Run Wild (29 page)

He wasn’t paying attention, too intrigued with his new find. Using the knife, he tried to pry off the lid.

“Nick,” she repeated urgently, tapping him on the shoulder. “We don’t have time.”

He lifted the lid and both of them inhaled sharply.

“Oh, my God,” Sam whispered.

~ ~ ~

Nothing but the silvery spill of moonlight illuminated their place beneath the trees, a mile from the camp. They hadn’t risked a fire, hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to themselves.

Sam hunched over a lustrous jumble of deep green French silk piled in her lap, her needle flashing in the moon’s glow. There hadn’t been time to check the sizes of the garments she had grabbed in the wagon. The white cotton chemise she had taken, with its ruffled bodice and billowy sleeves, would fit, but the skirt was too large. Taking the last few stitches in the waistband, she glanced up at Nick.

She had teasingly offered to sew him into his new breeches, since the chain made it impossible for him to get them on, but he had rejected the idea instantly. Hadn’t seemed to find it the least bit funny. He would change into them, he’d said, after the shackles were removed.

He had been in an odd, quiet mood ever since they left the camp. At the moment, stretched out on his side in the leaves, propped up on one elbow, he barely paid any attention to her at all.

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 whirled 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.

S
am 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
.