Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1)

by Shelly Thacker

  She pressed her fingers against his wrist…but felt only the slightest trace of a pulse.

  Shaking her head in denial, she took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his broad, callused palm.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  But there was no response. None. He had given up his grasp on this world, and she was powerless to hold him here.

  Clenching her jaw, she echoed what he had shouted at her in the whirlpool. “Damn it, don’t you give up on me now!”

  But it was too late. He had surrendered. She could feel the fever taking him. For days, she had resisted despair, enduring to the limits of her endurance and beyond…only to have it come to this.

  Death. Slow, silent death in the darkness.

  Her tears began to fall, sliding down her cheeks. He had given up his will to fight…and extinguished hers. She slumped over, still holding his hand, barely aware when her forehead came to rest against his rib cage. She closed her eyes and let the tears cascade down her skin and down his, let the hot, choking sobs take her.

  The depth of her sorrow stunned her…because she was not only crying for herself, for fear of her own fate.

  She was crying for him.

  Him.

  She didn’t even know his name. She tried to stop the flood of emotions. And failed, utterly. As she had failed at all the rest.

  Her feelings for him made no sense. He was an outlaw, an unpredictable scoundrel. A man who had come into her life like a thunderbolt straight out of a storm cloud, startling and dangerous. But she could no longer dismiss what she felt for him as simple gratitude or respect. She knew better now.

  She knew him better now.

  Far better than she had when they entered the cave three or four days ago.

  He had been delirious for hours, calling out in pain, thrashing until she had to hold him down, afraid he would injure himself further. For much of that time, he had been talking, calling out names, cursing, uttering gibberish…

  And sometimes speaking quite clearly.

  Speaking of things so chilling, she could only hope he was hallucinating.

  But she didn’t think he was.

  Sam pushed herself up to her knees, wiping at her damp cheeks, gazing down at the brand on his chest. Before, she had been curious about his past.

  Now she almost wished she didn’t know.

  Because between his fevered ramblings and the little she did know about him, she had managed to piece together a wrenching picture of his childhood.

  In his delirium, he had cried out “Father” several times, and spoken of a rope. A scaffold. He had stared into the darkness as if watching it all unfold before his eyes—an execution.

  His father’s execution. He had been forced to watch his father hanged for some offense.

  And that was when he had been consigned to the prison hulk.

  Sam looked down at him, still holding his hand, unable to make herself let go. Seeing him now, with his full beard and broad chest and chiseled muscles, it was hard to imagine him as a boy.

  But she could imagine how he had felt. Fresh tears slipped from her lashes as she thought of a small boy with bright green eyes—orphaned, alone, terrified. Sentenced to a fate that must have been a living death. Jailed for a crime not his own, lost among strangers. Beaten and lashed and tormented for God knew how many years.

  She didn’t understand how he had escaped the prison hulk or what had happened to him after that. She had only been able to puzzle out fragments of his fevered ramblings. It seemed bitterly ironic to know more about who he had been, decades ago, than about who he was now.

  But was it any wonder he had become a hardened man, hostile and sarcastic and cold toward a world that had treated him so coldly?

  She finally let go of his hand, bitterness and regret rising in her chest. She would never know anything more about him. He had come into her life a stranger, less than a week ago.

  And he would die a stranger.

  Kneeling at his side in the silent cave, listening to what could be his last breaths, she tried to find some shred of courage or wisdom or hope that could help him.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, God, help me.” Clenching her fists, she lifted her head, staring desperately up into the dark. “Help us.”

  The fire chose that moment to flicker out, leaving her in complete blackness.

  There was no sound but the liquid drip of water down the cave wall. And the labored, tenuous breathing of her companion.

  All at once, her desperation and sorrow gave way, burned to ashes by a new emotion. Perhaps it came simply from the feeling of her own nails digging into her palms, but a tide of raw determination poured through her.

  “No,” she shouted at the man she could no longer see, stubborn enough for both of them. “No, you can’t quit! Not now. Not after all we’ve come through. I won’t let you!”

  She would not admit defeat. Not as long as there was breath left in his body and a heart beating in his chest.

  Turning, she felt for the rag she had been using earlier and crawled on her hands and knees over to the cave wall, pressing the cloth to the trickle of water. As soon as it was wet, she moved back to his side and started bathing him again, sweeping the damp cloth over his chest, his arms, his face. Cooling him as best she could. Trying to return life to his battered body.

  They had endured worse than this—both of them. Somehow they would survive this as well.

  Together, they would survive.

  “I am not going to give up on you,” she said fiercely. “Do you hear me? I am not going to give up!”

  She shouted it so loud, her own words echoed back to her from the depths of the cavern.

  I am not going to give up…not going to give up…not going to give up.

  A flutter of wings passed overhead, close enough to brush her cheek.

  Startled awake, Sam sat up, heart pounding. What was that? Had it been a dream? Disoriented, blinking, she rubbed her eyes.

  The cave was silent, empty.

  She must have been dreaming, must’ve fallen into an exhausted sleep…though it couldn’t have been for long. The glow of a fire still shimmered in the biscuit tin. Earlier, she had gathered some moss from the cave walls, scraping it off with the knife, in the hopes that it might burn. It had not only burned, but it burned slowly. It gave off an unpleasant, sour odor, but at least it provided some light, however meager.

  Fully awake now, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she turned to look down at the man beside her, reached out to touch his forehead.

  And found his skin no longer ablaze beneath her fingers.

  She started to smile in relief, but as she bent over to study him more closely, she realized he was still deathly pale, his breathing shallow and unsteady. And his pulse…

  Pressing her fingers to his neck, she could feel it, but just barely.

  The fever had finally broken.

  He made a low sound, a weak groan. She almost shouted with joy. A sound was a sound, a sign of life, no matter how faint.

  Then a shudder went through him, followed by another. He began shivering, as if he were cold, freezing.

  And her spirits fell almost as quickly as they had lifted. For days she had battled against the fever that had threatened to burn him alive, and now it seemed he might freeze to death instead. Her meager fire would not heat him any more than the candle had. Nor did she have any blankets. And the thin cotton sheet would be useless. The only way she could keep him warm would be to…

  She moved away from him, instinctively. The idea of his almost-naked body pressed against hers—

  The chain brought her up short. She couldn’t get away from him, from what he needed.

  Or from the fear that had been indelibly marked on her heart when she was sixteen.

  She had seen the hunger in his eyes. Knew that he wanted her, the way a man wanted a woman. Whenever he had looked at her that way, she had ignored it. Changed the subject. Brushed him
aside with an icy glare or some haughty comment. That hunger in his eyes made it impossible for her to trust him.

  He groaned again, the sound so pitiful, filled with pain.

  Sam was torn between the need to help him and the caution that had been her shield, her protection for so many years.

  But he would not survive without her help. She could not turn away from him. And for heaven’s sake, he was unconscious! Wounded. Ravaged by days of fever.

  She breathed deeply, tried to slow her racing heart. 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 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 mat of dark hair, bristly against her cheek.

  And the brand.

  And she did not dare close her eyes.

  Floating. 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. 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 che
st 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 in 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 rogue. The scoundrel! 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.