Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel)

chapter 19




“No.”

His curt reply seemed to take her completely by surprise. She stared at him in confusion, the warmth slowly melting from her expression. “But—”

“No,” he repeated more forcefully. “No, I don’t care to tell you the truth. Do I need to make it any clearer for you?” He untangled himself from her, stood up, wanted to walk away.

And hated that he couldn’t. The chain pulled taut before he moved two paces.

He couldn’t move. Trapped, he went still, left with no outlet for the anger coursing through him, the disbelief. He had told her. Damn him, he had told her about his past—not all of it, but far too much. He stood in the shadows, breathing hard, unable to even look at her.

What a tale she had spun from the few strands that she knew! Hellfire and damnation. She thought he was some kind of bloody naval hero? Him?

She thought he was the innocent one, that his father had been guilty of a terrible crime?

She was so naive, so eager to believe the best about him—when the truth was completely the opposite.

The truth was that his father had been an innocent man wrongly accused.

While he, Nicholas Brogan, had committed terrible crimes that could never be forgiven—had spent fourteen years in a mindless quest for vengeance. Spilled an ocean of blood. Heedlessly hacked down whoever stood between him and his quarry.

Including a child. He had taken the life of a child.

He shut his eyes, clenching his fists, choked by guilt. How would that compare to her image of him as some kind of noble navy captain?

He didn’t have to guess. He knew that a woman as gentle and innocent as Samantha would never be able to forgive such a senseless act of violence.

“Nick.” She sounded as if he’d knocked the breath from her. “I don’t understand. After all we’ve shared... after...” She struggled to speak. “You still don’t trust me?”

He could not make himself face her. “The less you know, the better off you are,” he said tersely.

“But I thought... I thought you...”

He turned. “What?” he snapped.

She gazed up at him, looking perplexed, mystified.

Hurt.

He knew what she wanted to say. I thought you cared. The word was like a knife in his gut, and she hadn’t even said it aloud.

She couldn’t possibly understand. And he couldn’t make her understand. A man like him couldn’t care. Not about her, not about anyone. The crimes he had committed all those years ago had doomed him forever. Sentenced him to a life of secrecy.

A life alone.

For a few idiotic, reckless moments, he had forgotten that. Had allowed himself to entertain the idea of being a man like other men, with softness and tenderness in his life. The softness and tenderness that only a woman could offer. One special woman.

But there was no way to change what he was—a pirate with years of sin branded on his soul.

He had made his choice when he was barely more than a boy, with no thought for the future, no concern but vengeance. And never had he regretted it.

Until now.

“Nick,” she whispered, her eyes full of pain.

“Don’t,” he bit out. “Don’t ask questions you don’t really want answered, Samantha. And trust me,” he added darkly, “you don’t want that one answered.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I can’t explain it to you.”

“You mean you won’t.”

He turned away. How the hell had this gotten so complicated? Once, he had intended to take his pleasure of her and take his leave. Then he had thought to merely initiate her into the pleasures of her passion and again simply walk away.

But she had made mincemeat of all his intentions. This lady possessed the most unfathomable ability to befuddle his mind and blast his motives to dust. He couldn’t simply shrug her off as he had every other female who had shared his bed.

But he had to walk away from her. He had to. He couldn’t take her with him. Couldn’t tell her the truth. It would be better for them both to send her away to Venice, to her dreams.

He felt another blade in his gut, twisting this time. Frustrated, he fell back on a phrase that had served him well in the past. “I never offered you any promises.”

“I never asked for any.”

Swearing, he faced her again. “Then what’s the problem? I thought we both knew what was happening. What we shared was”—he forced the word out, his voice sharp as a knife edge—“pleasure, nothing more.”

She flinched as if he had slapped her.

And he wished that the darkness of Cannock Chase would close in and swallow him whole.

“Yes, of course.” Her voice became cool and even, as if she were making a great effort to control it. “Pleasure and nothing more.”

She looked so small and fragile, swamped by his shirt, the cuffs engulfing her hands. It made his heart ache just to look at her. “Then what is it you want from me?” he asked.

“The truth.”

He shook his head, looked away.

The truth that she wanted would be the end of everything. The truth—his past, his real name and identity—would turn the hurt in her eyes to shock, horror.

And hatred.

Because Nicholas Brogan, scourge of the Atlantic, terror of the Caribbean, despised by every law-abiding, God-loving Englishman, was exactly the sort of man that a good, sweet woman like Samantha Delafield would utterly loathe.

And it would do no good to try and explain that his infamous reputation had far exceeded his actual deeds.

Because his actual deeds were more than enough to merit her hatred.

And if he told her even a hint of the truth, he would have to spend the rest of his life wondering whether she had mentioned his name to someone else. To anyone else.

He already had one blackmailer to worry about. He didn’t want to live the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for a few dozen more.

His life was going to be bleak enough as it was.

When he looked at her again, the force of that fact hit him like a physical blow. On their first night in gaol, he had suspected that this lady would have some part to play in the divine retribution God had in store for him—and now he knew that was true.

She had been a brief taste of heaven. Of genuine happiness. The only one he would ever know.

He clenched his jaw, tried to harden his voice. “Sorry to have to disappoint you on that score, your ladyship. If it’s truth you want, you’ve got the wrong man. If you had rules and conditions, you should have spelled them out before you and I—”

“Stop it.”

“I just wanted to make it clear—”

“It’s clear,” she said icily. “Everything is clear. I understand you perfectly.”

The sun broke through the trees. She rose and walked past him, the chain clanking, and scooped up her new clothes. Turning her back, she started unbuttoning the shirt she wore, her movements slow and steady.

Then she passed it to him in a calm, civilized manner that twisted the knife in his gut all over again. He almost wished she would throw it at him. Curse him.

Instead she simply started to dress in her new clothes. Didn’t say another word.

Nicholas turned his back. Partly to give her some measure of privacy, partly because he didn’t want her to notice that he couldn’t keep his own hands steady. Pulling his shirt on, he tried to ignore that her warm, soft scent permeated the cloth. He buttoned it to his throat with quick, savage motions, covering the brand on his chest, as he had so many innumerable times in the past. The mark of the Molloch. The indelible evidence of who and what he was.

What he would always be.

Samantha would be better off without him. Soon, she would be on her way to Venice. Which was for the best, he told himself. She already knew too much about him. He would be safer with her out of England. And maybe, when he put some miles between them, all of these blasted feelings would go away.

Besides, she would be happy there. She would have her villa by the Adriatic, her lacemaking work...

And some rich Italian count or baron for a husband.

Bile burned his throat. He clenched his hands, wanting to throttle the bastard—whoever he would be. The vision of Samantha showering her sweet passion on some other man made him want to put his fist through the nearest tree.

And of course, now that he had shown her she had nothing to fear from lovemaking, she would be less reluctant to accept another man in her bed.

He muttered an oath.

“Are you ready, your ladyship?” he asked curtly. “It’s time to go.”

~ ~ ~

The sun, Sam thought, had the most awful way of revealing things. Everything that had seemed dreamy and magical and special last night had been exposed by the glaring light of day.

Transformed into something common and real and painful.

And the worst part was that she could see her own foolishness now, with agonizing clarity.

As she followed Nick through the trees, heading back toward the gypsy camp, their shackles jangling, she kept hearing his biting, cynical words. I never offered you any promises.

It was true. He hadn’t said a word about caring, or any feelings at all. Clearly, he didn’t have any feelings for her. She had been a pleasant distraction to him, nothing more.

And she couldn’t even hate him for it. He had shared with her exactly what he had offered: physical pleasure. He hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t taken anything by force. She had given it all willingly.

She had given him her innocence.

She had given him her heart.

The first he had accepted gladly.

The second he didn’t want.

If she had misinterpreted his soft words and gentle touches, had seen behind them a meaning that wasn’t there, that was her own stupid mistake. Obviously there was a lot she still didn’t understand about lovemaking.

She had thought it involved the heart, not merely the body.

The morning sun felt unseasonably hot, beating down on her, plastering her stolen chemise to her back and shoulders. The coins in the deep pocket of her green silk skirt bumped against her leg now and then. Nick carried the bulk of their stolen money in the coin purse, but he had insisted on giving her a few guineas. She would need to buy food on her way to Merseyside, he had pointed out—after they were separated.

She stared at his broad back as he trudged ahead of her. Those were the last words he had spoken to her. He had barely even spared her a glance since they set out at dawn.

Which was just as well, she thought gratefully. She had come perilously close to tears during their last exchange. If nothing else, she wanted to get out of this with some shred of her pride intact. At least she had one saving grace: she hadn’t humiliated herself completely by telling him that she loved him.

If he insisted on keeping his secrets, at least she still had one of her own.

Though that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She could hear sounds coming from the gypsy camp: women chatting as they prepared the morning meal, the laughter of children playing.

And the metallic, clanking rhythm of the blacksmith at work.

Nick led the way as they crept closer. They remained within the trees, cautiously circling around until they were positioned a few yards from the smithy’s wagon, and stopped.

He slanted her a measuring glance. “This is it, your ladyship. Remember, if anything goes wrong—”

“I remember the plan,” she bit out. “Let’s get on with it. I want this chain off as much as you do.”

“Snapping at each other isn’t going to help.”

“I promise I’ll put on a convincing performance. I’ll be a picture of ladylike sweetness and light.”

“Samantha,” he growled.

“Don’t worry about me. You just do your part.”

“Just remember to let me do the talking.”

She gave him an icy stare. “Trust me.”

If her barb stung him in the least, he didn’t show it. Nothing seemed capable of penetrating his armor to pierce his heart. She was beginning to wonder if he had one at all.

But then, he had trusted her with his life before. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about that. His life, he would willingly place in her hands... but not the truth.

“Fine.” He hefted the coin purse in one hand. “Let’s get on with it.”

They left the concealing forest behind, heading straight across the clearing toward the blacksmith’s workplace.

Boldness was a key element of their plan.

“Good day to you, sir,” Nick called out. “I wonder if you could help us with a small problem.”

The man straightened, squinting at them in the bright morning sunlight. Sam felt her heart pounding, but pasted a friendly smile on her face.

This was the crucial moment. If the lawmen had passed through here, told the gypsies about a pair of fugitives on the run, mentioned a reward...

“And who might you be, machao?” the smithy asked suspiciously, his voice thick with an accent that sounded vaguely Spanish or French to Sam’s ears. “On vacances, on holiday?”

“Not exactly,” Nick said smoothly. “Merely some fellow travelers fallen on a bit of bad luck.”

They stopped a few paces away. The man’s gaze fell to the shackles. “Travelers.” He chuckled mockingly, muttering something to himself in his native tongue. “Ah, sim. Of course. Travelers.”

“You can see we’re in need of a man with your skills.” Nick lifted the heavy coin purse. “And we’re ready to reward you handsomely.”

Sam felt a knot in her stomach, tried to remain outwardly calm. There was little to prevent the gypsies from surrounding them and taking the money if they chose. The two of them had no weapons but the knife.

And Nick’s impressive fighting skills. She had seen him in hand-to-hand combat—and didn’t care to witness a repeat performance.

The blacksmith looked them both over from head to toe, especially Nick, sizing him up. “I might be able to help you, ami... for the right price.”

They were starting to attract attention—a few curious children, some women walking by with baskets of laundry. Most of the men were apparently still in bed.

“I’m sure you can appreciate,” Nick said quietly, “that we’d prefer to keep this a private matter.” He nodded toward the gathering onlookers. “Unless of course you’d like to share your fee with your companions?”

The smithy glanced around, then eyed the coin purse greedily. He waved away the interested parties, shouting at them in that strange language, including what sounded like a few curses.

Whatever he said, his words and surly glares took care of even the most curious. The women and children obeyed him quickly.

Apparently the smithy was not a man to be toyed with.

“Told them you were old friends come to visit,” he explained. “Follow me.” He led them around to the back of his wagon, where an array of tools hung from the side—all manner of picks, axes, hammers, and many wicked-looking implements Sam couldn’t identify.

Nick got right to the point. “How difficult will it be to get these off?”

“Difficult.” The smithy crouched down on his haunches, studying the shackles with an expert eye. “I would say at least...” He shifted his gaze to the coin purse. “A hundred pounds difficult.” He spat in the dirt. Then he stroked Sam’s ankle. “Unless you like to pay your debt in another way, senorita.”

She almost kicked him—but Nick’s hand was on the man’s shoulder before the smithy could draw another breath. “The lady’s not part of the bargain.”

Nick didn’t hit him, didn’t draw the knife. She heard no threat in his voice.

But something about his grip on the blacksmith’s shoulder made the man release her. Instantly.

“All right, ami, all right. Old Ramon, he thought you might want to save yourself the money, is all.”

“Try not to think, old Ramon. You’ve got work to do.”

“Let me see the money first.”

Nick counted out one hundred in gold guineas. “And how much might it cost to throw a pair of your fine horses into the deal?”

“Another...” Ramon eyed the coin purse, as if mentally weighing it even as Nick emptied it. “Two hundred.”

Sam struggled to hold her tongue. Two hundred! It was outright theft, but they were in no position to argue.

Besides, she reminded herself, it wasn’t their money.

She fought the urge to glance at the wagon they had robbed last night, subdued the grin that tugged at one corner of her mouth.

“Luckily for you, I’m a generous man.” Nick handed over the demanded price. “And there might be more. A little something extra for your silence. If anyone happens along asking questions—”

“I never saw a black-bearded machao and his blonde senorita in all my cursed life.”

“Exactly.”

“How much more?” Ramon asked with a greedy smile.

Nick closed the coin purse and tied it to his belt again. “After you’ve done the job.”

The smithy nodded in agreement. Transferring the money to his own coin purse, he slid it down his shirt. “Who the devil are you, ami?”

“Someone you’re better off not knowing,” Samantha put in dryly.

They were perhaps the truest words Nick had ever said to her.

The blacksmith chuckled. Taking one of the strange-looking implements from the wall, he bent down over the shackles. “Give me your foot again, senorita.”

Sam cautiously inched her foot toward him.

This time he didn’t touch her with anything other than professional intent, apparently keeping either his fee or Nick’s towering presence in mind. He worked at the cuff around her ankle, but gave up after a few minutes, tossing the tool aside.

“Morbleu, whoever put these on you, they did not want them to come off!”

Sam’s heart started pounding. She was half-afraid that the shackles might be permanent after all. That she might really be chained to Nick forever.

And some stupid, reckless part of her was thrilled by that thought.

But Ramon was already choosing other tools from the wall—a small hammer and a sharp-looking chisel. Returning to her side, he lightly placed the chisel against the bolt that fastened the cuff around her ankle.

“Now be very still,” he warned, lifting his hammer.

She bit her lip, looked away, frightened that she was about to lose a foot.

Her eyes locked with Nick’s.

Then she heard and felt the blow all at once—a metallic clang that reverberated through her very bones.

The cuff fell open, slid to the ground.

And the chain was off. They were separated.

She was free.