“I’m not looking at the dark side. I’m looking at the only side. The realistic side.”
“Fine.” She raised her head and shot him an icy golden glare. “You go right ahead and be realistic. I am going to lie here on the grass and listen to the wind and look at the stars and be grateful and happy that I’m still alive. Because for the last few days—”
“Seven days—”
“For the last seven days I thought I might never see any of this again!” She lay down once more, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m rather enjoying getting reacquainted with the moon and the stars, and when the sun rises in an hour or so, I’m going to enjoy that, too. And I would greatly appreciate it if you would shut up and stop ruining it for me.”
Nicholas bit back a hot retort. He normally wouldn’t sit still while anyone chastised him—least of all a woman. But arguing with this lady was clearly a waste of breath and logic.
He took out his frustrations by tossing pebbles toward the stream, testing the strength of his injured left arm.
Silence fell between them, as heavy as the chain that bound them together, as vast as the night sky overhead, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the liquid rush of the waterfall a few yards upriver.
A warm breeze ruffled his hair. Somewhere off to the left, a small animal ambled through the underbrush. The stream burbled over smooth stones as it flowed past, and silvery pinpricks of starlight reflected off the shallow waters.
If not for the ocean of troubles facing him, he thought sourly, still tossing pebbles, he might have found this little glade peaceful. Even pleasant. There was a great deal a man could make of a moonlit night, a soft carpet of grass, and a lady in a good mood...
He switched to his right hand, trying to cut short that line of thought. Ideas like that could prove dangerous to his health.
He didn’t have time for any kind of pleasure. He had to concentrate on getting his strength back and getting the hell out of here.
“We’ve been given another chance,” Miss Delafield said, suddenly breaking the silence. “And I think we’re going to be all right.”
He paused in mid-throw. “By what logic do you reach that conclusion?”
“Not by logic at all. By faith.”
He sent the pebble sailing off in a long arc, uttering a sound of derision. “To think I had started to consider you intelligent.”
“Pardon me,” she snapped, sitting up. “I should have guessed. You’re too realistic to believe in anything or anyone but yourself.”
“You’ve got that right, lady.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You’re in charge and nobody else.”
“Right again.”
“What you are is arrogant. Too arrogant and coldhearted for a concept like faith. Or even simple human caring.” Her gaze locked on his. “You might give one of them a try sometime.”
He caught that less-than-subtle jibe and purposely let it pass without comment.
When he didn’t say anything, she turned her back on him. The chain pulled taut. Shoulders rising and falling, she fumed silently and stared at the river.
Nicholas knew what she was angry about, and tried to ignore her.
Which was bloody difficult when he couldn’t get more than two feet away from her.
Just looking at her slender back, he experienced the stab of a too-familiar feeling: guilt. He was being a real bastard, taking out his problems on her. He owed her his life. He would’ve died in that cave if not for her.
Alone, he would’ve died.
His time in the cavern was nothing but a blur of pain and heat. He remembered none of it... except her, always beside him, cooling his brow, whispering encouragement, comforting him.
He had been lost, alone, beyond the bleak edge of darkness.
And she had brought him back. She had cared for him, cared about him, in a way that no one else had for years.
And now he was acting as if none of it had ever happened.
He glanced away, looked at the waterfall, told himself there was no reason to feel guilt. Or anything else. Aye, he would not have survived the fever without her. But she would not have survived the whirlpool without him. They had agreed at the start that they would keep one another alive. A fair trade. Simple enough.
At least it had seemed simple, just a few short days ago. He had even thought that he might have to kill her because she could be a danger to him.
And she still could be a danger to him.
But killing her, hurting her in any way, was utterly out of the question.
You’ve got it all figured out. He shut his eyes. Hellfire and damnation, he wished that were still true. He didn’t know how everything had become so blasted complicated. He didn’t want things to change between them, didn’t want to feel anything for her. He had to think of himself, as he always had in the past.
That was the only way to survive. The kind of simple human caring she talked about could prove dangerous to his health.
And so he said not one word to her about what had taken place in the cave. He had told her thanks. What more did she want?
What did it matter to him if she felt angry and hurt? He didn’t care. He did not...
He glanced her way, and somehow the word care stuck in his throat. It got all tangled up with the guilt and almost choked him.
No woman he had ever met in his life had made him feel so confused. No woman had ever made him feel anything at all, beyond simple physical desire.
What the hell was she doing to him?
At the moment, she wasn’t doing anything at all, staring off into the darkness, her spine stubbornly straight, her hair a flaxen cascade that fell to her waist. She looked almost regal, warmed by the golden fire, crowned by silver starlight.
Regal and cool and distant.
But he had glimpsed a completely different side of her in the cave. That he remembered vividly: the sensation of awakening to the soft brush of her fingertips over his ribs.
It had been worse torture than anything else he had endured. There had been curiosity in that touch, and more—the most innocent, tender desire he had ever encountered in his life, awakening before his very eyes. Directed at him. He had watched it happen... and been helpless to do anything about it.
But he wasn’t helpless anymore.
The thought flowed through him like a draught of potent wine. Hot. Tempting. He watched her, sitting only inches away. She might be cool and distant at the moment, but her tentative, curious explorations when she had thought him asleep told him a completely different story. One he couldn’t forget.
She might not be able to put the feeling into words, might not understand it at all, but he had glimpsed the unfolding passion in her, had seen it in the dark, molten color of her eyes when their gazes met. She wanted the same thing he did.
He felt his breathing deepen, felt the familiar heat uncurl in his gut. Reason warned him not to venture into these waters... but the awareness of her desire increased his own to an unbearable level. Damn it, he wanted her to touch him, wanted her to look at him that way again—not with haughty disdain or disapproval or wariness, but with longing. The way a woman looked at a man, in that moment of mutual hunger before they came together.
His body, his breath, his eyes burned as he stared at her. Fantasies rioted through his mind. He wanted those sweet lips to part eagerly for his kisses. Wanted that lush body to shiver with need in his hands. Wanted to hear her cry out with pleasure when he thrust into her silken depths. Wanted to feel her shatter with release beneath him—
Nicholas stood up abruptly, turned away, raked a hand through his hair.
He was shaking. Damn him, he was shaking. Like some inexperienced, overeager lad. He had never let any woman rob him of his senses like this. He had better snap out of it before he did something he might not live long enough to regret.
He was ablaze with a fire hotter than any fever. One that time and rest would not cure. One that only her touch
would cool. Desperate for relief, for some kind of distraction, he looked around the glade.
Water might prove helpful. Staring at the pool below the falls, he started toward it.
“Where are you going?” she protested when the chain yanked taut.
“To take a cold bath,” he grated out. “Do you think you could enjoy the moon from over here? Or would that ruin your evening?”
Muttering a particularly unladylike word, she rose and trailed behind him. “We already washed up before. And you’re just getting over the chills. I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea.” Under his breath, he added, “It might just save my sanity.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He prowled over to the edge of the water. “Just cooperate for once. You can sit here on the bank and dangle your feet. It won’t kill you.” The pool looked to be only about waist deep, the sandy bottom visible even in the moonlight. He stripped off his shirt.
She reluctantly dipped in a toe. “I don’t know. It feels awfully—”
Nicholas jumped in, forgetting for a second how short the chain was.
Caught off balance, Miss Delafield pitched forward and landed in the water with an ungraceful splat. And went under before he could grab her.
She came up spitting like a soaked cat. “Damn you, you blackguard. You did that on purpose!”
“Oh, please,” he snapped, sick of having to defend his every action and explain himself at every turn. “I just wasn’t thinking—”
“Of anyone but yourself! You are the most thoughtless, selfish—” Shaking with either fury or cold, she seemed to lose her ability to speak.
So she settled for sweeping her arm across the surface to splash him with a wave of water.
Nicholas gritted his teeth. Never had he wanted to turn and walk away from her more than he did at this moment. Never had he wanted a minute—just one bloody minute—of peace and solitude more than he did right now.
The fact that the chain made that impossible frayed what was left of his temper.
“Your ladyship,” he said silkily. “It was an honest mistake.”
“Honest?” she exclaimed. “Honest?” She splashed him again, apparently warming to her newfound sport. “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”
“Listen, angel.” He splashed her back. “Let me warn you not to start a water battle with me.”
“Too late.” She struck a third time, undaunted by his threat.
And then it was all-out war.
They locked in watery combat fit for the Atlantic fleet. Barrage after barrage of froth and spray flew back and forth. Standing toe-to-toe, they soaked each other mercilessly, quickly creating a monsoon in the tiny pool. He advanced. She danced away. She sent a tidal wave toward him. He gave as good as he got. Both refused to back down, her righteous indignation easily matching his frayed temper.
Until she started laughing.
The sound was so unexpected, he almost didn’t recognize it.
Then a moment later, he found himself laughing right along with her. The situation was so utterly ridiculous. They had nearly been killed a half-dozen times, had little hope of making it out of Cannock Chase alive, would most likely die wearing these damned shackles... and here they were splashing around in the river like a pair of mad otters.
Hearty, genuine laughter welled up from somewhere inside him, from some deep, closed-off place that hadn’t been opened in a very long time. The sound blended with the silvery music of her laughter.
And the hostilities ended almost as abruptly as they’d begun.
He wasn’t sure who stopped first, but they went still, standing there with the choppy water swirling around them, both laughing, drenched, gasping for breath.
“Feel better?” he asked.
Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, she couldn’t stop giggling. “Yes,” she managed at last. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And you?”
To his surprise, he discovered that the tension and frustration that had bothered him all night had abated. “Aye.” He wiped his wet hair back from his eyes. “May I beg quarter, or are you taking no prisoners?”
She considered it with a thoroughly serious air for one second. Then she smiled. “Quarter granted.”
That smile lit her features so beautifully that it robbed him of both breath and voice. The pool calmed around them, the glade returning to peace, the quiet sounds of summer reclaiming the night.
But neither of them moved.
Dripping wet, chilled by the breeze, Nicholas stared at the woman before him and found that he did not want to move.
Her hair and gown a mess, face aglow from her latest impetuous adventure, she stood with hands on hips, up to her waist in now-muddy river water, looking like a cross between a glorious sea goddess and an impish hoyden.
Solitude, he decided, was highly overrated.
“You,” he said with another warm laugh, “are not to be believed, Miss Delafield.”
“Samantha.”
“What?”
“Samantha,” she repeated softly. “My name is Samantha. Or Sam.... And you?”
Her eyes searched his, seeking. Wanting so badly for him to give her this one simple thing.
“James,” he whispered. “Nick James.”
Even as the words tumbled from his lips, he couldn’t believe he had said them. He had just told her his name. Not his real name, but the one he had lived by for six years. The one that kept him safe. The name of a peaceable South Carolina planter, a man who did not belong in England, who could not explain what he was doing in Cannock Chase, shot at, shackled, and on the run.
He had just committed an unforgivable breach of his own rigid code of security.
And he didn’t care half a damn.
He knew it was a gesture of trust. Knew he should be alarmed at the fact that he was standing there sharing secrets in low, intimate tones.
But he wasn’t.
The happiness that spread across her delicate features, the light in her eyes at the insignificant gift of his name, was worth whatever price he paid. In that moment, he couldn’t think, knew only that they were so close together that if he merely took a single step...
He took it. One step and the distance between them vanished. He raised his hand to touch her cheek, barely caressing her skin with his fingertips. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Samantha.”
Her lips parted. She didn’t reply for a moment, her eyes huge and dark beneath the shadow of her lashes. She looked up at him as if she had truly never seen him before.
And then she smiled, the most tender, lovely smile he had ever seen turned his way. “And I’m pleased to meet you, Nick.”
He felt astonished by the sound of his name on her lips, by the way it flowed over him and through him, like the water all around, gentle, sparkling, warm. Life-giving.
More stunning still was the fact that she did not pull away from his touch. Did not utter a word of protest or denial.
Even when he moved his fingers lower, tracing the fine line of her jaw, her chin. She felt as delicate as the wing of an angel, soft as rare Canton silk. Touching her with only the lightest contact of his fingertips, he tilted her head up, held her gaze for a single heartbeat of time.
And then as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he lowered his head and kissed her.
He covered her lips with his, sampling the velvet warmth of her mouth as he had been longing to do.
She shivered, perhaps because his beard tickled her. But she didn’t stiffen or pull away, didn’t resist at all.
Instead she responded, tentatively at first, allowing the light pressure... then welcoming him with a sigh of surprise and wonder in the back of her throat, a sound as soft as the wind in the trees.
And something that had been knotted tight in his chest unraveled. Something that he couldn’t explain, couldn’t understand, could only feel. The night, the glade, all the world fell away a
nd he knew nothing but her. Samantha. He slid his hand along her cheek until his fingers tangled in her wet hair, urging her closer. She tasted of strawberries and summer, of night itself, of feminine mystery, fresh and sweet and more satisfying to his body and soul than any food or drink he’d ever known. He deepened the kiss and her palms came up to his chest, but she didn’t push him away.
Instead, she clung to him, trembling as if she would shatter if he released her now.
And her touch shattered him instead.
She was an innocent. God help him, he had never suspected how innocent until now. She had perhaps never even been kissed before. Certainly not like this. Yet she accepted him... wanted him.
Overpowering desire sank white-hot claws into his body, but he fought it. For her, he had to go slowly. Had to give her time to discover the passionate rhythms of her need for herself, even as they set him ablaze.
But it was too difficult to think of how very vulnerable and fragile she was. Too difficult to think at all. Especially when she yielded to him so completely, leaning into him as if her legs would not hold her. His arm slid around her waist and he drew her in tight. Angling his head, he urged her lips to part... and to his astonishment she opened to him.
All his hunger and longing poured forth, met and blended with hers. She was as brash and impetuous in her newfound desire as she was in every other way, holding nothing back. His tongue stroked along hers in a deft glide, exploring, claiming her satiny heat, and a moan came from deep in her throat, a sound of discovery. Of unmistakable pleasure.
It was the sound he had heard in his fantasies. A groan tore from his chest. Need exploded through him, hot and sharp like fragments from the stars overhead. As the dark water swirled around them, he could feel her shivering with need, with passion. His hand slid down her back, pressing her closer. Through the wet fabric of her gown he could feel every curve of her body—the way her nipples hardened to pearls against his chest, the softness of her belly against his rigid arousal.
Run Wild Page 18
