Run Wild (22 page)

And for heaven’s sake, he was unconscious! Wounded. Ravaged by days of fever.

She breathed deeply, tried to slow her racing heart and her spinning thoughts. By all the graces, she knew what she had to do. If only she—

The flutter of wings swept past her again.

Sam whirled, turning one way and another. It
hadn’t
been a dream. That sound was real. Bats?

She saw a small shape, just beyond the edge of the firelight. And it wasn’t a bat.

It was a bird.

She stared, unable to breathe for a moment.
A bird
. A small, brown, ordinary sparrow. It hopped closer, pecked at the pile of moss beside the biscuit tin.

Sam blinked at it. How had it gotten inside? Through the crevasse behind the falls? She doubted a bird could navigate the twisting tunnels and low openings they had squeezed through—not in the darkness.

It must have come in through another entrance.

Another
exit
.

One not far from here.

Almost as soon as she had the thought, the bird hopped away and took flight, into the darkness—heading away from the direction they had come, away from the falls.

Sam’s heart pounded, and she realized she was shaking. Not with fear this time, but with hope. Despite everything, there was hope. A way out, a way to freedom!

She turned back toward the rogue.

If she gave in to her fear now, it would mean certain death for both of them. Swallowing hard, she summoned her courage.

Her trust.

She edged closer... and lay down beside him.

And felt instantly, uncomfortably aware of every muscled inch of him. Of every shiver that went through his angular frame. Of the way her body fit perfectly to his, even when she merely pressed against his side. As if she’d been made to fit there.

Her stomach in knots, she slid one arm across his midsection... slowly... and rested her head on his chest. And felt the matted hair, bristly against her cheek.

And the brand.

And she did not dare close her eyes.

F
loating. He felt himself floating. Strange that he could do that, when his body felt so heavy. Weighted down. Anchored. Yet he drifted, carried by a warm tide. One made not of water, but of fog... soft, dusky, pleasant... just like the scent that drew him to awareness.

A familiar scent. As captivating as it was delicate. A whisper of warm temptation. It enticed him out of the darkness, but he felt so weak, so heavy... so drowsy...

With a monumental effort, he lifted one eyelid, halfway.

Then the other.

His head spun dizzily. He couldn’t see anything but darkness... and the unsteady glow of some kind of light on his left. He wondered where he was. He should know, he thought. But he could not remember. How had he come to be in this place? And where exactly was he?

Everything looked remote, hazy, blurry, as if he were viewing it through the reverse end of a spyglass.

What, for example, was this unfamiliar tangle of blonde hair just beyond the end of his nose?

He blinked once, twice, until it finally came into focus.

A woman. It was a woman.

Miss Delafield
, his memory supplied.

He almost smiled, found he didn’t have the strength. But what a pleasant surprise. Well worth the effort of opening his eyelids.

Miss Delafield. Yes, of course. Other bits and pieces started clicking together in his mind.
Shackles. Bullet. Forest. Waterfall
...

But none of those held his attention at the moment, not compared to the woman wrapped intimately around him. She lay curled beside him, half atop him, her head resting on his chest. Asleep. Soft... warm.

She brought his senses awake one by one—the irresistible dusky-sweet scent that was uniquely hers, the silky feel of her cheek and her arm against his bare skin, the delicate warmth of her breath caressing his chest...

He liked having her here. Liked it very much. They fit so perfectly together. He had known they would.

But by God, he had never known that just having her here with him could feel so good. He had been waking up alone for so many years. This felt... right. In a way that went beyond explanation. Impossibly, achingly right.

He tried to lift his hand, longing to touch her, but it required too much strength.

That frustrated him. Blast. It seemed incredibly unfair.

Just keeping his eyes open required more effort than he could manage. He resisted but the fog enfolded him again, slowly pulling him down... warm, soft, silky. Like the lady who held him close... so gentle, so innocent.

And somehow he found the strength to smile.

~ ~ ~

Sam came awake all at once, startled by a loud sound. She remained where she was, disoriented. She couldn’t see in the complete blackness that surrounded her.

She couldn’t believe she had fallen asleep. Deeply, peacefully. Even as she tried to adjust to that surprising fact, she recognized the sound that had awakened her.

His heartbeat, beneath her ear.

Steady, strong.

Gasping, she listened for a moment. There was no mistake. She could feel his heart thudding with a regular, powerful rhythm. And he was no longer shivering. The chills had passed. His skin felt warm beneath her cheek, her arm, her hand. His chest rose and fell evenly. His breathing had returned to normal.

He was going to be all right.

She couldn’t move for a moment, swept up in a wave of emotions that washed over her all at once. She whispered a prayer of thanks, closing her eyes, the worry and despair pouring off her like rain, leaving behind relief. Joy.

And something more. That unfamiliar feeling she had first noticed last night. Like sympathy, but stronger, mingled with a sort of...

She couldn’t define it. Fellowship, perhaps. The kind soldiers must feel after going through battle together. She had no word for it, but words did not matter at the moment.

He was going to live.

Her muscles went slack as her tension drained away. They would be able to leave the cave, perhaps soon. There were things she should do. Find more moss. Rekindle the fire in the biscuit tin. Get more water.

But at the moment she didn’t want to do anything but stay right where she was, beside him. Listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

A moment later, she opened her eyes, lifting her head, feeling uneasy.
What was she thinking?

She
wanted
to stay beside him?

Unsettled, she turned away and busied herself relighting the fire. With a scrape of steel against granite, sparks became flame, and after a few minutes, a scant pool of light encircled them.

Setting the little knife aside, she watched the golden glow warm his features, wishing she could make sense of these uncomfortable new feelings. For so many years she had cautiously kept her distance from men—especially any large, ill-tempered, heavily muscled, or aggressive types. And he was all four.

But somehow, with this particular man, her caution seemed to have vanished.

Instead of feeling wary of him, she felt... drawn to him by some powerful force she had never felt before in her life, could not explain.

Without thinking, she reached out to touch him. Tentatively, lightly. As if lost in a trance, she watched her hand move over the broad expanse of his chest, tracing the massive curve of shoulder into bicep, the veins that stood out on his arms. Even his wrists were large, heavy. It seemed he had been made with no softness at all, every part of him angular, rough, hard.

Whatever gentleness he possessed was well hidden. Perhaps so deeply that even he didn’t know it was there.

Fascinated, she couldn’t make herself stop as her fingers encountered one unexpected texture after another. The coarseness of the dark hair that blanketed his chest and narrowed to a fine line down the center of his body. The ridges of muscle that sharply defined his ribcage. He was so different from her in every way.

But somehow the differences didn’t seem threatening. They seemed... intriguing.

Sam went still, her hand coming to rest in the mat of black hair on his chest. Her heart was pounding. And an unfamiliar heat spread through her middle, pooling deep in her belly.

Now
what was happening to her? The sensation was utterly foreign, yet it seemed to come from the very core of her being.

Oddly, she noticed that
his
heart seemed to be beating much faster than it had before...

She froze. Unable to lift her hand, she turned her head, slowly, as if in a dream, to look at his face.

And found him staring up at her.

Their gazes locked. She felt as if she’d been struck by a bolt of emerald lightning.

She snatched her hand back, her senses and her thoughts scrambled. “You’re awake.”

She immediately felt like a fool for stating the obvious. A blaze of color heated her cheeks. How
long
had he been awake? While she had held him in her arms? While she had looked at him, touched him?
What is the world had she been doing?

He blinked at her, slowly, drowsily.

And the smallest hint of a smile curved his mouth.

A thoroughly devilish smile.

The brigand. The rogue! He
had
been awake. Perhaps the entire time. And he hadn’t let her know. Hadn’t stopped her. He had let her... let her...

Sam wished the cavern floor would split open and swallow her whole. She started to explain, then realized she couldn’t.

What possible explanation could she offer? She didn’t understand herself. None of her thoughts, feelings, or actions lately were the least bit rational.

Besides which, she seemed to have completely lost her ability to speak.

But perhaps he wasn’t fully conscious yet. Perhaps he was still a bit delirious and wouldn’t remember.

He struggled to speak, said something she couldn’t make out. She leaned closer to hear what he was saying. Hoped it would be something feverish. A nice hallucination would do.

“How... long?” he rasped.

That sounded completely lucid.

Damn.

And she wasn’t sure exactly what he meant. How long had they been in the cave? Or how long had she been holding him and...?

She chose to answer the former. “You’ve been unconscious a long time.” She turned to pick up one of the rags she had used earlier to soak up water, suddenly wanting something to occupy her attention. And her hands. “Three or four days, I think.”

He winced, lifted his head, tried to get up.

“No, don’t,” she said, concern instantly replacing her other emotions. “You’re not ready for any kind of acrobatics just yet. Are you in pain?”

He lay down again, blinking as if to clear his vision. He flexed his left shoulder experimentally. “Not bad.”

Satisfied, she moved away from him, grateful for whatever distance she could get at the moment. Making her way over to the cavern wall on her knees, she repeated the now familiar, painstaking process of gathering water.

When she had enough to fill the cup halfway, she moved back to him. Supporting his head with her hand, she brought the cup to his lips.

He took a slurping, greedy swallow and almost choked.

“Slowly,” she cautioned. “Take it slowly.”

With a low sound of impatience, he drained the cup in seconds then lay back on the bunched-up sheet that pillowed his head. He looked exhausted merely from the effort of drinking. He closed his eyes.

And didn’t ask anything more.

She turned the battered goblet round and round in her fingers. “I took out the stitches and cauterized your wound to stop the bleeding,” she explained. “It’ll make an awful scar, but I didn’t think you’d mind. That is, you have so many.” She barely paused for a breath. “I’m afraid there’s no food left. And hardly any water. Just what I’ve been able to soak from the wall. And I had to use up all the candles. But I kept the fire going with some moss. I know it smells awful, but it burns slowly.”

She was babbling. Why was it suddenly important to fill up the silence with words?

Those dark lashes lifted and he gazed up at her, eyes gleaming darkly in the firelight. “You saved my life.”

He said it curtly, gruffly. No doubt because speaking taxed his strength—not because her saving him had made him feel any emotion. She found that too hard to believe.

Unsure how to respond, she simply nodded.

“Thanks, angel,” he murmured.

She blinked down at him, speechless. He had just expressed gratitude toward her. Gratitude.
Thanks
was not a word that had found its way to his lips before now.

And that one simple, mundane word, that expression of genuine human feeling, warmed her heart beyond reason.

“I think there’s a way out,” she said brightly. “Maybe just ahead. I saw a bird, a sparrow. It flew that way.” She gestured, turned to search the darkness. “The exit can’t be far. Maybe only a few yards...”

Turning back to him, she saw that he had fallen asleep again.

“... and here I am talking to myself like a fool.”

She blushed profusely. The word
fool
described perfectly how she felt. Somehow, between the time she had entered this cave and the moment he had awakened to gaze up at her with those jewel-bright eyes, she had been transformed into a flustered featherwit.