Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel)

chapter 23




Wind and rain whipped at Nicholas’s clothes as he bent over the stallion’s neck, urging him to more speed. Hooves pounding, the gray hunter galloped over the fields, his gleaming coat flecked with foam.

It would take another three hours to reach Merseyside. Maybe two. If he didn’t break his neck first. And he wasn’t even sure how he was going to find Samantha once he got there.

And the entire town would no doubt be swarming with lawmen.

This was perhaps the most insane thing he had ever done in his entire reckless life.

But he didn’t care. The disturbing thing was how little time he had spent debating with himself. He had taken all of five minutes to explain the situation to Masud before leaving the pub—entrusting his friend with the vital mission that had brought them to England.

Ordering Masud to kill whoever came to pick up the package, without questions, without hesitation.

The wind drove raindrops into his face like needles, but he barely noticed. If he was too late... if anything had happened to Samantha...

No. He couldn’t tolerate that thought.

By hell, if her uncle had laid a hand on her, he would have the bastard’s guts for garters.

The hunter sailed over a rail fence and Nicholas spurred him on, faster. If—when—he found Samantha, he intended to escort her to London personally. He didn’t give a damn whether she wanted his protection or not. He wouldn’t be able to think straight until he knew she was safe.

He would put her on the first ship bound for Venice. Then he would rendezvous with Masud at Clarice’s, and once their ship was repaired, they would return to South Carolina.

Nicholas wasn’t sure how he was going to endure that—to see Samantha again, touch her, hold her in his arms, only to send her away a second time.

God, apparently, wasn’t through with him yet.

He shot a glare heavenward, beginning to suspect that God had a cruel sense of humor.

Only one thought cheered him as the stallion raced across the hills: by nightfall tomorrow, the blackmailer would be dead.

Masud had promised that, this time, he would not disobey orders.

~ ~ ~

After days of rain and fog and miserable gray weather, Michaelmas dawned bright and clear, the blinding sun and blue skies dazzling by contrast. The change in weather seemed to have drawn every inhabitant of York into the streets, Sam noticed as the hackney coach carrying her and her “employer” jounced over the cobblestones.

She kept shivering with chills despite the charcoal-colored riding habit she now wore. The snug, woolen layers of the waistcoat, full skirt, and hooded cape were useless against the cold fear inside her.

Foster sat on the upholstered velvet seat across from her, never relaxing a muscle, his gun presently aimed at her heart. She had tried to put him at ease during the two-day journey from Merseyside, but he didn’t trust her for a second, hadn’t given her any opportunities to escape.

When he had allowed her to change clothes before they’d left her room, he had even searched her for weapons before cutting the rope that bound her wrists. That was when he had found the jewel in the pocket of her green silk skirt and confiscated it.

In all the confusion, she had forgotten about Nick’s gift. But when Foster had taken it, she had started thinking.

Remembering.

Not only that unexpected act of kindness, but so much more.

Blinking hard, she looked at the bright sky outside. She felt more certain than ever that Nick James couldn’t possibly be Nicholas Brogan.

How could a man supposedly so ruthless, so driven by greed, have given her that jewel? How could he have shown her tenderness, compassion, caring?

And some of what Nick had told her had been true: the awful images of his childhood that had slipped out during his fever—his father’s hanging, the horrors of the prison hulk. Those hadn’t been concocted to win her sympathy. They had been the truth.

“I still say this could be a case of mistaken identity,” she said quietly as Foster studied the crowds outside their coach. “Nick James is no pirate. Surely there could be any number of men in England with that pitchfork brand. They can’t all be Nicholas Brogan.”

Foster shook his head and muttered something under his breath. She couldn’t quite make it out, but the tone sounded insulting and she caught the word blondes followed by witless. “Miss Delafield, you are grasping at straws.”

“And you’re blinded by your thirst for vengeance.”

He turned to glare at her. “You live my life for a just one day, lady, and then tell me I’m not entitled.”

She looked from his youthful face to the empty sleeve that dangled from his shoulder, then dropped her gaze. “I realize your life must be difficult. But you’re not the only person in the world who’s ever suffered—”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to live as a cripple, Miss Delafield? To have people stare at you everywhere you go? To see pity and revulsion in their eyes?” He shot the questions at her. “Do you know how a man who’s only half a man earns a living? He scrapes out an existence. Resorts to begging to survive. Spends every day and every night of his life alone—”

He cut himself off abruptly, turned to look out the window again.

Sam pressed herself back into the plush cushions of the coach, stricken by his outburst, and by his pain. She felt a wave of sympathy and pity that she knew would enrage him. His life must indeed be terrible, she thought—not because he had lost an arm, but because he had given up hope at such a young age, had allowed hatred and bitterness to turn his heart to stone.

“Mr. Foster, you may not believe this,” she ventured, “but I know what it’s like to be alone—”

He spat an oath. “Save your sad tales for someone who cares. Whatever you’ve suffered is nothing compared to what I’ve suffered. Especially at the hands of Nicholas Brogan.” He said Brogan like a curse, as if the very name were responsible for all his pain. “You, he merely seduced and discarded, the way he’s always treated his doxies.” Foster turned toward her again, his voice cold. “Would you like to know how many mistresses he’s had? I could give you a rough estimate—”

“No, thank you,” she retorted, her voice brittle. “I can live without that particular piece of information.”

“Suit yourself. But believe me, Miss Delafield, this is not a case of mistaken identity. I’ve spent years hunting Brogan down. I’ve learned a great deal about him. And it’s not vengeance I’m after,” he said flatly. “It’s justice. That bastard could have pursued Spanish or French ships but he made it his mission to harass our ships—Royal Navy ships. British ships. He’s a traitor who deserves to be strung up on Execution Dock. Instead he’s been living a merry life in the Colonies, with all his wealth and women.” Foster glanced out the window again, then rapped on the ceiling of the coach with the butt of his pistol. “He can spare a few thousand pounds for me. I only want what I’m entitled to.”

The coach rolled to a stop.

“This is the place.” His voice hardened as he pointed the gun at her. “Cling to your illusions if you like. Just remember to do as I’ve told you. To the letter.”

Her eyes on the gun, Sam couldn’t summon a reply. She was in a great deal of danger no matter what she did.

If she tried to warn Nick, she could be guilty of aiding and abetting one of the most notorious criminals in English history.

But if she did as Foster ordered, she could be signing a death warrant for the man she loved.

Concealing the gun in the pocket of his frock coat, Foster got to his feet. “Time for you to earn your freedom, Miss Delafield.”

He pushed open the door and stepped down from the carriage, glancing left and right along the crowded street before motioning her out. He paid the hackney driver, but even before the coach rolled away, Sam felt the barrel of the pistol jammed into her ribs.

“In case you feel the urge to get creative with the instructions I’ve given you,” he said as he pushed her toward a tavern a few yards down the street, “I want you to keep one thing in mind.”

“And what is that?” She tried to sound utterly cool and composed.

He nodded to the tavern sign overhead. She gazed up at the letters spelling out the pub’s name, the Black Angel, and the picture below—a demon with a menacing expression and a pitchfork in one hand.

“He’s not worth dying for,” Foster finished.

Sam’s throat tightened painfully. “A brand and a few lash marks,” she insisted, “do not make a man Nicholas Brogan.”

Foster chuckled, a low, mocking sound. “We shall see.” They were only a few feet from the door. “I’ll go in ahead of you. Count to twenty before following me in. I don’t want it to appear that there’s any connection between us.”

“Understood.”

“And remember, I’ll be watching. I’ll have my eyes and my gun on you—and your money in my pocket.”

With one last hard look, he went inside, leaving her in the street.

Sam stood in the shadows beside the door while the crowd moved and flowed around her. She began counting. One... two...

She still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Some of what Foster had told her rang true. She had seen Nick fight, had seen him kill with brutal efficiency. And why would he refuse to tell her about his past—unless it was too horrible to reveal?

Three... four... five...

But how could Nick, the man who had made love to her so passionately, who had held her so tenderly, who had comforted her, protected her, saved her life, made her laugh—how could that man possibly be Nicholas Brogan?

Six... seven... eight...

Shouldn’t she give Nick a chance to explain himself?

Nine... ten... eleven...

Shouldn’t she try to warn him?

Twelve... thirteen... fourteen...

Oh, hellfire and damnation! If she had any sense at all, she would run. Run from this blasted place. From York. From England. Leave right now.

Fifteen... sixteen... seventeen...

But she couldn’t get far without a single shilling in her pockets.

Eighteen... nineteen...

And despite everything, she would not abandon Nick to his fate. Foster might be lying. He might be wrong. Nick might not even be here.

Twenty.

Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped into the pub.

With a single glance, she scanned the room. Coughing on the thick cigar smoke, she looked for those emerald eyes, that black hair and strong, bearded jaw and broad shoulders. The Black Angel was crowded—but she didn’t see Nick.

Even disguised, she would recognize him.

He wasn’t here.

Smiling in relief, she shot a look of triumph at the tense young man who sat on the far side of the tavern. He was wrong. Foster had had it all wrong! The man he was after was not Nick James!

He merely nodded toward the counter, reminding her of her assignment.

Awash in relief, she moved quickly to comply. The sooner she fetched his accursed package, the sooner she could be on her way. She elbowed her way through the crowd, heading straight for the tavernkeeper.

~ ~ ~

Masud sat in a dark corner at the rear of the pub, hat pulled low over his eyes, a newspaper concealing his face. He peeked over the top edge now and then, glancing toward the tavernkeeper, awaiting the signal they had agreed upon.

The crowd in the Black Angel was unusually large today—farmers, townspeople, travelers all out enjoying the holiday and the good weather.

So far, there had been no sign of his quarry.

But he was a patient huntsman. Smoking a cheroot, he easily divided his attention between the task at hand, the paper before him... and astonishment at the fact that he was sitting here alone. He still could not believe the way Cap’n Brogan had left so abruptly.

Because of a woman.

He kept shaking his head, still stunned even two days after his captain’s mumbled explanation and sudden departure. Masud never would have believed it possible, would have laughed himself stupid if anyone had even suggested it—but it was clear that Nicholas Brogan, scourge of the high seas, terror of every gentle English heart, had fallen in love. And fallen hard.

After a couple of decades spent resisting the wiles of the fairer sex, the captain was completely besotted. Not that he would ever admit it, of course. Couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. He had sputtered some bilge about honor among thieves and owing the lady his life and then he had gone to rescue her.

Almost more mystifying was what he had said as he left. Two words Masud had never heard from him before.

Be careful.

An expression of concern. A casual sort of thing one might say to a friend.

From a man who had always sworn that he had no friends.

Glancing over the top of his newspaper again, Masud sat up straight. The tavernkeeper was signaling him, surreptitiously gesturing toward a cloaked figure at the far end of the counter.

Masud nodded, and the tavernkeeper carried the package toward the person who had come to claim it. Tension and ready violence flooded through Masud’s veins. So this was the blackmailer, at long last...

He went still, staring at the unmistakable curves beneath that woolen cloak. It was a woman!

The momentary surprise faded a second later. Hadn’t he suspected this possibility? Hell truly had no fury like a woman scorned. He grimaced. The blackmailer’s sex didn’t change a thing. Not with his captain’s life at stake.

She was the one who had chosen to play this dangerous game.

And hell was exactly where this woman was headed.

The tavernkeeper handed her the package. There was no time to waste.

Say your prayers, you blackmailing wench.

Rising from his seat, Masud slipped his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers closing around a knife that fit perfectly in his palm. The small, lethal blade would do the job quickly, quietly.

He would slit her throat and be out the door before anyone knew what had happened.

Before her body even hit the floor.