Forcing a sweet smile, I say, “I will be good, but could you please let me pee first?” It’s not a lie.
He shrugs, waving a hand. “Go ahead. Not the first time I’ve seen you piss yourself,” he cruelly retorts.
I refrain from any smart remarks and wrinkle my nose. “Oh, good grief, give me a little dignity and let me go behind that bush.” I gesture to the clump of brush nearby.
He cocks his head, smirking to one side. “I was under the impression you had no dignity left after I fucked your arse.”
“Rory, come on,” I opt for a different strategy. “Just give me a minute of privacy. It won’t take me long.”
He rolls his eyes and snorts. “Fine. Maybe you’ll accidentally wipe yourself with poison ivy.”
“You wish.” I grin.
“You run. I’ll chase, Firecracker.”
I retreat, flipping him off, hearing his close-mouthed chuckle. After hurrying behind the thick brush, I quickly do my business. I can see him about ten yards away. But I’m not running. Not yet.
Anxiety clogs my throat because I’ve been preparing. I couldn’t get the gold bar back, but Raphael doesn’t know Iburied another in the garden behind my cottage. I’ve managed to smuggle a few of my clothing items, hiding them deep in the hayloft.
When I leave, I’ll steal one of the horses since Vincent has been teaching me to ride—get as far away as I can, then go on foot to the nearest town. I’ll get the gold bar later.
Finished, I stand, tugging my skirt back down. I glance back through the branches. He’s still there, lounging against a tree like some smug, redheaded devil, idly flicking his belt against his leg. Prick. He probably wants to spank me first. Why does heat flood my cheeks and lower at the thought?
Stupid, dumb trauma bond—with the biggest and dumbest.
I’m about to head back when a soft rustle at my feet makes me freeze. I whip around, heart leaping into my throat, and there it is.
A skunk.
An actual black-and-white-striped skunk, tail arched, beady eyes locking on mine.
“Oh shit—” I gasp, stumbling back a step. It turns, lifts that fluffy tail, and I slap my hands over my face with a yelp, already bracing for the god-awful chemical death cloud about to hit me.
Nothing. Well—almost nothing. Instead, a tiny, high-pitched little fart squeaks out.
I blink, lowering my hands. What…?
The skunk turns back around, likewhat? You want more?And I swear I see the tiniest glimmer of smugness in its little eyes. But there’s no smell. No sharp sting in my nostrils. No stinging eyes.
Oh my god! Aww, the poor thing. He’s de-scented.
Someone either lost it or dumped it out here like trash. A de-scented skunk can’t survive in the wild: too friendly, too defenseless. Just like this little guy. Almost a baby, its body still small and soft, fur a little scruffy.
I crouch down, but the little guy starts to move away. Remembering what I have in my pocket, I dig into my skirt, fingers brushing the squished remains of a Fig Newton I stashed after breakfast. I peel it free and hold it out.
“Hey, little guy…you like figs?”
His tiny feet shuffle closer, lured by the sweet, syrupy scent. The skunk’s nose twitches, and a moment later, he sniffs eagerly before taking the bite from my hand.
“Bloody Christ, woman, did ye have a shite to do?”
I roll my eyes, but a wicked, perfect idea blooms. A grin curls up the corner of my mouth. “Come here, little stinker.” I stroke its fur, and it arches its back…similar to a cat.
After I give him the last of the fig Newtons, it stays, curious, trusting, nose twitching. Skunks are actually quite friendly, especially if they’ve been reared as a pet since birth. So, I scoop him up, and he settles against my chest like we’ve known each other for years.
“You and me, we’re about to have some fun,” I whisper.
I ease around the brush, cradling the skunk in one arm. “Oh, Rory!” I sing-song. “Look at what I found!”
