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He ignored the fear in her voice and shoved the piece of meat back into her hands, saying, “Eat up, Ms. McGregor, you’re gonna need your strength. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”
Her face turned slightly toward him, revealing a rather stunning profile. He didn’t fancy the pale complexions of the female species, regardless of the fashion trend, preferring his with a little color. If Ivy McGregor had just one ounce of color to her cheeks, hell, she might be one hell of a looker.
“May I have some water?”
Sam nodded, reached for the canteen and tossed it to her.
“Will we be leaving shortly?” she asked after taking a long swallow.
“Nope,” he said, throwing a piece of wood into the fire and fueling the flames to emphasize his point. “Getting late. It’ll be dark soon.”
Nodding, she glanced at the rabbit leg he had given her, then absently began to eat. Sam sat back and watched her. She ate with small little bites, chewing the morsel thoroughly with her mouth closed before swallowing it altogether then taking another bite. Like some refined lady.
Except, she most definitely was no lady. Upstairs maid, more like it, if he recalled correctly. But there was something about her, be it in her erect posture or the manner in which she ate, that reminded him of one.
“Where did you get the scars?” He was surprised to hear himself ask. He didn’t really want to know. Didn’t care. But he sat there waiting for her answer nevertheless.
The only sign she acknowledged his words, was the slightest turning of her profile, otherwise, she ignored him.
Sam shrugged carelessly. What did it matter to him anyways? He already knew the woman was a conniving criminal. He needed no other proof. Yet, for some odd reason, needed to hear her admit she had spent time in a prison.
He continued to watch her, waiting for her to say something. Anything. Still she remained silent. Hell, he couldn’t shut her up yesterday. He frowned and studied her closer. Was she hatching up some great escape plan? Now that she had her strength back, was she planning on making her get away?
“Ever lived out in the wilderness before?”
No reply.
“Ever lived off the land? Survived in the open without any sign of civilization for miles?”
Again, silence.
“Go so hungry for days, the site of your own flesh looks appetizing?”
Her eyes shifted, but she made no comment.
“Stare into the jaws of a grizzly or trapped into a corner by a pack of snarling wolves?”
“Are ye trying to frighten me, Mr. Michalski?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, spitting a tough piece of tobacco into the fire. “Warn ya, is all.”
She turned then and looked him fully in the eye, but offered no words.
“In case you’d be thinking of making a run for it,” he told her.
She held his gaze, her eyes blank, not giving away any of her internal thoughts. Something Sam had mastered many years ago. Though with his prisoners, he usually found they were an emotional lot. It was his opinion others had it wrong. They always assumed killers were heartless, unemotional beings. Way Sam saw it, they were overly emotional. Unable to withhold their feelings and ending up acting upon them. Made him wonder why there weren’t actually more female criminals.
His eyes slid to the one sitting in front of his fire now. For some reason, she had trained herself to retain her emotions. Which didn’t match the crime she committed. Any woman who bludgeoned her lover’s skull umpteen times before finally taking him out of his misery, was an emotional volcano.
On their own accord, his thoughts drifted back to the scars on her back. Why his mind kept wondering about them, he wasn’t certain. Oddly, they nagged his conscience. Something not right about a woman being whipped. Even one as cruel as Ivy McGregor. Fact was, she was so damn frail looking, he would have thought she’d snap with just one blow.
* * *
Ivy felt the first drops of rain before she heard the low rumbling of thunder in the distance. Great. She had finally begun to feel warm. She did not look forward to getting wet. The rain had a nasty way of getting into her bones. Shivering, she pulled her cloak closer and tried to burrow into the little bit of warmth it provided. Unconsciously, her eyes drifted to Sam’s coat lying discarded on the ground next to him. She would never admit it out loud, but she missed its warmth.
As if reading her thoughts, his hand reached out and snatched up the coat. “Best get inside before it starts coming down in sheets.”
He leaped to his feet, gathered a handful of kindling and lit it from the fire, then turned and headed for the shelter hardly big enough to house Ivy, let alone a man of his size.
