Run Wild (12 page)

One thing was clear, even to his muddled senses: this clever, high-born, fiercely independent lady thief was having a strange effect on him. One that no woman had ever had before. One he didn’t like.

It must be some form of physical desire, he decided, intensified by the enforced nearness and the fact that he had been so long without a woman. The mere touch of her hand on his bare skin had been enough to make his blood run hot. And when she had hovered over him, her breath warm against his shoulder, her lacy sleeve tickling his back, the desire that shot through him had tormented him as much as the bullet.

Even now, he couldn’t seem to keep his gaze from straying back to her... his mind from imagining what it would be like to pull her body against his, to feel handfuls of that tawny hair flowing through his fingers like molten gold, to kiss her lush, full lips and...

He blinked to clear the image from his vision, stunned as if one of the towering trees had fallen on him. Where the devil were these thoughts coming from? He couldn’t fathom it.

Even the name she had given earlier kept whispering through his mind in an undeniably alluring way.
Miss Delafield
. It suited her. Simple, elegant, graceful. And probably false.

So why did he feel glad that she had said
Miss
? Miss instead of Lady Delafield. Or Duchess Delafield. Or ordinary Mrs. Delafield. She could be lying about her unwedded status, but somehow he didn’t think so. What man would put up with her stubborn ways and sharp tongue long enough to marry her?

He forced his gaze to the ground and his attention back to the problem at hand. Escape. Move forward. One foot in front of the other. Whoever— whatever —she really was, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not her name, not her tempting golden curves, not the unsettling effect she seemed to have on him.

Because she had seen the brand on his chest. From the look on her face, she had clearly recognized what the mark meant. Even if she couldn’t identify the specific ship, he couldn’t risk that she might mention it to someone. To anyone.

And that meant he might have to kill her.

His gut twisted in a sickening knot even as he contemplated the idea. Never in all his thirty-eight years, even at his worst, had he ever harmed a woman. Even aboard ship, he had forbidden his men to misuse women captured at sea—a thoroughly unpiratical rule that had earned him his nickname, “Sir Nicholas.” Ruthless enemy of the Royal Navy, plunderer of merchant vessels, chivalrous toward ladies of any rank who fell into his hands.

But this particular lady was different. He couldn’t afford to feel chivalrous or anything else toward her. Not if he wanted to keep his neck out of a noose.

Only a handful of prisoners had survived the riot aboard the
Molloch
, the Royal Navy prison hulk that had been his home for eight years. And Nicholas Brogan was the most infamous. He was bloody well certain the authorities would know the ship’s name, if ever Miss Delafield had the chance to describe the brand to them.

And he could just picture her doing so. Especially if it would save her own pretty neck.
It was a pitchfork, your honorable lordships, burned right over his heart, with three prongs, pointing downward. I’m willing to testify, if you could find it in your mercy to drop the charges against me..
.

Aye, she would do it. In the wink of one of her lovely eyes. Her instinct for self-preservation was every bit as strong as his. She had proven that last night in gaol, when she had tried to sacrifice him to save herself.

Clenching his jaw, he lifted his gaze to her once more, muttering oaths under his breath. It was bad enough that he had to consider her fate while they were chained together. Now he also had to consider her fate once they managed to get the chain off.

He cursed God for throwing her into his path. For forcing him to make a choice he did not want to make.

For once again placing an innocent at his mercy.

A surge of hot, bitter guilt choked him. He blinked hard, seeing again the image that tormented him so often: of a young boy’s accusing eyes... of that innocent face in the midst of a blazing, sinking pirate ship... of the pistol shot that rang out, echoing through his memory again and again.

After that night, he had vowed to never take another life. He had dared hope that six years as a law-abiding citizen might have changed him.

But that hope had died today with Swinton and Leach, had been left shattered in the clearing with their broken bodies. The beast within him hadn’t been conquered. It had merely been lying dormant. Waiting for a chance to leap forth and kill again.

He couldn’t control his violent nature. Couldn’t trust himself.

And now he was wearing a pistol again. Tucked neatly into his belt at his back. Already, it had become such a natural part of him that he barely even noticed it.

A man like him, he thought with a bitter glance heavenward, shouldn’t be allowed within a hundred miles of anything or anyone innocent.

Miss Delafield came to a sudden halt in front of him, freezing like a startled deer. “Look!” she whispered, pointing into the distance. “What is that?”

Nicholas stopped beside her, trying to right his chaotic thoughts, squinting into the shadows. “I don’t see—”

He saw it before he could finish the sentence. Several yards ahead on the left. A flash of light that winked on and then off.

“Damnation.” He grabbed the girl, yanking her with him as he jumped behind a fat evergreen, the chain clattering.

Had it been a lantern? A torch? Could their pursuers have closed in already? Burrowed deep into the prickly branches, he waited for a shout or a gunshot. He could feel the girl trembling beside him, her shoulder pressed against his.

But he heard nothing. Not so much as a single footfall. After a moment, he chanced a quick look, glancing at the spot where the light had appeared. And he saw it again.

But this time he realized what it was. “It’s nothing.” He heard the relief in his own voice. “Just a ray of sunlight striking some sort of glass.”

“Glass?” she whispered. “What sort of glass could there be out here in the middle of Cannock Chase?”

“I intend to find out. You stay here and I’ll—” He cut himself off, realizing the order he had started to give was impossible.

“Wherever you go, I go, remember?” she asked dryly, moving her foot to rattle the chain.

How could he have forgotten?

Easily, he thought with a rueful grimace. It was damned contrary to his nature—not to mention bloody inconvenient—to be one half of a pair. “Let’s at least try to keep it quiet, your ladyship.” Crouching down, he stepped out of the evergreen.

Then slowly, cautiously, together, they moved in for a closer look.

O
nly when they came within a few yards of the unsteady light did Nicholas realize what he was looking at. The glass was part of a window, in a structure of some kind, so well-hidden by fallen trees and underbrush that its walls appeared to be part of the forest itself.

He chose a vantage point behind a nearby stand of bushes, drawing Miss Delafield down with him as he hunched over to study the place. “A woodsman’s cabin, perhaps.” He kept his voice barely audible. “Or a criminal’s hideout.”

“Do you think it’s occupied?”

Nicholas didn’t answer at first. He weighed the risks of encountering the occupants against the lure of shelter, a place to rest for the night, perhaps even food. “No one seems to have noticed us yet. And God knows we’ve made enough noise.” He shot a glare at the chain.

“Well then...” She bit her bottom lip, eyes on the cabin. “I say let’s go and see what’s inside. I’m tired and thirsty and starving and...” She gave up trying to speak, shaking her head with a weary sigh. “... tired.”

That one word seemed to sum up the entire accursed day. Even in the deepening forest shadows, Nicholas could see the strain on her pale, dirt-smudged features, noticed that the stubborn set to her chin, the determined stiffness in her spine had all but disappeared. He felt just as exhausted. Their pace had slowed to a weary trudge. They wouldn’t get any further before nightfall. Couldn’t.

And whatever—or whoever—waited inside the cabin couldn’t be much worse than what they’d already encountered this day.

Reaching behind him, he drew the pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches. There was no sense trying to do this politely. No chance of passing themselves off as travelers lost in the forest. Not with both of them dressed in ripped clothes, covered with blood, and chained together.

“Follow me, Miss Delafield,” he whispered, focusing his gaze on the ramshackle cottage.

“You’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?”

He hesitated a moment, asking himself the same question. “Not unless they shoot at me first.”

Rising in a half-crouch, he began inching forward. The girl picked up the chain to keep it from dragging noisily between them. As they crept closer, Nicholas found himself struck by an eerie sense of how familiar it felt—sneaking up on some unsuspecting target, a pistol in his hand, a fellow outlaw by his side.

Though this was the first time that the fellow had ever been a lady.

It took only seconds to reach a fallen tree a few paces from the door. They knelt behind the trunk, side by side, waiting. Listening. All he could hear was his rough breathing, and hers.

He didn’t hear or see any sign of life in the cabin. No firelight. No smoke. No movement. From what he could make out in the last glimmers of daylight, it looked unoccupied.

Constructed of hand-hewn wood instead of the usual wattle-and-daub used by peasants, the place boasted riches that didn’t belong here in the murky depths of Cannock Chase: a thatched roof, a solid-looking door with iron fittings, glass windows, now cracked and broken. Perhaps some foolish nobleman in a past century had built it as a hunting cottage.

Whatever the intended purpose, it looked as though the little shelter had been abandoned for years. The forest had almost reclaimed it. Ivy and other greenery dripped down the roof and clung to the walls, competing with grass and weeds that rose in a tangle two feet high even in front of the door.

Still, the air of abandonment might have been created by guile rather than by chance. He had the distinct impression that the concealing trees on two sides had been felled not by nature, but by man.

By a man who had reason to hide.

Nicholas cocked the pistol and turned to look at his fellow outlaw. She was trembling, her quick, shallow breathing making her lace-trimmed bodice rise and fall rapidly, but she clenched her jaw and nodded, urging him to proceed.

The lady had guts, he had to give her that. She might be one stubborn, aristocratic pain in the arse, but she had guts.

Rising, he ducked around the fallen tree and led the way to the door. Swiftly. Stealthily. Take the opponent by surprise and minimize casualties.

It all felt hauntingly familiar.

They reached the door. He lifted the latch. Hinges creaked as he pushed at it and then he was inside, dropping back from the spill of light, pistol sweeping the interior in a single smooth arc.

An animal’s screech split the air. Something small and furry exploded out of a corner.

“A wolf!” the girl shrieked, flattening herself against the door jamb as the creature darted past her.

Chuckling, Nicholas flicked the safety on the gun, satisfied that they had just chased out the only occupant. “That, Miss Delafield, was a squirrel.”

She unglued herself from the wall. The waning light slanting in through the open door and cracked glass windows illuminated twin spots of color high in her cheeks. “That was no squirrel,” she insisted archly, dusting off her sleeves.

“Fine, a wolf.” Looking around the cabin, he couldn’t subdue a grin. “Smallest wolf in the history of England.”

She muttered something unladylike under her breath and changed the subject. “This place is larger than it looked from outside.”

Returning the pistol to his waistband, Nicholas nodded as he studied their surroundings. Whether woodsman or noble, the previous owner had outfitted the place with all the comforts a man could ask, though the fine furnishings were now buried beneath layers of dirt, cobwebs, and scattered leaves that had blown in through the broken windows.

A table and chairs with curving, spindly legs filled one corner, beneath a rack that held dangling iron pots, a kettle, cooking implements. A brick hearth took up most of the adjoining wall, and a trio of fishing poles had been left leaning against the mantel, amid a jumble of baskets and woven fishing creels on the floor.

Most appealing of all was the bed opposite the hearth, made of hand-hewn wood topped with a fat straw mattress and moth-eaten blanket. A four-poster draped with silk in a Grosvenor Square boudoir couldn’t have looked more welcoming at the moment.

Resisting the urge to sink down on the bed and slip into unconsciousness, Nicholas turned his attention to a large cupboard on the wall beside the door. A locked cupboard.

“What was so important that he had to lock it up?” he murmured, moving toward it, the girl trailing along, shackles jangling.