still leaned against the wall, waiting.
Beneath that cascade of tawny hair, her shoulders rose and fell rapidly. After a moment, she lowered her head, staring at the floor. “I didn’t…have anything. Not even a shilling. I tried to find work. I tried.” Her arms tightened around her waist, her voice falling to a whisper. “And I was so hungry.”
Nicholas couldn’t say a word. The strangest, most unfamiliar feeling crept through his chest and he couldn’t do anything but stare at her straight, stiff back.
He’d felt that same hunger and fear, as a boy.
“Then one day I stole some food from a vendor’s cart. It wasn’t much. An apple and a small loaf of bread. I ate it all in a few bites.” She shook her head. “But I was so scared, I threw up.”
A small sound escaped her, too harsh to be a laugh. She paused for a long moment.
Then she continued, with an almost eerie calm. “The second time, it became a little easier. And the third time…and the fourth.” She turned to face him again, the defiance returning to her expression. “Because it felt good not to be hungry. It felt good. That’s how I became a thief.” Her fists were still clenched. “And there’s something else. I learned a long time ago that there are two kinds of people in this world—predators and prey.” She looked straight into his eyes. “I was the latter once. I won’t be again. Ever.”
It sounded like a warning. That he was facing not prey, but a fellow predator.
The threat cooled the warm sensation in his chest. “When you first found yourself in trouble, why didn’t you choose the most obvious means of support?” he asked sarcastically.
She shook her head, not understanding.
“The one most women choose. Marriage.”
She laughed, but again the sound held no humor. “I didn’t receive any offers of that sort. Plenty of less savory offers, but no honorable ones. Men from the circles I grew up in wouldn’t think of marrying a woman like me.”
That surprised him more than anything else she had said. “And what sort of woman are you?” He echoed the question she had asked earlier.
Her cheeks reddened, whether with suppressed anger or something else he couldn’t tell. “Tired,” she said flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’m a tired woman. And it’s late and all I want to do is go to sleep.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then nodded, sensing he wouldn’t learn anything more tonight. The full weight of his own fatigue pressed down on him stronger than ever. “We’ll leave at daybreak.”
He turned and led the way back to the table, where he corked the bottle. Bending down, he tucked it into the pack of provisions he had secured earlier. He had taken one of the fishing creels and loaded it with foodstuffs and a few useful items scrounged from the cabin’s shelves. A length of rope woven through the top and bottom of the creel would allow him to carry it on his back, while leaving his hands free. He checked the sheepshank knots he had secured it with.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, meeting his gaze as he rose. “You haven’t just been running through the woods randomly. You’re going in a specific direction. Where?”
“You have a pressing appointment?”
“I just want to get to my room in—” She cut herself off, her eyes narrowing warily. “I want to get home. I need to go there to…get my things. So I can leave England. There won’t be anywhere in the country that’s safe for me now. Not with the law after me.”
“Well, Miss Delafield, I’m afraid that unless your room is in York, you’re once again out of luck.” He reached down to the table and picked up the candle. “I have a pressing matter of business there and I don’t have time for side trips.”
“York?” she sputtered. “But that’s the opposite direction from—” She stopped herself again. “I don’t want to go to York. And I have no guarantee that something won’t happen to me when we get there. Or long before.”
/>
“You also have no choice,” he reminded her, moving his foot until the chain pulled taut between them. “And unless you want a rematch of our wrestle in the woods, you’ll accept that I’m in charge and follow my orders until I can get us safely to a blacksmith.”
Some part of him—damn him—hoped she would opt for another round of wrestling. Though it would be different this time.
The thought of just how different he would make it heated his blood.
But the fury emanating from her slender form was far hotter. “I do not care for the way you keep making all the decisions.”
“Too bad. Get used to it.” Taking the fishing creel and the candle, he walked over to the bed and set them down beside it. He slipped his pistol from his back, and laid it carefully on the floor close at hand. Then he sat on the mattress with a weary sigh. “Get some sleep, your ladyship. We have a lot of ground to cover on the morrow.”
She was silent for a moment.
But only for a moment, unfortunately.
“And where am I supposed to sleep?” she asked indignantly. “On the floor?”
Something small and mouselike scrabbled across the hearth, the sound of its claws terribly loud in the night.
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” he said dryly.
He could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow. “A gentleman would let me have the bed.”
“Unfortunately for you there’s not a gentleman to be found for—oh, I would wager, at least a hundred miles. I have no intention of giving up the bed. You can share it or take the floor.” Leaning down, he extinguished the candle wick between his thumb and forefinger, plunging them into darkness. “The choice, Miss Delafield, is yours.”
Samantha lay on her side atop the covers, clinging to the very edge of the bed, her stomach in knots. All her senses had become unnaturally sharp. The cabin’s utter blackness rendered her blind, which intensified every sound, every scent, every second of time that dragged past.
Her breath came fast and shallow as she waited for the man next to her—just inches away—to fall asleep.
She could feel him watching her in the darkness. Could feel his emerald gaze tracing over her shoulders and back. Or was that only her imagination? Perhaps he was asleep. Perhaps he had slipped into unconsciousness some time ago.
Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1) Page 10
