Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel)

chapter 25




Captain.

Sam stared at him with her heart in her throat as he strode toward her. Her entire body had gone cold, as if she had been drenched in ice.

Captain, the African had called him.

She’s the one who picked up the package.

The pain and horror twisting through her were unbearable. Until the moment he stepped into this room, she had been able to deny, to doubt, to hope. Until she heard those words, she had refused to believe that Nick James had any connection to that tavern in York, to Joseph Foster and his package and all the bitter, angry claims he had made.

But everything Foster had told her was true.

The man she had fallen in love with wasn’t a navy captain or a merchant captain. And he wasn’t a peaceful planter from the Colonies.

He was Captain Nicholas Brogan.

No. God, no! She shut her eyes as he came to stand beside the bed. Feeling the cold touch of the blade against her cheek, she thought it would almost be less agonizing if he would simply cut her throat.

Instead, he cut off the gag.

She coughed, gasping against the misery that squeezed all the air from her lungs. When she was finally able to force herself to open her eyes and look up at him, the last few pieces snapped into place. In the tavern, when the African had accosted her, she hadn’t had the most distant idea who he might be or what was going on.

But he was a member of Captain Brogan’s crew.

A fellow pirate.

She clenched both fists when Nick reached for her hands—and he hesitated, then apparently changed his mind. He did not cut her free.

Instead, he slid the knife into his boot, the gesture so familiar from the time they had spent together.

And suddenly memories tumbled through her, one after another. Every day, every night, every moment they had spent together. Their gazes met and held, and she saw it in his eyes—that he was remembering, too.

“Nick,” she choked out. “Tell me it’s all some horrible mistake. Nicholas Brogan died years ago. You can’t be—”

“Stop it.” His voice was rough. “Damn it, there’s no use pretending anymore.”

His admission tore through her. “No,” she whispered, hot tears welling in her eyes. “No, it can’t be.”

God help her, she wanted him to lie to her. She would believe him. She would believe anything. Anything but this.

He turned his back, raking a hand through his hair, stalking across the room.

“I-I thought you were a... a planter.” She was trembling. “Or—”

“Some kind of naval hero?” he asked bitterly. “Sorry to disappoint you, angel.” He stopped in front of the window.

“But Nicholas Brogan was a vicious murderer! They said that he killed heedlessly, wantonly. That he would sink any ship in his lust for riches.”

He stared out into the fading twilight, his back stiff. “I don’t suppose it would help to point out that ‘they’ are not always accurate. Or that the navy spread a great many lurid, exaggerated tales about my exploits.” He dropped his gaze to the sill. “The admiralty wasn’t overly fond of me—”

“Are you saying it was all lies?”

There was a long pause.

“No.”

A chill rippled through her. Followed by a shock of hurt, betrayal. Fury. “How many people have you killed, Captain?”

His voice was hoarse. “Do you think I kept count?”

“An estimate will do. A handful, a hundred, a thousand?”

His hand came up to grip the velvet curtain that hung beside him. Even from where she sat, she could see that he was shaking. When he finally answered, he spoke so softly she could barely hear him.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It does matter! How could you... how could I...” She shook her head, unable to continue, wanting only to curl up on the pillows and sob out all the pain in her heart.

She had believed in him. Trusted him. She had revealed everything to him—all her secrets, all the hurt and loss of her past, offered him her heart, her body, her soul. She had loved him.

Loved a ruthless, bloodthirsty, infamous pirate.

“I hate you,” she blurted, unable to hold back the anger and hurt. “I hate you for what you’ve done!”

His whole body jerked as if she’d struck him. His fingers dug into the curtain.

She buried her face in her hands. It was as if Nick James, the good, decent man she had known, the tender lover who had won her heart, had vanished. As if he’d never existed, been nothing but a dream. A romantic fantasy who had come to life only briefly, in the imagination of a foolish, naive, innocent girl.

And yet...

And yet something didn’t fit.

She lifted her head, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Your friend Masud told me that you were in Merseyside. That’s why you weren’t in that pub in York.” She swallowed hard. “You were trying to save me, weren’t you?”

He wouldn’t reply.

“You risked your life, risked everything, to save me.”

“I told you once before, I’m not in the business of rescuing damsels in distress.”

“Then what were you doing in Merseyside?”

“I thought...” He hesitated a moment, and his voice became brusque when he continued. “I thought I owed you a warning. Honor among thieves and all that. And it was a mistake. Look where it’s gotten me. If I had been in that blasted pub...” Letting go of the curtain, he pivoted on his heel and strode back toward her. “You, Miss Delafield, have caused me nothing but trouble from the moment we met.”

“Our acquaintance hasn’t been particularly enjoyable for me, either,” she replied, concealing her hurt beneath glacial formality.

“And never mind where I was,” he snapped. “Let’s discuss where you were. What the hell were you doing in that pub in York? How are you involved in this blackmail scheme?”

“I’m not involved. I don’t know anything about a blackmail scheme!”

“Then what were you doing collecting that package?”

“It’s a very long story, Captain Brogan.”

“I appear to have time, Miss Delafield.” He sat on the edge of the bed. And still made no move to untie her.

He didn’t trust her.

But then, he never had.

She glared at him, hating the way her heartbeat quickened at having him so near. “When I got to my room in Merseyside, I found that it had been ransacked. My uncle was there. He... he said he was going to take me with him to London. Lock me up in some place where he would...” She couldn’t continue.

A muscle flexed in Nicholas’s bearded cheek, his voice taut. “Did he hurt you?”

She lowered her lashes. It almost sounded like concern behind his words.

No. No, she had to stop dreaming like a naïve fool.

“He didn’t have the chance,” she rushed on, her tone as sharp as the pain inside her. “The blackmailer came in right behind him. He said he had seen the stories in the papers—”

“What’s his name?”

“Foster. Joseph Foster. He blames you for making him a ‘cripple,’ as he calls it. His right arm was missing.” She looked up. “He said you and he were old acquaintances.”

Nicholas was silent a moment, his brow furrowed. “I don’t remember anyone like that. And I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Well, he seems to know a great deal about you. He said he’s been hunting you for years. He wanted to question me about some business arrangement you had made with him, because he was suspicious that you were trying to change the agreement. He ended up fighting with my uncle.” She shut her eyes. “And he killed him. And then he... he told me who you really are.”

Sam lifted her lashes and met Nicholas’s gaze again, her throat dry and tight. “And I didn’t believe him,” she choked out, unable to bear her own foolishness. “I kept trying to convince him that it must be a case of mistaken identity.”

He looked away. “You still haven’t explained—”

“Let me finish. Foster took all my money, and he took...” Her eyes suddenly swam with tears. “He took the ruby you gave me.” She blinked quickly, desperate to keep her tears from falling, refusing to raise her bound hands to wipe at her eyes.

Nicholas whispered a curse and suddenly rose from the bed, pacing back to the window.

She wished it weren’t so easy for him to walk away from her.

Almost wished they were still shackled together.

“Why?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice calm. “Why did you give that jewel to me, when it meant so much to you?”

He stared out at the dark city. “I wanted you out of England,” he said coolly. “You know too much about me.” His broad shoulders rose in a careless shrug. “I was protecting myself. Always been good at that.”

Sam dug her nails into her palms. She meant nothing to him. Nothing at all.

“So Foster robbed me blind,” she continued quickly, desperate to finish her story, to tell him what he wanted to know so she could get out of here. “And he ordered me to pick up the package for him. He suspected he was walking into a trap.”

“So you were simply to act as his courier? He was just going to trust you?”

“No. Of course not. He was there, in the pub. He was right there with a gun pointed at me.”

Nicholas jerked around to face her. “He was there and you didn’t tell Masud?”

“I didn’t know the African had anything to do with you. He was just some stranger accosting me. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him who I was. As soon as he grabbed me, I could see Foster coming across the pub toward us, but then Masud was dragging me outside, and he knocked me out... and I woke up in a coach on the way to London.”

Nicholas’s voice dissolved in a string of particularly vivid oaths. “And what did this Foster look like? Besides the missing arm?”

“He was about my age, maybe a little younger. With brown hair and blue eyes. Rather ordinary, really.”

“In other words, he could be anyone.”

“Any one of the many people who want revenge against you? One of the forgotten multitudes you hurt during your career as a pirate?”

He glowered at her. “Did he say anything else that might prove helpful?”

She tried to remember. “He mentioned something about... about you robbing him of what should have been a brilliant naval career.”

“Which doesn’t narrow it down at all.” Dropping into a wing chair in the corner, Nicholas ran his hands over his face. “Damn it, I thought this blasted mess was finished. I should have known better. What the hell made me think I could sail out of London and leave it all behind?” He rested his forehead on his palm, his elbow propped on the armrest.

He looked so worn down and vulnerable in that moment, Sam felt a sudden impulse to cross the room and reach out to him, to smooth the hair back from his forehead, to ease the lines of tension around his eyes, his mouth.

But of course, that would be difficult with her hands tied.

And it destroyed her to realize that she still had feelings for him. That she still cared for him, even knowing who he was and what he had done.

Even knowing that he felt nothing for her in return.

“Are you going to untie me?” she demanded, fighting the emotions that had her heart pounding. “I’ve told you all I know. I’m of no further use to you. Let me go.”

He raised his head and looked at her. “Tell me one thing,” he asked wearily. “Since you suspected my real identity, why did you walk into that pub at all? Why didn’t you just go to the local authorities and try to claim the ten thousand pound bounty on my head for yourself?”

Because, you idiot, I’m in love with you. She had to bite her tongue to hold it back. “Do you seriously think I’m foolish enough to go within a hundred miles of the authorities? I’m wanted for murder and my face has been in all the papers.” She lifted her chin. “I was protecting myself,” she added coolly. “I’ve always been good at that.”

He looked away. “I see.”

“Are you going to untie me?”

He seemed to think for a moment. “No, your ladyship,” he said slowly, “I’m not.”

She went still, blinking at him. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I have to keep you here.” He slanted her a hard glance. “Letting you go would be too much of a risk. You know everything—”

“And you don’t trust me. You don’t...” Care about me. She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“If I untie you, you’ll do something impulsive like try to escape out the window and shimmy down the side of the building. Without giving one thought to what you would be facing out there.” He jerked a thumb toward the dark city outside. “You have a murder charge on your head, lawmen across England hunting you, and not a shilling to your name. Where, exactly, are you planning to go?” He abruptly rose from the chair, heading for the door. “Until I figure out my next move, you’re staying right where you are.” He walked past her, leaving her there with her hands bound.

And her heart broken.

“I wish I’d never met you, Captain Nicholas Brogan!”

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder, his expression one that she hadn’t seen before. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that it was hurt she saw in his eyes.

“The feeling, Miss Delafield, is entirely mutual.”

He slammed the door behind him.

~ ~ ~

Sam awoke to find the room doused in shadows of dark navy and midnight black, moonlight spilling in through the windows. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep, or what had jarred her awake. Sitting up, she winced at the kink in her neck, blinking in the darkness.

A sound came from outside the door, a soft knock. “Come in,” she said hesitantly, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice the hoarseness of her voice.

Her throat was parched, raspy from crying.

Instead of Masud or his captain, it was the woman who entered. “Miss Delafield?” She peeked around the edge of the door, whispering. “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Please, come in.”

“I brought you something to eat.” Wearing an elegant purple dressing gown, the woman crossed the room carrying a silver tray in one hand, an oil lamp in the other. “That pair of pirates wouldn’t think of it, but I guessed you’d be hungry after so long.”

“Thank you, madame,” Sam said politely, though she had no appetite.

“Clarice. And I don’t think this is necessary, either.” Setting the lamp and the tray on the bedside table, she untied Samantha’s hands. “You’re not going anywhere, not with Masud parked outside your door. And the drop out these windows is about thirty feet, straight down.”

Sam flexed her fingers and rubbed her wrists, giving her hostess a grateful smile. “He’ll be angry with you.”

“Hell, it won’t be the first time.” Clarice picked up a china cup filled with steaming, spice-scented tea and placed it in Samantha’s hands. “Besides, no matter how much he blusters, no woman really has anything to fear from Sir Nicholas.” She handed over a plate of roast chicken.

Sam accepted both the food and drink, deciding it was best not to argue. She had had enough arguing for one day. “Sir Nicholas?”

“That’s what they called him, in the old days. For his chivalrous treatment of captives, especially the ladies. Despite all the stories spread about him, he never abused prisoners taken in raids. He never let his crew touch them, either.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “But I thought... I mean, according to his reputation, Nicholas Brogan killed without conscience, and all he cared about was money.”

Clarice laughed. “Tall tales invented by people who didn’t know him at all. I never met a man in my life who cared less about money. When I knew him, Brogan’s one and only goal was vengeance.”

Sam stared down at her own reflection in the dark surface of her tea, remembering what Nick—Nicholas—had said earlier.

“They” are not always accurate.

“Vengeance against whom, Clarice?” she asked softly. “And why?”

“It was mostly the navy he was after. I don’t know why. He never talked about his past. Not to me, not to anyone. All I know is...” She paused, sighing. “He got the vengeance he wanted. It almost killed him, but he got it. And as soon as he did, he quit. Left England, gave up piracy. He was never the greedy murderer the admiralty made him out to be.”

Sam took a sip from her cup, her hand trembling, the hot liquid burning its way down her throat. What Clarice said contradicted everything she had heard about the infamous Captain Brogan.

She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, couldn’t make sense of all the conflicting stories. But bits and pieces of what she knew about Nick—Nicholas—were starting to fit together in her mind.

Like the brand, the lash marks, his horrific childhood aboard a prison hulk... a ship run by navy overseers.

And the image that had wrenched at her heart once before: that of an orphaned boy with bright green eyes, alone, terrified, subjected to torture.

There was so much she didn’t know about Nicholas Brogan. So much that, perhaps, no one knew about him. For him, keeping his secrets had meant staying alive. It couldn’t be easy to let down his guard. To trust.

And earlier tonight, when he had finally begun to share his past in even a small way, how had she reacted? Instead of listening, instead of offering the sort of understanding and comfort he had once offered her, she had cut him off with angry, hateful words, so wrapped up in her own hurt and betrayal that she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.

“Miss Delafield?”

Startled from her thoughts, Sam lifted her head, realizing that she’d been staring down at her reflection again, oblivious to everything but memories of Nick. “I’m sorry.” Glancing down at the chicken leg she held in her hand, she set it aside on the plate. “And it’s Samantha. Or Sam.”

“Samantha...” Clarice began, studying her with a pensive expression. “I really didn’t come here to talk about Brogan’s sordid past. I wanted to...” She glanced at the abandoned chicken leg, frowning. “No appetite,” she said under her breath. “Staring off into nothing in the middle of a conversation.” She began counting on her fingers, as if ticking off a checklist. “Definite moony look in the eyes. Oh, hell, I think I’m already too late.”

“Too late?” Sam echoed, watching her in puzzlement.

With a rueful curve to her lips, Clarice pointed a lacquered fingernail at the rope she had tossed on the bedside table. “I don’t think you need that or a guard on your door to keep you here. I don’t think you want to leave him.”

Sam clutched at the fragile teacup in her hands. “That’s...” She swallowed a quick gulp of the hot liquid. “That’s—”

“The truth. Don’t bother denying it, sweetie.” Clarice sighed. “You’re not the first pretty young thing to fall for the charms of Sir Nicholas. I came here to warn you about that.” She shook her head mournfully. “Samantha, that man can’t even say the words ‘I trust you,’ never mind ‘I love you.’ If that’s what you’re hoping for... you could spend the rest of your life hoping.”

Sam’s cheeks burned. How could her feelings be so transparently clear when she barely understood them herself?

She also realized suddenly that Clarice spoke as if from experience. She felt foolish for not seeing it earlier. “You and he...”

“Let’s just say, a very long time ago, I was one of those pretty young things who fell for the charms of Sir Nicholas.” Clarice grimaced. “One of many.”

“Many,” Sam repeated in a whisper, remembering what Foster had told her about Nicholas Brogan having numerous mistresses.

“I have no regrets,” Clarice continued with a shrug. “I’ve learned my lesson, Samantha. Love may be a wonderful fantasy. It makes for pretty fairytales to amuse children. But it’s not something that we adults find very often in the real world. Learning that lesson is part of growing up.”

“I see,” Sam said, not seeing at all.

“It’s better to be realistic.” Clarice rose, carrying the lamp to the mantel opposite the bed, using it to light another lamp there. “Take me, for example. I’ve got myself a lovely house, lots of rich friends, a man who takes care of me.”

“A very nice life,” Sam said hollowly.

“Very nice,” Clarice agreed. “And my gentleman friend is quite kind. He’s sweet and thoughtful. He pays for my home, gives me gifts—”

“But he says nothing about caring or love? This benefactor of yours doesn’t love you?”

Clarice laughed, a sophisticated, sparkling sound. “I’ve never asked. I’m too old for that sort of thing, sweetie. And too smart.”

But something in Clarice’s voice and her laughter sounded forced. It made Samantha wonder whether any woman could ever truly give up on love.

And made her suspect that Clarice wasn’t following the very advice she was trying to give. “And do you love him?” she asked softly.

Clarice didn’t answer at first. She ran one finger over a porcelain figurine of a dancing lady on the mantel. “He... he comes from a wealthy and distinguished family, Samantha. I was born gutter trash in a hovel in the East End the likes of which is beyond your imagination.”

“But that shouldn’t matter if—”

“We’re from two separate worlds,” Clarice said more firmly. “And even though I can play at being part of his world, I’ll never truly belong in it. It’s impossible.” She walked back toward the bed, her smile a bit too bright. “I’ve accepted that.”

Sam felt a surge of empathy for this woman she barely knew. She understood exactly how it felt, to love the wrong man.

And to know that he did not return that love.

“I’m happy with what I’ve got.” Clarice indicated the lavishly decorated room with a sweep of her hand. “This is the best I could hope for. I’ve not done too badly for myself.”

“No,” Samantha agreed, not feeling it. “You haven’t.”

In a purely financial sense, it was true. But without love, she felt, all the riches in the world would be worthless.

“But I didn’t come here to talk about me,” Clarice chided gently. “I came here to help you.” She sat on the bed and placed a hand on Samantha’s arm, the gesture almost sisterly. “Take some advice from someone older and wiser, sweetie. Put this behind you as soon as you can. Learn from it. Find yourself a man who will treat you right. Someone stable and reliable.”

Sam sipped at her tea, not tasting it.

“A nice merchant or a barrister or an apothecary,” Clarice advised. “He won’t set you on fire, but so what? A rogue will set you on fire, all right—and burn you to a cinder and be gone before your ashes cool. Without so much as a by your leave.” She gave Sam’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Take it from me. Stay away from sailors, soldiers, actors, musicians, and outlaws of all sorts. It’s a rule of thumb to live by: never love a rogue.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good.” Standing, Clarice set the dishes of food on the bedside table, picking up the tray. “Now try to eat something, Samantha. He’s not worth losing your appetite over.” She headed for the door, but paused with her hand on the latch. “And Samantha?”

“Yes?”

“Even when you find yourself a nice barrister, guard your heart,” she whispered, opening the door. “Lock it up tight, like a safe. And never give any man the key.”