A Reckless Runaway

by Michaels, Jess

  It was just the tiniest release of tension, of anger, of heartbreak, of humiliation. And she wanted to clear the room of everything, smashing it all as she screamed out the tangle of feelings that resided in her chest.

  Instead, she turned and looked back at Rook. If she expected anger as his response, she was surprised. He was grinning. She’d never seen him show anything but the barest hint of a smile and her breath caught. He was…beautiful. Not as obvious and showy as his cousin, with his perfectly straight teeth and dimple, but Rook’s smile was better. It was a little crooked, but it was bright, and made his face shine and look years younger.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, trying to find words and breath again.

  He cocked his head. “Why? That was a good show, I think. Although I don’t have the blunt to afford much more of it.”

  She shook her head at her outburst and rushed toward the shards of glass and broken wood in the corner of the bedroom, but before she could reach them, he caught her wrist.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t touched her since the first night they’d arrived, when he’d helped her from the boat. Now his strong, tanned fingers closed around her flesh and her heart rate leapt. She couldn’t help but picture those hands somewhere else.

  Like slipping beneath his blanket as they had the night before. When he’d touched himself as she secretly watched from the bedroom behind him, her legs clenching and wet heat pooling between them. How many times had she touched herself since, burying her head in her pillow so he wouldn’t hear her?

  He drew back instantly, his bright smile fading a fraction as his dark gaze grew stormy. “Come on, I have a better idea.”

  He walked away and she followed in foggy confusion. He moved to the door, where he stopped and slung his greatcoat over his shoulders. At last he looked back at her.

  “Do you have a wrap of any kind in that suitcase you half-packed?”

  “Just the one I had the first night,” she said. “It won’t be very useful against the rain.”

  “No,” he agreed. He pointed at her to stay where she was and went into the chamber she’d been occupying. She heard him going through his wardrobe, and then he returned with a woolen jumper in hand. One that seemed to be made to fit her perfectly.

  “It’s a bit tiny, for you anyway,” she said, tilting her head at him as she tried to ignore the flash of jealousy at the idea of just who might have owned that jumper originally.

  He smiled, an echo of the wide grin from earlier and once again her stomach clenched of its own accord. “It used to be bigger,” he admitted. “When I was first left to my own devices, I didn’t realize you couldn’t wash wool the same way you do other things.”

  “You can’t?” she repeated. “I suppose I never thought of it.”

  “Why would you?” he asked, and then handed over the sweater. “It ought to fit you fine, though. Keep you warm in the rain anyway. And for your head…”

  He trailed off and caught up a wide, floppy-brimmed hat from the coat rack. He popped it onto her head and laughed as it drooped over her eyes, blocking her vision for a moment. She felt him step closer in the dimness and then his fingers brushed the brim back, stroking across her forehead as he did so.

  She looked up at him. They were very close now. So close that she forgot everything but him for a brief, dangerous moment. Then she swallowed.

  “You—you aren’t casting me out to sea, are you?” she asked, hoping the quip would lighten the mood. “For crimes against timepieces?”

  “I wouldn’t do that while you were wearing my favorite hat,” he promised, and then stepped into the misting rain outside. “Come on.”

  She followed him, pushing the hat back as they went so she could see the trail he cut across the island. He took her toward his workshop, the one she hadn’t yet asked him about, and she caught her breath. But they didn’t go in. He moved her past the place, into a small circle of trees. One of them had a target painted on it, worn and full of holes.

  “Archery?” she asked.

  He scoffed. “Archery is for children. Better than that. I’ll be right back.”

  She watched as he moved into the workshop and returned a moment later with a folded rectangle of leather in his hands. When he reached her, he opened it and revealed a set of six knives, gleaming even in the rainy, filtered light. The blades weren’t like a cutting or carving knife, but pointed to a sharp edge with perfectly symmetrical sides. The handles were ivory, intricately carved with the faces of men or the sultry naked bodies of women.

  She blushed and glanced up at him. “Knives?” she asked. “What am I to do with them? Stab out my rage?”

  “Something like it.” He set the leather holder into her hands and then withdrew one of the knives. The handle had a smiling face on it, long and drawn out and a combination of silly and sinister.

  Without speaking, he pivoted and flicked his wrist, releasing the knife to go circling through the air where it stuck into the middle of the target with a satisfying chunk of sound around them.

  Her lips parted and she stared from him to the target in awe. “I—how did you do that?”

  “Years of practice, darlin’, just like anything you want to do right.”

  She dipped her head at the suddenly flirtatious tone of his voice. That rough quality of it, the way he called her by an endearment, it sank into her skin and made her hate herself all the more. Made her hate whatever thing was inside of her that caused her to feel this wicked way.

  And also made her want more of it. More of the tingle that worked through her body. More of that dizziness that made her hands shake.

  He cleared his throat and his voice was normal again as he said, “It’s the best way to get out some aggression, at least for me. You throw now.”

  She stared up at him, shock erasing the other feelings in an instant. “Throw the knives? I couldn’t. It’s not—it’s not ladylike.”

  His brow wrinkled. “And hurtling innocent clocks across a room is?”

  She pursed her lips. “The clock wasn’t so very innocent.”

  He flashed a smile at her quip. “So the clock had it coming. If you say that’s true, then I accept that. But you aren’t in a ballroom, Anne. You’re on my island, alone with me. I don’t give a tinker’s damn if you’re ladylike.”

  “I won’t be any good at it,” she tried, staring at the knives with a longing she didn’t understand. “And they’re beautiful pieces. I-I wouldn’t want to ruin them.”

  He shrugged. “That’s why I brought the cheap ones for you.”

  He reached inside his coat pocket and drew out a flimsy fabric rectangle of the same size as the leather one she still held. The knives within it were certainly not so fine. And judging from the nicks along the handles and scratches on the blades, they had been well used.

  “Try it,” he insisted. “Unless you’re afraid.”

  She straightened her spine at his taunt, hating that he’d probably done it to force her hand and she’d fallen for it. “Fine,” she ground out. “But I can’t do it while I’m holding these.”

  He bowed his head and took the finer set back. He found a stump and set the cheaper set on it, the blades flecked with water droplets from the rain. “Just look at them a moment. Don’t throw anything yet.”

  She nodded and watched him rather than the blades as he went to the tree and pulled the knife from its trunk in a smooth motion. He wiped it clean on his coat, then wrapped the carved blades up in the leather and placed them in his inside pocket.

  “How do you do it?” she asked.

  He drew two knives from the holster and handed one over as he stepped up beside her. She was very aware of his size, of his warmth as he positioned the knife in his hand. His long index finger rested on the top of the handle almost all the way to where the metal blade began.

  “Keep a loose grip while still holding it,” he said, watching as she curved her fingers in a similar way. “Then you arch back and release right about
here.”

  He flicked his wrist as he had the first time, and the knife flew from his hand and chunked into the target again.

  She nodded, though she’d been more mesmerized by the movement of the knife than the position he’d been trying to show her. Still, she flicked her wrist in some facsimile of what he’d done and the knife flew and ricocheted off the tree to land on the ground before it.

  She shook her head. “I told you I’d be rubbish at it.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve thrown a knife, I’d wager,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “The fact that you hit the tree at all is an accomplishment in itself. Here, let me help you.”

  He snatched up another blade and handed it to her, then slid behind her. His fingers closed on her hip and her breath hitched at the pressure of every digit against her body. No matter how much she tried to tell herself it was no different than a man holding her like this while they were dancing, it felt different.

  “Shift your weight forward on that foot,” he said, his voice close to her ear.

  She swallowed hard and tried to focus on his words and not his presence as she did as he asked. His hand slid upward slightly and he pressed against her body gently.

  “And now pivot a little so you’re in a more angled position. Yes.” He nodded and his hand left her side, leaving her both relieved and bereft. He moved it to her fingers, though. She wore no gloves, nor did he, and she stared at his big hand engulfing her own. “Move your finger, loosen the grip just a touch.”

  He stepped away at last and off to the side so he wasn’t directly behind her anymore. “When you’re ready, take a deep breath and throw again.”

  She bit her tongue. Take a deep breath? She couldn’t even find a shallow one thanks to this frustrating, interesting, mysterious man. But she did her best, focused on the target and threw a second time.

  The knife hit the trunk again, but bounced off a second time. This time it made a different sound, though, and he let out a whoop. “Excellent! That one almost stuck. Here, let’s adjust a bit more.”

  She held her breath as he urged her forward half a step and went about some movements around her body to put her into a better position. Every time he touched her, she could feel each nerve ending of her body. And it seemed to do nothing for him. He didn’t even seem to notice that air was thick and she couldn’t speak.

  Was she doomed to want men who didn’t want her back? What was wrong with her?

  “Anne?”

  She shook away the thoughts and let the knife loose again. This time it stuck, just for a moment, and then it fell downward.

  “Good!” he shouted. “Here’s another. This time throw it harder. Throw it angry. Throw it like you threw the clock.”

  She glanced at him. “Rook—”

  “If you’re going to tell me it isn’t ladylike to rage against that tree, I swear to you I will scream the house down,” he grunted. “Think about my cousin, for God’s sake. Think about whatever made you run away with him. Think about whatever isn’t fair in this world that makes you lay awake at night staring at the ceiling. Feel the damned anger, Anne. Feel it and then let it go on the blade of that knife.”

  Her lips parted at that surprisingly passionate order. And at the way her stomach clenched in response. Then she flicked the knife with a guttural cry that came all the way from her soul.

  It chunked into the wood and stuck there. Six inches below the target, but it stuck.

  She whooped just as she had when she found her first clam and he joined her. She jumped up and down before she launched herself at him without thinking. He caught her, spinning her in a circle as he held her tight against his chest. She clenched her fists against his back, turning her cheek against his shoulder.

  He set her down but didn’t release her from his embrace. When she dared to look up at him, she found him looking back at her, his pupils dilated and his stare intent on her lips. He cleared his throat and stepped away.

  “Good show, Anne,” he muttered, his voice gruff. He turned his back on her and went to collect all the knives. “Very well done.”

  She smoothed her skirt with both hands, trying to force her heart rate back to normal. It was almost impossible to do when she could still feel his remarkably strong arms around her.

  He handed over one knife, then sat down on the stump and put the rest in his lap. She positioned herself as he’d shown her and threw again. The knife stuck, higher than the target this time, but she still felt the thrill of accomplishment that was unlike any other she’d ever experienced.

  He was quiet as he handed over another knife and let her throw again. This one didn’t stick, and she grunted her disappointment as she adjusted herself slightly and took a third knife from him.

  “So,” he said as she prepared to throw again. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  She froze, her hand angled back. She knew what he was asking, but she shrugged. “I didn’t release at the right time.”

  She threw again and missed again, distracted by his questions. He let her take another knife, his dark gaze following her as she did so. He didn’t press until she’d thrown again and this time the knife stuck in the outer edges of the target.

  “Good shot,” he encouraged. “But you know I wasn’t asking about the knives.”

  She sighed as she took another knife and avoided his gaze. She positioned herself carefully. “You mean what happened between me and Ellis?”

  She threw and hit next to the other knife in the outer circle of the target. She shook out her arm, flexing her fingers before she turned. He was holding the last knife of the set out to her by the blade, his dark gaze focused on her own. She took the handle carefully and only then did he nod.

  “If you want to tell me about it.”

  She pivoted away, heat suffusing her cheeks. Did she want to tell him? There was part of her that didn’t. Didn’t want to reveal what a fool she’d been. Didn’t want to say out loud, especially to this man, what she’d done and allowed and fallen for like a fool.

  And yet there was also part of her that desperately needed to confide in someone. Since meeting Ellis, she’d kept everything close to her chest. She hadn’t told her sisters about her feelings, about her plans. She hadn’t told her maid. She’d locked everything away and now it all boiled inside of her, ready to explode with the pressure silence had created.

  She cleared her throat and tried to line up her shot to hit on the more inner circles of the target. If she started talking, she knew what would happen. She would spill everything to this man. This stranger who didn’t feel like one anymore. This confusion personified who made her so much more aware of her apparent weaknesses when it came to her heart and her body.

  But then, perhaps that was what was meant to be. She threw the knife and watched it bounce off the tree. Then she turned to look at him as he rose from the stump in a smooth unfolding of muscle.

  “I was supposed to marry someone else,” she said. “That was how it all began.”

  Chapter 7

  Rook tried to keep his reaction from his face as he walked past Anne and gathered the knives. He certainly didn’t want her to see what those words engendered in him. The jealousy he never should have felt that was now multiplied by two. Jealousy of Ellis. Jealousy of this nameless man who’d been her intended.

  He drew a breath as he picked up the knives on the ground and pulled the three she’d stuck in the tree. She was a natural. Watching her perform made the need that rose in him all the more powerful. But he pushed that aside as he returned to her to hand over a knife. Her face was drawn down, she refused to look at him and he hated that. He had to act naturally so she would do the same.

  “Adjust your weight on your left foot a bit more. Release when your hand is just starting to come down. It’s like you’re just letting go, not trying too hard,” he said.

  She nodded and put herself back in position. As she lined up her shot, he drew in a deep breath and said, “Who was he?
The man you were supposed to marry?”

  She released the knife and it bounced off the tree with a ding of metal on wood. She huffed out her breath in frustration and remained with her back to him. “Just an earl like a dozen other earls. My father wanted the connection. It’s all he’s ever cared about, furthering himself through us. Me and my sisters.”

  Rook nodded. So she had sisters. “How many?”

  “Sisters?” she asked, turning back. Now she had a faint smile on her face. “Two. We’re…we’re a bit of an anomaly, I suppose. We’re triplets.”

  Rook lifted both brows. That was a rarity—most multiple births didn’t result in happy endings for mother or children. “Truly?”

  She nodded. “The exertion nearly killed our mother.” She frowned. “And later did, when my father insisted she try again for a son. His damned son. She didn’t survive the pregnancy and neither did the baby.”

  Rook dipped his head, thinking of his own mother, lost through an illness that had taken her when he was just six. A moment that had changed his life forever. A moment that had put him in the path of his cousin, who was already living a wild, unchaperoned life on the street at the ripe old age of ten.

  “My father wanted his prize and the earl needed my dowry,” she continued, bringing Rook back from the dark memories that clouded his mind. “So the marriage was arranged. I had never met the man. I wasn’t particularly impressed once I did.”

  Rook frowned. This was the way of the world, of course, especially the way of the rich, but it had always troubled him that women could be so easily forced into situations they did not desire. “You couldn’t convince your father to reconsider?”

  She snorted a rather unladylike laugh and threw the knife. It hit the dead center of the target and stuck there for a brief moment before it fell. She pivoted to face him, eyes wide with shock and accomplishment.