Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1)

by Shelly Thacker

  Seeing her so vulnerable made the unfamiliar sensation travel upward from his chest to his throat, tightening it. For all her bravado, all her toughness, she was still so damned…delicate. Sitting there dripping river water all over the floor, with her hair and gown a soaked mess and tears adding to the wetness on her pale cheeks, she looked fragile, lost.

  Alone.

  And that, too, was something he had felt before.

  “There’s no need to be scared,” he said quietly, not allowing himself to move closer as some impulse urged him to do. “For now, we’re safe.”

  “No, we’re not.” She kicked at the chain helplessly, furiously. “I can’t run anymore. I can’t fight anymore. There’s nothing left in me. Don’t you understand? Nothing! I’m not strong enough. I’m sick of running and being shot at and chased and drowned, and I’m sick of these damned shackles, and I’m sick of you. I just want to be safe and I’m never going to be and I’m going to die.”

  “No.” Nicholas reached for her, taking her by the shoulders. “No, you’re not,” he told her flatly. “You may be a lot of things, lady, but a quitter isn’t one of them.”

  He drew her close, holding her against his chest—and only realized he was doing it a moment later.

  But against his better judgment, against all his instincts, he didn’t let her go.

  He tightened his arms around her and hung on.

  For once, she didn’t fight his touch. She went slack in his embrace, sobbing out all her fear.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, letting her cry into his shirt. “You’re going to be all right, Miss Delafield.”

  After a moment, he moved his right hand, rubbing it up and down her back. “We’ve thrown the law off our trail. The cave entrance is hidden—we never would’ve seen it ourselves if we hadn’t been right on top of it. And the dogs won’t be able to follow our scent in the water. The lawmen will think we either drowned or were carried downriver. They’ll start looking for us downstream.”

  None of this sounded particularly reassuring, even to him, as the dogs continued to bay overhead.

  She shook her head, clearly not believing him, shivering in his arms. “We’re not going to get out of this alive, are we?” she whispered tearfully.

  “We have so far. We just have to stick together and…”

  When he didn’t finish, she raised her head.

  He looked down into her eyes, into those golden pools he could so easily drown in. “Trust one another.”

  The words came out in a whisper. He could barely believe he’d thought them, much less spoken them aloud.

  A second later she seemed to realize—at the same moment he did—that they were locked in an intimate embrace, her breasts pressed against his chest, their bodies radiating warmth, his fingers tangled in her wet hair, their lips an inch apart.

  He also realized he was holding her not with sexual intent, but with gentle reassurance. And he had been freely using the word “we” for some time. That wasn’t part of the bargain. He only had to keep her alive. Not comforted, just alive.

  But he couldn’t seem to make himself let her go. And an instant later, without thinking, he lowered his mouth toward hers.

  She suddenly broke the embrace, lurching backward out of his arms. “Yes…well…” she cleared her throat, hurriedly wiping her damp cheeks. “I suppose you’re right. I…I should be glad we’ve at least confused the law for now.” She brushed at her wet sleeves, as if dusting away some invisible lint. Or ridding herself of his touch.

  The law weren’t the only ones confused, Nicholas thought dazedly, shaking not from pain or cold, but from the force of something more powerful that seemed to keep robbing him of his senses.

  “And I thought I asked you to keep your hands to yourself,” she added frostily.

  He replied with a glower, unable to summon words at the moment. He had liked having her in his arms. Not merely because of the sexual hunger he felt for her, or because of any joy or relief he felt at finding himself still alive. The effect she had on him was more complicated than that.

  And it made him uneasy.

  “But I…I suppose I should thank you for saving me,” she continued quietly, wringing some of the water out of her skirt. “I would’ve drowned out there.”

  “If you die, I die, remember?” he tossed back.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, meeting his eyes and matching his sharp tone. “And that brings up another question. Now that we’re in here…” She looked around the dark cave. “How on earth are we going to get out?”

  Their cautious footsteps sounded louder than a hundred pairs of shoes dancing across a marble floor. Sam stared ahead, eyes wide, afraid that her next step might carry them straight down some bottomless pit. Or into an impassable wall of solid rock.

  The rogue followed behind her, silent but for his labored breathing.

  They had yet to find the rear of the cave. Or a way out. Even though they had been walking for over an hour.

  The damp, confined space seemed to play tricks with every sound, every drip of water, every skittering of pebbles beneath their feet. Sam practically jumped out of her slippers each time the chain caught on a rock or stalagmite. She had thought herself used to the metallic jangling of the shackles by now, but in here it seemed eerie, ghostlike.

  Ominous.

  Leading the way, she held her torch high—if a whiskey-soaked petticoat stuffed into an empty biscuit tin dangling on a hastily woven net of fishing wire could be called a torch. The flame cast a glimmer of light that barely penetrated the crush of darkness around them.

  She kept coughing, felt as if she had inhaled so much of the river that she must’ve grown gills. She edged forward, feeling her way across the uneven ground, her slippers encountering rocks, sand, sticky mud, sharp pebbles.

  She shifted the heavy fishing creel on her shoulder, her bruised muscles protesting at the motion. Cuts and scrapes on her arms and legs stung like the devil, adding to her misery. The waterfall and the rocks had left their mark on her…in more ways than one.

  The passage narrowed so tightly in some spots that they could barely squeeze past. In others it became more like a tunnel, forcing them to stoop down or crawl through on their hands and knees. For the last several yards, it had broadened into what felt like a vast cavern.

  But it didn’t end.

  Now and then she could feel a gust of wind, a hint of fresh air that made her feel certain there must be an opening somewhere ahead. She strained her eyes for any speck of daylight. Prayed that they would find an exit that would spare them another encounter with the falls and the whirlpool. Neither of them wanted to risk that again.

  So they kept going, deeper and deeper. Didn’t dare stop. They’d lost their pursuers for the moment. But for how long? When the lawmen didn’t find them downstream, they would double back to search the forest above. She didn’t relish the idea of exiting the cave only to find themselves in the middle of a swarm of hounds and marshalmen.

  The sooner they found a way out of here, the better. Time was not on their side.

  Please, she thought, looking around her as the flames painted flickering orange shadows on the craggy walls of rock. Please, there must be a way out. Please, God, help me find it.

  “Let’s take a rest.”

  Startled by the rogue’s deep voice, Sam almost dropped the biscuit tin. She stopped and looked behind her. It was the first time he had asked to stop. Ever. She was usually the one who didn’t want to go on.

  Then again, he had given her a number of surprises today. Including his request that she take the lead as they explored. And the fact that he hadn’t protested or made any mocking comment when she offered to carry the heavy pack of supplies.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, wishing her heart would stop pounding so hard.

  He sank down to the cave floor, leaned his good shoulder against the rough wall, nodded. But he was breathing hard, as if they’d been running for an hour instead of walking
at a snail’s pace.

  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 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 stubbon. 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.