Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel)

chapter 22




Trudging through the dark streets of Merseyside, Sam rubbed her arms, the night wind biting through her thin garments, even through her cloak. After three days of riding, she felt exhausted, her entire body sore. She had sold the bay gelding at the first stable she’d come to upon arriving in the village—and if she never saw another horse again, that would be just fine with her.

Shivering, she tried to cheer herself up by thinking of how good it would feel to sleep in a real bed tonight. She had avoided all the towns between here and Cannock Chase, deciding that an inn would be a dangerous indulgence, since she couldn’t know where the lawmen might be searching. She had stopped to rest only once, at a remote farmhouse, trading a few coins for food and shelter and the hooded cloak to keep her dry in the rain.

But even with a roof over her head, she had barely been able to close her eyes for long. It felt so strange to have no one watching over her while she slept. She missed that feeling.

She missed Nick.

Even when she did manage to slip into unconsciousness, he invaded her dreams. And the first time she’d seen her reflection, in a mirror while washing up at the farmhouse, she had been shocked by how different she looked. Changed, somehow. Even washing and neatly braiding her hair hadn’t brought back the appearance of the girl she had been only a fortnight ago.

She had also discovered marks on her neck that no amount of soap and scrubbing would remove—and realized they were tiny bruises from Nick’s passionate kisses.

He had marked her, body, heart, and soul.

Swallowing hard, she tried to banish that thought—just as he had banished her from his life. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had to face facts, stop wishing for what could never be. In time, she would grow used to being alone again. The days and nights would get easier. Eventually.

She hoped.

Without thinking, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her green skirt, her fingers closing around the ruby.

The moon was almost full, shining on the rain-splashed streets beneath her slippers. Normally, she looked forward to the time she spent in Merseyside. Whenever she completed her work in a given district, she would travel here to add the money to the cache concealed in her room. Then she would rest a week or two between jobs, living peaceably, visiting the village marketplace, chatting with neighbors. Enjoying brief glimpses of a normal life.

But tonight her mood remained as bleak as the worn, wet cobbles underfoot.

Finally, she came to the ramshackle building that housed her room. Glancing up at her window, at the cramped space in the attic that she had called home for five years, she couldn’t even summon a feeling of relief. Trudging up the steps in the dark, she realized she was going to have to pick the lock on her own door. Her small purse, containing her keys, had been confiscated by Bickford when she’d been arrested.

There was little space to move and less light at the top of the stairs. By memory alone, she felt for the lock, and went to work. She had it open in a matter of seconds. Sighing, she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

Moonlight spilled in through the window. She moved forward in the darkness—and tripped over something.

“What in the world...”

It was her little hall table, lying on the floor. Stumbling, she froze.

By the scant silvery light, she could see a vase lying smashed on her threadbare rug. Chairs broken. Her few clothes and belongings strewn across the floor.

Her place had been ransacked! Damnation, in her melancholy mood, she had neglected to check her one security measure—a thread that she always placed carefully in the door.

A prickle of danger went down her neck. Lawmen.

Remaining utterly still, she didn’t even breathe, wondering whether she was alone.

She didn’t hear a sound. Not a footstep. Not a breath. Nothing but her own terrified heartbeat.

She was alone. But they could be watching from outside. It might be only a matter of minutes before they rushed in to arrest her.

Whispering oaths, she ran to the far corner, to the hiding place where she kept her money. She had to get out of here. Fast.

Pushing her dresser out of the way, she fell to her knees and found the hidden compartment behind it, felt for the box concealed deep within the wall. She bit her lip, straining for it in the darkness. Was it there? Had they found it and taken it?

Her fingers closed on the smooth walnut jewelry case. She clutched it in shaking fingers, yanked it free, opened it. Her money was still there.

With a sob of relief, she shut it and stood up.

And sensed the movement behind her an instant too late.

She heard the footstep and the click of a pistol being cocked in the same second that a thick, masculine arm grabbed her from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream.

The box slid from her numb fingers and hit the floor as the man’s other arm circled her waist.

“Good evening, my dear niece,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear as the barrel of a pistol jabbed into her ribs. “So nice to see you again.”

Shock and terror spiraled through her. It was her worst nightmare come to life. Her uncle had found her.

Struggling, kicking, she fought his hold on her with all her strength. No! She kept screaming but his hand smothered the sound.

“Now, now, Samantha. Don’t make trouble for yourself.” He fought to subdue her, shifting the gun until the cold metal pressed against her temple. “It will go easier for you if you cooperate.”

She went still, breathing in shallow gasps, shutting her eyes. God, please, help me. This was impossible. How had he found her?

“I must say, I’m surprised to discover you still alive,” he whispered in that soft voice that had haunted her nightmares. “And pleased. It didn’t even cost me very much. The people of this poor district were pitifully eager to trade information on your whereabouts for a few coins. I’m sure you’ll be worth every shilling.” He shifted his hold on her, squeezing her breast. “We have such a lot of catching up to do.”

A white-hot flash of panic rendered her momentarily blind and immobile. Moonlight and darkness swam around her, her stunned senses reeling in disgust and disbelief. No!

“But not here and not now, unfortunately,” He loosened his hold on her just long enough to stuff a rag in her mouth, tying the gag behind her head. “As you can see from the remains of your room, the marshalmen are rather overzealous in their quest to bring you to justice. They might return before long, and hanging is not what I have in mind for you, my dear.” He jerked her hands behind her back, binding them tightly with a length of rope. “I’ve a lovely place awaiting you in London. A private suite where you’ll be available to me whenever I please.” He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “We’ll have ample time to get reacquainted at my leisure. Years.”

The roar in her ears was like the rush of a waterfall. She was trapped. Helpless.

Oh, God, please.

Nick, help me.

“The marshalmen might spend the next several weeks chasing their tails, but they’re never going to find you, my dear. No one’s ever going to see you again. Now, off we go.” He shoved her ahead of him toward the door. “We mustn’t waste any time.”

“You’re not taking her anywhere, your honor.”

Sam froze in the middle of the room, staring in shock at a dark silhouette that filled the entryway.

“Who are you?” Uncle Prescott demanded.

“Call me a concerned bystander.” The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Sam didn’t recognize the voice, and she couldn’t see him very well in the moonlight. Her rescuer was a tall, slender young man with dark hair, dressed in a black frock coat and breeches. A man she had never seen before.

And he was brandishing a gun.

A second later she realized with a shock that the right sleeve of his coat hung empty. He had only one arm.

“See here,” Uncle Prescott snarled, “I am in charge of this investigation. If you’re with the marshalmen—”

“Wrong guess.”

“Do you have any idea who I am—”

“Oh, I know who you are.” The young man chuckled. “It’s been in all the papers.”

“Then you know I could have you arrested for pointing a gun at me. Assaulting a magistrate is a serious offense. I advise you to leave here before I call the marshalmen.”

“You’re not going to call anyone. It would ruin your plans. Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you take the lady with you. Step out of the way, Miss Delafield.”

She started to move.

“Stop right there, Samantha.” Uncle Prescott snarled, aiming his pistol at her. “I’d hate to damage one of your lovely legs—but you know I’ll do it.”

Sam froze, trapped in the line of fire between the two men, her heartbeat chaotic.

The stranger advanced fearlessly toward Uncle Prescott. She could see him better now. He had blue eyes, dark stubble on his jaw, angular features. And he couldn’t be any older than she was.

“I don’t mean to be unreasonable,” he said calmly, “but I need to ask the lady some questions. And I can’t do that if you take her to London.”

“Fire one shot and this place will be swarming with lawmen.”

The stranger slid the gun smoothly into the waistband of his breeches at his back. “We can do this quietly, if you prefer.” A blade suddenly flashed in his hand.

Fear gleamed in Uncle Prescott’s eyes. “Do you think I’m afraid of a cripple?” he sneered.

A muscle twitched in the young man’s tanned cheek. “I think you’d be a fool to underestimate me,” he returned smoothly.

Uncle Prescott laughed at him—a cruel, familiar sound that made Sam shudder.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I’m offering you a choice. You can leave here right now and live, or stay and die. Which will it be?”

Uncle Prescott sobered. After a moment, he slowly began to lower his pistol.

But then he suddenly turned it to use as a club and attacked.

The stranger dodged out of the way. He aimed an agile kick at Uncle Prescott’s hand, knocking the gun from his grasp. Uncle Prescott lunged in again and the two men locked together, wrestling for the knife. The younger man grunted in pain as her uncle landed hard blows to his ribs.

Sam darted toward the door but the violent fight blocked her way before she could escape. She flattened herself against the wall, could only look on in horror as the struggle went on for terrifying minutes. Uncle Prescott had a clear advantage. Already he was turning the blade toward the young man’s neck. But then the stranger used his strength and evident experience to fight back, kicking, twisting.

And the struggle ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Suddenly Uncle Prescott was sinking to his knees, clutching at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest, eyes wide as he turned desperately toward her. He reached out one hand as if to plead for help. A second later, he fell forward.

Sam staggered away from him, tripped over something and fell to the floor. She lay there stunned, numb with shock. He was dead.

Uncle Prescott was dead.

Looking up at the stranger who stood over the body, she didn’t know whether to feel grateful—or more terrified than ever.

He kicked her uncle onto his back, staring down into the sightless eyes for a moment. Sam almost thought she saw remorse in the young man’s face, just for an instant. Then he knelt, yanked out the blade, wiped it clean on Uncle Prescott’s expensive waistcoat. And moved toward her.

She tried to scramble backward, but with her wrists bound behind her, she could barely move.

He smiled grimly at her. “Miss Delafield, there’s nowhere to run. And don’t bother to thank me. I’m not here to be gallant. I don’t give a damn about you or your lecherous uncle or anyone else who preys on the innocent.” Bending down, he set the knife aside and used his hand to open the box she had dropped. “He was nothing but corrupt scum, and from what I’ve read, you’re nothing but a thief.” He counted the money with a low sound of pleasure. “It’s money that I’m most interested in.”

She stared at him in confusion, her heart hammering. Was he a bounty hunter of some kind? A thief-taker?

He picked up the knife and the slender box, sliding both into the pocket of his worn frock coat as he stood. Then he came over and hauled her to her feet. “Sorry that there was no time for proper introductions. My name is Foster. Joseph Foster. But that’s not important. I’m here for a little information.”

Hooking his foot around a straight-backed chair that the marshalmen had knocked to the floor, he righted it and pushed her into the seat.

Then he drew the knife again, holding it in front of her eyes.

“Now, you wouldn’t scream for help, would you?” he asked coolly. “Because you don’t want a dozen marshalmen in here anymore than I do. We’re agreed on that, are we not? Just nod.”

She nodded.

“Very good. We’re getting off to an excellent start.”

He leaned closer. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the cold touch of the blade against her skin.

But the chill against her cheek lasted only a second. He cut off the gag.

However, he left her hands bound. Her arms were tingling, going numb.

She tried to speak but her mouth had gone dry. “W-who... what—”

“Let’s not waste time, Miss Delafield. I have precious few hours to spare. Just to expedite this matter, let me explain a few things.” He pulled up another chair, turned it around and sat in front of her, folding his arm over the back. “It was the stories in the papers that caught my attention—”

“What stories? What are you—”

The tip of the knife touched her chin. “Please don’t interrupt. And please don’t waste my time by playing the innocent. As I said, I’m in something of a hurry.” He withdrew the knife, but dangled it in his fingertips only inches from her face.

Sam strained at the ropes that bound her wrists, hating that she was helpless, glaring at him in furious silence.

“Better,” he said. “Now then, after I noticed the stories in the papers, I located your uncle and followed him, figuring that he would lead me to you. I had hoped to find the answers I seek still attached to your ankle... but unfortunately, it seems that you and your nefarious companion have parted company.”

Nick, she thought with a sudden rush of understanding and an equally strong rush of fear. He was after Nick.

“When the marshalmen ransacked your room and found nothing,” he continued, “your uncle decided to wait for you. I thought he might know something I didn’t, so I decided to wait, too. I was about to give up and leave, when you finally arrived and... well, you know the rest.” He toyed with the knife, turning it deftly in his fingers. “All I want, Miss Delafield, are the answers to a few simple questions. Give me what I want and you can be on your way.”

“Not without that box in your coat pocket, I can’t.”

Her answer seemed to surprise him. “You should be grateful that I’m letting you escape with your life.”

“You expect me to believe that you’ll allow me to walk away, Mr. Foster? Killing seems to come rather easily to you.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t kill without reason. I’ve merely learned a few ways of defending myself over the years. As I said before, it’s not you or your lecherous uncle that I care about. Now are you going to answer my questions?”

Stony silence was her only reply.

“Let’s start with a simple one. In fact, this question might make the rest unnecessary. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m jumping at shadows. You’ll have to tell me.”

She shrugged.

“Ah, a hint of cooperation.” He leaned forward. “The man who was arrested with you—was he in fact a footpad by the name of Jasper Norwell?”

Sam just stared at him. She didn’t know what sort of man this Joseph Foster was, what he wanted with Nick, or what he might do if he found Nick. So she held her tongue.

“We can do this the easy way,” Foster said icily, “or we can do it the hard way.” The knife came up to brush her cheek in a slow, lethal caress. “I’m very good with this blade. I could have you begging to answer my questions in a matter of seconds.”

Sam debated frantically, terrified—not only for herself, but for the man she loved. Every unsteady beat of her heart demanded that she protect Nick.

And she didn’t know if Foster would actually carry out his threat against her. Hadn’t he said something about not hurting innocent people? Yes. Yes, he had.

On the other hand, he didn’t seem to consider her innocent.

“I’ll ask again,” he said. “Was your companion the footpad Jasper Norwell?”

He drew the knife downward, pressed it against the hollow of her throat. Tightly.

Another second and he would slice open a vein.

“No,” Sam whispered, glaring at him, hating him. “He wasn’t.”

The young man’s blue eyes went cold, piercing. “I see.” His mouth tightened to a hard line. “The descriptions in the papers mentioned dark hair and green eyes. Did he also happen to have a scar—a brand on his chest, right here?” He drew the symbol over his own chest with the blade. “A downward-pointing pitchfork with three tines?”

Sam looked away. “I... I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me, Miss Delafield,” he snapped. “Judging from those marks on your neck, unless there are rather large mosquitoes in Cannock Chase these days, you and your traveling companion became quite friendly. Now tell me the truth.” He pressed the knife to her throat again. “Did you see a brand?”

She resisted for one more desperate, frightened moment.

Then she nodded.

Foster erupted in sudden fury, cursing, pushing away from his chair. “I can’t believe it!” He stalked across the room. “I can’t believe Brogan would risk coming back to England.”

“Brogan?” Sam asked in confusion.

“If he thinks I’m going to walk into his trap, he can think again. He should have simply paid up. I could have demanded forty or fifty thousand. I only asked for a pittance!”

“You’ve made a mistake—”

“Damn him to hell, I never asked for a confrontation. This is exactly what I didn’t want.” He turned on his heel, pacing back toward her. “All I asked for is what he owes me. That bastard robbed me of a brilliant naval career. Of everything. Of my life.” He struck at the empty sleeve hanging from his coat. “He owes me. And one way or another, I’m going to collect.”

“You’ve got the wrong man!” Sam managed to interrupt at last. “The man with me wasn’t someone named Brogan. He was a planter from the Colonies, a man named Nick James. Not—”

The glare turned on her cut off her words and her breath. “I told you not to waste my time. Don’t try to protect him.”

“I’m telling you the truth!”

“The truth? The truth is I’ve got a problem here, Miss Delafield.” He kicked at the chair he had occupied. “I don’t have nearly enough proof to go to the authorities. Just my own suspicions and a few notes gathered from years of investigation. I’ve been bluffing. Never thought he wouldn’t pay.” He stalked to the window, stabbed the knife he held into the wooden sill. “I can’t go to the Old Bailey empty-handed with a wild story about Nicholas Brogan rising from the dead. Not only will they not pay me the ten-thousand-pound bounty, they’ll have me committed.”

Sam’s mind whirled with confusion at the name he had just mentioned. “W-what what did you say?”

“What I need is a new plan.” He paced again. “Brogan’s going to pay for this bit of treachery. Thinks he’s outwitted me, does he? Bastard. I’ll take his money and turn him in for the bounty.”

“Nicholas Brogan?” She gaped at Foster in disbelief. The legendary Nicholas Brogan had been a pirate. One of England’s most ruthless pirates. The very name belonged in the same infamous ranks as Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, Blackbeard.

She started to shake her head. This was madness. A mad, ridiculous, horrible mistake.

Foster turned toward her again. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You were shackled to him for almost two weeks, day and night, and you don’t know?”

“Don’t know what?” she cried. “I think you’re insane! The man with me was named—”

“Stop lying. How many men has he brought with him?” He drew his pistol, aimed it in her direction. “What’s his plan?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

He stepped toward her with a look of fury. For a moment, she feared he would actually shoot her from sheer frustration.

But when she didn’t flinch, he backed off, lowering the pistol, looking down at her with astonishment.

Which rapidly turned to amusement. “You really don’t know, do you?” He laughed. “After all these years, the old blackguard must have become skilled at keeping his secret.”

“His name,” she insisted, “is Nick James.”

“Of course it is. Why not. A perfectly bland, ordinary name. One he no doubt picked for exactly that reason.” He stalked toward her, leaned down until his face was level with hers. “Let me tell you exactly whom you’ve been spending time with, lady. The real name of the man who’s been nibbling on your neck is Nicholas Brogan. Captain Nicholas Brogan.”

Samantha stared at him in horror, her voice scarcely a whisper. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? You think I’m lying about that brand? I can even tell you exactly where he is at the moment. He’s in York.”

She felt all the breath leave her body. It all made a horrible kind of sense.

Someone you’re better off not knowing.

Oh, dear God!

And the lash marks on his back, the way he had navigated by the stars—she had guessed that he was a seafaring man. Even that he was a captain.

No wonder he had refused to tell her the truth about his past!

The room started spinning around her, became a whirl of darkness and light until the broken furnishings on the floor seemed to go skidding across the rug. Pieces of Nicholas Brogan’s infamous reputation cartwheeled across her mind. It was said that he had been driven by greed. That he would sink any ship without regard for human life.

She had thought of Nick as dangerous—but she had never truly known just how dangerous he was.

And here was young Joseph Foster standing in front of her, telling her that Nick—Nicholas—was responsible for his lost arm.

That was the man she had fallen in love with? A man who would heedlessly kill and maim? That was the man she had shared her heart, body, and soul with?

She shook her head in denial. “No! No, it’s not true. It can’t be true! Nicholas Brogan died years ago. He went down with his ship, burned to death in a fire. The authorities held a great celebration when it happened. I-I was in London then. They had a procession, a victory parade—”

“Yes, he fooled everyone. Almost everyone,” Foster said angrily. “The admiralty couldn’t exactly check that sunken hulk for his charred remains, could they? But they wanted the public to believe that they had done their job, wanted to reassure the citizenry that the last notorious menace had been removed from the high seas.” Pulling up his chair, Foster sat down again. “The truth is, he’s alive and well. And he’s very good at fooling people.”

The truth of those words hit Sam with the impact of a bullet. She fell forward, feeling as if her heart had just been blown to bits. She had been such a fool! He had misled her completely. And she had believed him, fallen right into his hands, accepted every lie. Cared about him.

Loved him.

“He and I are old... acquaintances,” Foster continued, unmoved by her pain. “And we had an arrangement. A business arrangement. But apparently he decided to change the rules.” He reached out and grabbed her chin, tilting her head up. “But if he can change the rules, so can I. I’ve decided on a new plan, Miss Delafield. There’s a certain package I need picked up, and I believe I’m going to send a courier to fetch it for me. Someone expendable.”

She jerked her chin from his grasp. “You don’t expect me to—”

“Yes, I do. And I’ll accompany you, because frankly, lady, I don’t trust you. It seems to me that Brogan worked his charms on you and turned that pretty head of yours completely to fluff. In case you get it into your mind to try and warn him, I’ll be right there with this pointed your way.” He brandished the pistol. “And even if Brogan has men with him, no one will be able to recognize me. No one knows who I am, not even Brogan himself. It’s the person collecting the package who’ll be in jeopardy.”

“What makes you think I’m going to help you?” she spat.

“Three reasons. One, your uncle’s dead body is about to be found in your home. The marshalmen were keen on arresting you before—try to imagine how they’re going to feel about you now. You’ll be facing murder charges by morning. I don’t think you want to remain in England any longer than necessary. Two, since I’m not an unreasonable man, as soon as you hand the package over to me, I’ll give you back this”—he tapped his pocket, where he carried her box of money—“so you can be on your way. And three—” He waved the pistol under her nose. “I’m not giving you any choice.”

Sam stared at him, thinking frantically. All her plans, all her hopes had been smashed to pieces. She was right back where she started the day she fled London: terrified, hunted.

Alone.

Except that this time, her heart was in pieces as well, shattered like the porcelain vase on the floor, all the love she had felt for Nick spilled, wasted.

She shut her eyes, feeling hollow inside, as if every drop of light, warmth, life had drained out of her.

Nick.

No. No, that wasn’t his real name. He had lied to her. Used her and discarded her. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her in his life—she had been nothing but a brief amusement to him.

She was shaking, with hurt, with anger. Opening her eyes, she glared at Foster. She needed time to think. To plan. The only safe choice was to play along for now. Look for an opportunity to get away from him, to run.

All she wanted was to curl up in a ball on the floor and sob out all the pain in her broken heart. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze evenly. “Very well. I’ll do what you ask—”

“How wise of you.”

“If I have your assurance that you’ll give me back my money once you have your blasted package.”

He smiled, putting the gun away. “Agreed. You’ve made the right choice, Miss Delafield.” Rising, he helped her to her feet. “You’re working for me now.”