My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  "And what if they did? I've never heard that going barefoot could make someone less of a man."

  Especially not a man as magnificent as he, she thought with a shiver of longing so intense she was glad Jared had leaned over to wrench off his boots. How she envied the sea breeze rippling through his burnished hair, wishing it were her fingers; envied the sunlight caressing his face—

  "There. So much for my boots. Is there anything else we must divest ourselves of to enjoy our picnic?"

  Caught staring at him, Lindsay met his eyes to find his gaze drifting as brazenly over her. Blushing to her toes, she started out across the field without him, but he pursued her, catching up easily within a few strides.

  "The basket, Lindsay. Let me carry it."

  She handed it back to him and slowed her pace, unable to suppress a smile at how boyish he looked, his boots tucked under one arm and the basket tucked under the other. Again she was overcome by such yearning, such hope that it might be true—that she might mean something to him—that she knew she had to find out. And there was only one thing she could do, but not yet . . . not yet.

  Lindsay was grateful for the coolness of the grass beneath her feet, suddenly feeling so warm, so distracted, that she gasped when Jared nudged her arm.

  "Isn't that the spot over there? You walked right past it."

  Indeed she had. Lindsay felt twice as warm as she murmured her thanks and backtracked, delicate white and yellow wildflowers swishing against her legs. The day seemed not quite so carefree now for the import she'd given it, but she still made herself smile brightly as she whirled to face him, hoping she didn't appear nervous. She gestured with a dramatic flourish.

  "How about here, my lord?"

  "If the honeybees aren't vicious, I suppose we'll survive. Are you as fond of them, too?"

  "Of course," she said lightly, sinking down into the grass and folding her legs beneath her. "Bees and flowers go together—they don't frighten me."

  "I don't think much does," came his wry reply. Jared set the basket in front of her and then sprawled on his back, his boots thrust under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes, swiping at a thin stalk of grass tickling his ear. "Hmm, is this how picnics go? The gentleman sleeps while the lady readies the meal?"

  "I suppose, if the gentleman isn't hungry. Ifs usually been my experience that everyone helps themselves, because it's fun to see what's in the basket. Haven't you ever been on a picnic before?"

  She was surprised when he shook his head, then rolled onto his side and propped himself on one elbow, his eyes distant.

  "Never one like this. In Calcutta, picnics were grand, elaborate affairs all the English attended with their servants and silver plate and great tents spread over the lawn."

  "Sounds lovely."

  "Maybe. I don't know anymore, it was so long ago. Like a dream."

  Never having seen him so pensive before, Lindsay was tempted to ask him more about India, especially considering what Dag had said, and that Jared would talk about a place where he'd lived until three years ago as if he hadn't been there for ages. But she changed her mind when his expression grew hard, almost as if a shadow had passed across his face . . . and their picnic.

  "Shall we eat?" she offered softly, wondering what grim thoughts could have so suddenly darkened his mood. When he sat up without a word, she threw aside the linen napkin covering the basket with as exaggerated a flourish as she'd displayed moments ago, hoping to make him smile.

  He didn't, but, undaunted as before, she smiled at him and drew a small crock of fragrant Irish stew from the basket, placing it on the grass between them. "I hope the innkeeper thought to give us spoons. The poor woman was in a terrible tizzy. I told her I was in such a hurry, you were waiting for me outside—ah, here we are!"

  Handing him a spoon, she immediately dove hers into the thick lamb-based broth studded with pearly chunks of potatoes, her stomach grumbling so loudly she imagined they might hear it all the way out to where the Vengeance was anchored. Only when she popped the wonderful-tasting stuff into her mouth did she realize Jared was chuckling, which made her redden with chagrin. Yet she could hardly talk, her mouth was so full.

  "Sorry. I'm . . . I'm so hungry—"

  "Swallow first, then make your excuses," he said, amused, then dug into the stew as well.

  Lindsay couldn't help herself, enjoying several more heaping spoonfuls to soothe her long-denied stomach before she pulled out the rest of the basket's contents. A crusty round of bread, a creamy wedge of goat cheese and a tall corked bottle the gracious innkeeper had thrown in at the last moment.

  "Wild berry wine," she announced, producing two tin cups. "Last year's vintage, a bumper crop on the island, or so I was told. Will you honor us, sir?"

  Jared smiled and nodded, Lindsay glad to see he appeared to be enjoying himself again, which relieved her immensely. Deciding she wasn't going to touch the subject of India at all, at least not today, she tore off a generous hunk of bread and sprinkled one side with crumbly goat cheese while Jared poured the wine.

  "Do picnics always inspire such a hearty appetite?"

  Meeting his eyes, Lindsay could see that he was teasing, but her cheeks grew warm again anyway. "Actually, I made this one for you."

  "Ah. Then it's only right that we should share it."

  He set a brimming cup of wine in front of her and then accepted the bread, his fingers grazing hers making Lindsay feel as if her entire body were aflame. Suddenly she wasn't so hungry any longer, ignoring the torn half he offered her and reaching for her wine instead.

  "How is it?"

  She must have grimaced, the stuff more tangy than sweet, for he winced in empathy. Yet he raised a brow when she drained the cup, then sheepishly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  "Sorry. I was—"

  "Thirsty, I know." Smiling, he shrugged, then proceeded to drain his cup, too. His eyes were watering when he finished, his mouth pursed as if he'd bitten into a lemon, which made Lindsay laugh aloud when he tossed his cup back into the basket, clearly disgruntled.

  "A vintage year, you said? I'd hate to taste a bad year's bottling—either that or these Irish don't get off their island often enough to know what's bloody drinkable!"

  "Ah, but at least the stew was lovely, wasn't it?"

  "Lovely? That's a word I'd use to describe you, but a stew?"

  As if he hadn't realized what he'd said, Jared rolled back onto the ground, adjusting his boots higher under his head while he stretched his long, lean legs out in front of him. Meanwhile, Lindsay could only stare at him, her heart thundering, as he finished his bread, crumbled bits of goat cheese falling onto his chest.

  He brushed them away, but not all. Almost without realizing what she was doing, Lindsay moved to him, a startled look coming over his face when she reached out to brush away a last few crumbs.

  "I'm sorry, you missed . . ." She couldn't finish, his eyes darkening to such a vivid blue as he stared at her that her breath caught, too, and suddenly she knew that the moment had come. She had to know, she just had to, her heart in her throat as she leaned over and pressed her lips gently to his.

  At once Lindsay felt him tense, and she feared she'd been too brazen, too bold. But almost in the same instant she heard a low groan, Jared's arms encircling her to crush her fiercely against him, his fingers enmeshing in her hair.

  Joy overwhelming her, she thought no more, surrendering to a kiss that belonged to Jared now, not to her, not gentle but deep and dark and powerful, her hands fisting in his shirt when his tongue swept into her mouth. Wildly she clung to him, scarcely realizing he had rolled over and drawn her with him until she felt his weight atop her, pressing her into the grass, her arms flying around his neck to draw him closer still.

  "Oh, God, Lindsay . . ."

  His husky words against her lips like a prayer, she gave herself to him as surely in that moment as if he'd sworn his undying love, her hope soaring, the longing she had felt for him from the m
oment they'd waltzed together growing so intense, so searing, she thought she would shatter into a thousand aching pieces. And when he tore his lips suddenly from hers to stare into her eyes, her breath gone, her limbs weak and trembling, she knew, she knew. Yet she found she had voice only to whisper what she wanted to shout from the depths of her heart.

  "Oh, Jared, I love you. I love—"

  "Damnation, woman, enough!"

  He'd thrust himself off her before she could blink, Lindsay staring at him in shock as he rose and swept up his boots.

  "Get up. Get up now. We're going back to the village."

  Incredulous tears blinding her, she didn't think she'd ever heard him sound so harsh. Or seen him look so furious as he wrenched on his boots. Somehow she made herself rise shakily to her feet while he began to throw things back into the basket, the crock of stew, her tin cup. She winced at the sound of a bottle shattering, red berry wine seeping out onto the grass.

  "Jared—"

  "I said enough, Lindsay!"

  "But I don't understand. I know I mean something to you, just as—"

  "You mean nothing to me, woman! How many times must I tell you?"

  As his cruel shout echoed across the field, Lindsay almost sank to her knees in despair. "No, I don't believe that's the truth," she said hoarsely, unable to check the tears running down her face as Jared thrust her slippers into her hand. "I can't, I won't."

  He sighed then, so raggedly, turning his face to the sea, that Lindsay felt once more the slimmest ray of hope. But his voice was so cold, so hollow, that the tiny flicker seemed to freeze in her heart.

  "Someday you will find someone to love you—someone who'll care for you and never let you go. But it can't be me. It will never be me."

  "But you kissed me. If you don't care, then why . . . ?"

  He laughed brittlely, his expression hard as stone when he turned back to face her. "Still naïve, too, and as reckless. Maybe after today you might be better able to discern the difference between lust and love. I'm a man, Lindsay, like any other. You're a beautiful young woman. If you've imagined something on my part, then I'm sorry, but I don't love you."

  He looked away, grabbing up the basket, but she scarcely noticed, as numb as if her heart had been torn from her breast, no feelings left inside her. The only thing that stung badly was her arm, the exertions of the day obviously too much, too soon for her.

  Wincing, she glanced down at her right sleeve, not surprised to see a small bloodstain there, her wound seeping. Jared saw it, too, and he came up beside her, but she brushed past him and began to retrace their path across the field. He didn't bother to pursue her this time, yet she knew he was behind her, probably thinking what a foolish twit she was, so ridiculously romantic to have fallen in love with a pirate.

  Reaching the winding lane, Lindsay faltered; to return to the village made little sense to her. Without meeting Jared's eyes, she glanced toward the distant beach, where the two sailors who'd rowed her and Walker to shore sat waiting for them beneath a stubby tree.

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to go back to the ship. To lie down—"

  "You can lie down at the inn. Come."

  Jared's face inscrutable, she couldn't fathom what he had meant, the walk to the village unbearable compared with how wondrous everything had seemed when they'd left. Wondrous and lighthearted and so full of promise

  "So you're back. Enjoy your picnic?"

  Walker was striding from the inn to greet them. His grin faded when Lindsay gave no reply, Jared steering her past the American to the door.

  "What happened to the wench?"

  "The wench . . . ? Oh, yes, the wench. She had a father—an old bugger, really, but he had a pistol. He thought it best I wait for you at the inn."

  "Wise man."

  Wondering how Jared could make sport with Walker after what had just happened, Lindsay felt her heart sink even lower, for everything he'd said must have been true. Fresh tears burning her eyes, she didn't bother to turn around when Walker cleared his throat, his voice oddly strained.

  "I'll wait for you on the beach, Jared. Good-bye, Lindsay. Godspeed."

  "Good-bye?" She tried to face Walker, but Jared pushed her through the door, Cowan and the three other sailors from the ship all rising as they entered, as well as two russet-haired young men she didn't recognize. Intuition suddenly gripping her, she stopped, her gaze flying to Jared's face, her voice gone hoarse. "Good-bye?"

  His nod brought reality crashing in upon her. Lindsay glanced wildly at the two strangers who came forward, their eyes roaming over her as if taking in every aspect of her garb not half so jarring as Jared's sudden switch to a bold American accent.

  "These are the Killigrew brothers, Ian and Michael. They'll be escorting you back to England."

  Chapter 24

  "Back . . . back to England?"

  Jared had to steel himself against the anguish in Lindsay's voice, his own as harsh as he could make it.

  "You've nothing to fear, it's all been arranged. You'll be back in London with your aunt Winifred within a week. You'll have to stretch to come up with a good story, but pleading amnesia might suffice. As for your wound" —he shrugged, doing his best not to show any concern that it had bled again— "a sorry scrape. Good-bye, Lindsay."

  Her eyes so stricken he couldn't wait to leave the inn, Jared dumped the picnic basket on a table and cast a last glance at the men he'd hired to do the job. "Take care with her. Don't doubt that I'll find you if anything goes awry."

  "Awry?" echoed the taller Irishman as if affronted. "What could go awry? For the gold you've paid my brother and me, we'd take her to Russia to visit the Czar!"

  The fellow's coarse loudness grated on Jared without his knowing why, but he did know there were no other men in the village to do the job. All but the old of the male inhabitants were out on the water for at least another few weeks, trying to fill their boats with herring, fishermen every one. And he wanted nothing more than to be out of there, with Lindsay not moving, not speaking, as if she'd turned to stone.

  Yet she wasn't stone, the tears trickling down her cheeks finally sending him out the door, a grim-faced Cowan and the others silently filing after him. He didn't look back, telling himself fiercely, as he'd done all day, that it was for the best. Blast it to hell, it was for the best!

  ***

  "Come on, miss, we've the tide to catch."

  Lindsay didn't answer, her eyes upon the door through which Jared and his men had just disappeared. He had left her. He had truly left her

  "Didn't you hear Ian?" the tall Irishman shouted at her, making her jump. "If we don't catch the tide, we'll be stuck here the night, and we've a mind to reach the mainland before dark. So move or I'll spur you along myself!"

  "Here, now, what's all this wild ranting?"

  It was the innkeeper clumping down the steps from upstairs. Lindsay cast a bleak glance at the kindly-faced woman while she was nudged none too gently toward the door by the Irishman named Michael.

  "Nothing to worry your head over, Mrs. Tully, nothing at all," Lindsay's rough-mannered escort hastily explained, Ian following close after them.

  "No, no, just a minute," the woman demanded, a frown creasing her forehead. "Are you leaving with these two, miss? What happened to your friends? What about your picnic?"

  "The . . . the basket's over there," Lindsay managed to murmur before she was rudely interrupted, Ian piping up.

  "Uh, we're escorting her about the village—while her friends tend to something on their ship. That American captain even gave us a gold bit to entertain her—"

  "A gold bit to the likes of the Killigrew brothers? You shiftless pair, then out with you and earn it and take care with the young lady. You might show her our lovely little church—"

  "Oh, aye, the church. Of course, Mrs. Tully, what a fine suggestion!" agreed Michael, Lindsay grimacing as he pulled her out the door by her injured arm. Only when they were well away from the inn did he spit upon the groun
d and mutter, "Nosy old hag—the church indeed. I'd rather burn it to the ground than step foot in the place."

  Apprehension building inside her as Ian grabbed her other arm, the two Irishmen hurrying her down a path leading to a pebbly beach not far from the village, Lindsay felt the numbing daze that had gripped her slowly lifting.

  Dear Lord, what sort of miscreants had Jared entrusted her to? The innkeeper, Mrs. Tully, had seemed appalled that she shared their company. Hadn't the woman called them a shiftless pair?

  "Watch your step, now, pretty lady," came Michael's gruff command as he handed her off to Ian, who'd already jumped into a large, battered rowboat. The next thing Lindsay knew, she was shoved roughly onto a seat in the prow; then the brothers each grabbed a pair of oars and pushed off from the beach.

  "She is a pretty lady, now, isn't she?" Ian said in a silky tone that sent chills plummeting down Lindsay's spine. "She must be special to be worth so much gold, wouldn't you say, Michael?"

  "Aye, special indeed."

  Not liking the way the two men were looking at her as their powerful rowing carried the boat into deeper water, Lindsay decided it was wisest to ignore them. She glanced over her shoulder, a terrible ache welling inside her at the sight of the Vengeance anchored off in the distance. At least she thought it was anchored until she saw the white sails unfurling. Fresh tears clouded her eyes.

  They were leaving the island . . . leaving her behind. Clearly, Jared had decided not to waste any time—

  "I've an idea, Michael."

  She met Ian's eyes, narrow green eyes like a snake's, as he lifted a hand briefly from an oar to brush a shock of reddish-brown hair from his ruddy face. He wasn't merely looking at her anymore but was openly leering, his gaze falling to her breasts.

  "I say when we get to the mainland we find a cozy place to spend the night, the devil with finding a coach straightaway. We'll find a cozy place . . . and get to know our lovely English miss a bit better."

  "Are you mad?" she demanded shakily, not liking at all how both men were ogling her now. "You heard the captain—you're to take good care of me or he'll find you and—"