Run Wild

by Shelly Thacker

  He was too busy counting coins.

  The barrel in the wagon had been full to the brim with guineas, shillings, farthings—a treasure chest worthy of a pirate, overflowing with gold and silver. They had taken handfuls, scooping them into his stolen shirt.

  A second barrel beside the first had contained the kind of jewelry Sam had imagined—chains and pearls and gems—but she had argued that they shouldn’t take any of it. Each piece was unique, all of it too easy to identify.

  But Nick had helped himself to a single jewel. A ruby the size of a small egg.

  He held it up now in the moonlight, admiring its delicately cut facets.

  “I still say it was a mistake to take that,” Sam said in disapproval, tying off a length of thread. “If anyone happens to check that barrel and notice it missing—”

  “We’ll be long gone by then.”

  “But we can’t use it to pay the blacksmith. He might recognize it.”

  “I have no intention of offering it to him.” He tossed the jewel a few inches into the air and caught it, smiling as if he savored the feel of it in his palm. “This one’s for me, angel. Me and no one else. This little bauble makes up for some of the hell I’ve been through on this trip.” He slipped it into the pocket of his worn, ripped black breeches.

  “It was a risk we didn’t have to take,” she said quietly as she put away her sewing supplies.

  “Your ladyship, some people are satisfied with moonlight and sunshine.” He sat up, stuffing gold guineas into his coin purse. “And some people prefer shiny things of a different kind.”

  “You act as if you’ve never seen money before.”

  His head came up sharply and he started to say something... but then he just smiled. “Not for a lot of years,” he said coolly, chuckling. “Not for a whole lot of years.” He patted his pocket. “This little trinket is going to make life at home better than it’s been in a long time.”

  He returned his attention to the coins he had been sorting. Sam folded her new skirt and set it aside, questions tumbling through her mind as she watched him. Home? Where is your home? What do you do there? Are you a tradesman? A criminal? A military man? A tavern keeper?

  What became of that small boy after he survived the prison hulk?

  Who the devil are you?

  Even after all they had been through together, all they had shared, she still didn’t know the answer. He had hardly been forthcoming about his past. Or his present. He seemed intent on keeping his secrets.

  “Besides,” he concluded flatly. “I’m owed.”

  She didn’t ask what he meant by that comment either. Because she suspected he wouldn’t tell her. “How much money do we have? Is there enough?”

  “Over five hundred.”

  She whistled softly. “I would say that’s enough.”

  “Enough to make one blacksmith fat and happy and set two fugitives free.” His eyes met hers. “Within a few hours, your ladyship, we’ll be miles from here.”

  “Free to go our separate ways. At last.”

  An awkward silence fell, broken only by the clink of the coins he was counting.

  Free at last. She should be ecstatic.

  So why did the thought make her feel so... wretched?

  She pulled up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. Resting her cheek on her knees, she observed him in the scant light. The silvery glow played over his features, made his new white shirt gleam, his black hair seem all the darker. With a gem in his pocket and gold at his fingertips, he looked happier than she had ever seen him, his eyes alight, his smile easy and broad. It seemed he was in his element, somehow. And it made him appear relaxed, confident... undeniably handsome.

  Even though she didn’t approve of his reckless little ruby theft, she liked seeing him happy.

  A now-familiar warmth unfolded within her, that feeling she had never been able to name. Except that this time it brought an ache as well.

  Only a week ago she had been ready to send this man to the gallows to save her own neck. But that was before he had saved her life, comforted her when she thought her whole world without comfort, laughed with her...

  Touched her in a way no man ever had.

  His tenderness had banished her fears. Taken them away as easily as he had plucked that blood-red gem from the gypsies’ treasure.

  Free? She had never truly been free until she was shackled to him.

  And the thought of leaving him, of never seeing him again...

  He lifted his head—and some of what she felt must have shone in her eyes, because he stopped counting abruptly.

  The silence stretched out between them.

  He broke it first. “So where will you go tomorrow, once you’re finally free of me?”

  Straightening, she stretched and somehow managed to keep her voice casual. “Merseyside.” She had shared with him all her other secrets, saw no sense in withholding that one. “I’ll go to the room I keep in Merseyside, pack my things and leave the country.”

  “Off to Venice, then?”

  “Yes.” Somehow the thought of Italy’s blue skies and sparkling Adriatic wasn’t as appealing as it had once been. “And what about you?”

  “I have that business appointment in York.”

  “I meant after that.”

  She kept her tone light, not demanding, though she longed to know more about him. Everything about him.

  He glanced away, and she knew she had made the right decision when they’d left the cave: she hadn’t told him about his delirious ramblings, had kept the knowledge of his painful childhood to herself, not knowing how he would react. Hoping he would volunteer more information himself, without any prodding.

  For some reason, it was important, achingly important, that he trust her.

  “I’m a planter,” he said slowly, “from the American colonies. I’ll be returning there as soon as I conclude my business in York.”

  “I see.” Part of her felt pleased that he had trusted her with that much information.

  And part of her did not. A planter? Of all the possible occupations she had imagined for him, that wasn’t one of them. He didn’t seem like a man who belonged in the fields, worrying about crops and weather and weevils.

  She wondered whether he was telling her the truth.

  And she hated how much it hurt, that he might be lying to her. What right did she have to expect the truth or anything else from him? They were two strangers who had been thrown together by chance. Outlaws who fiercely guarded their independence. Who cared only for themselves.

  That had been their bargain all along.

  She wondered exactly when that bargain had been broken.

  And why it hurt so much.

  “I’ve never been to the Colonies.” She refused to let the hurt show in her voice. “What’s it like there?”

  Again, he hesitated.

  And again, he told her. “Very different from England. Hot. Humid. The... uh, place where I have my plantation is mostly salt marsh. More water than land. I grow indigo, rice, tobacco. There are plenty of fish, and some good hunting. Quail and deer, mostly. It’s not much, but I’ve got a damn fine wine cellar, all the rum and brandy a man could drink, and it beats the hell out of... some of the other places I’ve lived.”

  “It sounds nice.”

  He choked out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Not quite as nice as Venice.”

  She shrugged.

  They held one another’s gazes a long time. Then he turned and fished around through the leaves for the creel that held their supplies, and took out the flask. They had filled it with water from the stream before leaving the glade. “Well, in any event, here’s to getting out of England in good health.” He poured water into two cups and handed her one, raising his in a toast. “Here’s to America, to Venice, to freedom.”

  “Freedom,” she echoed, with a smile she did not feel.

  They clinked their cups together, and their fingers brushed.

  Sudden sparks wh
irled through her, made her catch her breath. “Nick...”

  He withdrew quickly. “We don’t have time for... uh... that is, we should get some sleep, your ladyship.”

  She noticed that he had been calling her that again, instead of using her name—and she wondered whether he was doing it on purpose. “Nick, I just... I want to...” She sighed in frustration. “I wanted to say...”

  “What?” he asked tightly.

  She wasn’t sure. What was there to say? Freedom doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it did a few days ago? I don’t want to leave you?

  I care about you?

  The thought stunned her. It was overpowering, undeniable.

  True.

  She cared about him. And she couldn’t simply walk away as if he meant nothing to her.

  “It doesn’t matter, Samantha.”

  “It does matter,” she returned evenly. “You matter to me.”

  He stared at her as if in shock.

  “You matter to me,” she repeated simply.

  He shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  “Why?” She reached out and touched him, laying her hand lightly on his arm.

  He flinched as if she’d burned him. “Because,” he ground out. “It’s not right. You’re...” He swore, shutting his eyes. “You’re a lady. A lady who deserves better than—”

  “Better than a planter from the Colonies?”

  “Better than a man like me,” he finished fiercely, opening his eyes, those emerald depths ablaze.

  “Well, that’s too bad, Mr. James. Because I’ve been living my own life and making my own choices for too long to change now. I know what I want.” She slowly curved her fingers around his arm, realized how taut his muscles were beneath the smooth, white cotton. “I know what I feel.”

  He stared at her with that dangerous fire in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “I think I do.” She leaned closer, breathed against his lips the way she had learned from him, asking without words for his kiss. “I know what I want.”

  “Samantha...” He said it like a warning, his body rigid. “No.”

  “Yes, Nick,” she insisted. “Yes.”

  She felt him tremble, heard him groan, a sound of anguish that seemed to come from the very depths of his being.

  Then all at once, he circled her with his arms and pulled her against him. His mouth covered hers, plundering, hot.

  And she abandoned herself to the fire in the moonlit darkness of Cannock Chase.

  Chapter 18

  Sam fell with him down into the leaves, her mind and her reason no longer in charge. Her heart made the decision, filled her with a rush of emotion stronger than any she’d ever felt. She responded hungrily to his kiss, held onto him as fiercely as he held her, grasping his hard-muscled arms. They sank onto the ground, the leaves crushed beneath them, the night air filling with the smells of earth and pine.

  The worn fabric of her gown gave way beneath his impatient fingers and she didn’t care. She had saved her new clothes to wear on the morrow. With a groan, he tore the silk of her bodice, baring her to his kisses. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that sent fire twisting through her. Moaning his name, she arched her back, yielding to him, to everything he made her feel. With another impatient motion, he tore away her skirt and she was free of the last remnants of her lemon silk gown.

  Pulse racing, she lay naked beneath him. Naked on the leaves but for the iron shackle around her ankle that bound her to him. She felt no shame, no shyness, aware only of the look in his eyes as he gazed down at her, the passion—and the tenderness. The wind surrounded them, warm and damp with the promise of rain, a summer wind that made the branches and the moonlight dance. He rose up on his knees, stripped off his shirt. His broad shoulders almost blocked the light as he remained poised above her for a moment, his breathing harsh.

  Then she reached for him, every fiber of her being craving his warmth, his nearness. He lowered himself over her, muscles shifting as his powerful arms bracketed her body. She opened to his kiss, threading her fingers through his hair, savoring the sweet pressure of his mouth, the heat of his lips, the bristly texture of his beard against her chin. He glided his tongue along hers, the velvety friction sending whirls of sensation straight to the center of her body. She moaned at the intensity of the need she felt for him. The desire.

  This was what it meant to feel desire. This raw ache, this longing to touch and be touched. This wildness. The power of it overwhelmed her. She ran her fingertips along the hard angle of his jaw, the corded muscles of his neck, the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He was made all of iron and steel, so strong and fierce and male... and yet she did not fear him.

  It left her awestruck—the way he trembled at her touch, the knowledge that she affected him just as much as he affected her. He was so commanding, could face any danger with cool courage and boldness... yet she made him tremble. Every touch of her lips, every light brush of her fingertips sent a shudder through his hard body.

  This gift he had given her, this new awareness of her own feminine power, took her breath away. It made her feel strong in a way she never had before—as strong and fierce and bold as he was.

  She kissed his throat, feeling the throb of his pulse beneath her lips. And then she kissed the brand on his chest, so softly, his heart pounding against her mouth. She enfolded him in her arms, aware of his scars beneath her hands. So many marks of suffering... so much pain. She caressed them gently, wishing she could erase his hurt with only a touch, take away all the anguish that he had endured.

  “Samantha.” His voice unsteady, he pressed his cheek against hers, his beard like rough silk against her skin.

  Her heart was beating as hard as his when he claimed her mouth again. Her lips were swollen and sensitive from his kisses yet she was eager for more, could not get enough of the taste of him, so spicy and masculine. She felt tingling, alive, burning all over. She twined her arms behind his neck, drawing his closer, unable to get close enough.

  Suddenly his hands were everywhere, his caresses rough and gentle, quick and unbearably slow. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs and fingers working magic that sent sparks flaring through her. Then he shifted position, bending his head to stroke one hard nipple with his tongue, taking the peak into his mouth, suckling. She cried out, a jagged edge of need slicing through her, pleasure whirling tight. It seemed impossible, but she felt every touch of his lips not only at her breast but everywhere—deep inside, low in her belly, in the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

  Not even the word desire was enough to describe all that he made her feel, the newness of these sensations, the intensity of her emotions.

  He shifted his attention to her other breast, moving his hand down over her waist, the curve of her hip... lower. He brushed a fingertip along her thigh and every muscle of her body went taut, anticipation whirling through her. She knew what to expect this time, opened to his caress with a soft moan.

  And then he pleasured her as he had before, that first magical night they had shared. She could feel the liquid warmth flowing from her like melting honey, heard his low sound of approval as he felt it too. He stroked her softness, his fingers sliding over her... and then into her.

  She gasped at the shocking intimacy of it, her voice a sharp cry. Wordless. Yearning. He explored and teased her, his thumb seeking the small bud hidden within her curls, urging it to fullness. Pressing against it in light circles that became faster, then slower. Gentle. Maddening.

  He swept her upward to the heights she had experienced before in his arms—but tonight she wanted to share it with him, in a way she didn’t fully understand. All she knew was that she wanted, needed... more. To feel surrounded by his strength, his fierce masculine heat, his astonishing tenderness. Tonight she didn’t want him to hold back—not when she needed him, cared for him.

  Loved him.

  The though
t flitted into her mind and out again before she had a chance to react, for he was gathering her beneath him, his body covering hers.

  “Yes.” She felt startled by the husky sound of her own voice, even as she instinctively tilted her hips upward. “Oh, yes.”

  “Angel, slow down.” His words were a strained rasp. “Wait—”

  “No more waiting, Nick. No more holding back.”

  “There might be pain for you.”

  “I don’t care.” She moved her hips against him and he lost the rest of his warning in a groan.

  The intensity in his eyes was so vivid she could see the color even in the darkness, the burning emerald green. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She could tell that he meant it in ways that went beyond physical pain.

  “Nick...” She put all she felt in her heart into her voice, her eyes. “I trust you.”

  He buried his head against her shoulder, muttering indecipherable words, curses, something that almost might have been a prayer. She slid her hand down his back in a slow caress, feeling how he was rigidly controlling himself. How he was shaking with the force of his need for her. The same need she felt for him.

  “No more holding back,” she whispered again.

  He went still.

  Then with one last oath, he reached down and unfastened his breeches, shoved them down past his hips.

  She inhaled a startled breath as she felt the size of him, that male part of him hard as steel, pressing against her thigh. God’s mercy.

  “Hold on to me, angel,” he commanded roughly. “Hold on and don’t let go.”

  His lips covered hers again, his tongue dueling with hers, distracting her for a moment. His fingers parted her soft folds, guiding the smooth head of his rigid arousal against her.

  All at once she felt the pain he had warned her of—but it was only a momentary twinge as he pressed into her... deeply. Groaning, he thrust forward in one slow stroke. And then the pain was gone, lost in a sensation of pressure and fullness, hot and shockingly sweet.

  It was beyond anything she could have imagined, the feel of him becoming part of her, his hard length filling her so completely, his body joined to hers.