Run Wild (34 page)

She was never
meant
to be his, he reminded himself ruthlessly, tying the saddlebag shut. She had been a brief taste of sweetness, a few days of heaven that would haunt him the rest of his life. All he had left were memories.

Samantha laughing as they splashed each other at the stream in the glade. The stubborn little tilt to her jaw when she argued with him. The way she had protected him like a guardian angel during his fever. The emotion and passion in her eyes when he made love to her...

Memories.

And heated images that kept him awake at night.

And a rumpled shirt.

He turned and headed for the pub door, trying to force thoughts of Samantha from his mind. There were only three days left before Michaelmas. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted at this critical point.

He walked swiftly toward the Black Angel, his shiny new boots barely making a sound on the wet paving stones. Reaching the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

A haze of smoke washed over him, carrying the pungent scents of ale and wine and male sweat that thickened the air. The only illumination came from an iron chandelier filled with flickering candles. It cast a dull glow over the hand-hewn tables and benches scattered haphazardly around the room, some filled with drunken patrons, others with men holding conversations in low tones.

He saw that there were no cheery groups of locals sharing gossip and ribald jokes and tavern songs. And there was only one other exit: a door at the back. This was a place well-suited to clandestine meetings and nefarious goings-on.

The blackmailer had chosen well, he noted, his respect and caution growing.

He moved toward the long counter that filled the right side of the room, and summoned the yawning tavernkeeper with a flick of his hand.

But before he could order an ale and ask a few questions, a hand landed on his shoulder and a quiet voice sounded behind him.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

~ ~ ~

Sitting with his back to the wall, his tricorne on the bench beside him, and one booted foot resting on the bench across from him, Nicholas studied his companion, shaking his head. “Damnation, you are the last person I expected to find here.”

Masud raised his mug of ale in salute, his grin unrepentant. “Glad to see you, too, Cap’n.”

“You never could follow orders worth a damn.” Still scowling, Nicholas took a long swallow from his own glass. “I should have had you keelhauled years ago.”

Masud nodded with a mock-serious air. “Might’ve instilled the value of discipline in me.”

“I suppose it’s too bloody late now.”

“Afraid so, Cap’n.” The African’s grin broadened. “That it is.”

Nicholas fell silent, studying his glass, running his thumb over a chip in the rim. There was no sense in sending Masud away, now that he was here. And to tell the truth, he was glad to have the company. It was good to see his quartermaster, to have loyal help at hand.

A loyal friend
, he corrected, the thought coming into his mind unbidden. He frowned, surprised at the word. He had long refused to grant any man his trust, let alone his friendship.

But Masud had stuck by him through a lot of rough seas—steadfast despite all of his captain’s failings and surly ways, always there when needed. Even during the times when Nicholas Brogan had insisted he didn’t need anyone.

Nicholas glanced up, unable to think of a better measure of a friend... or a man more deserving of the word.

He noticed the way Masud even respected his long, moody silences. His frown slowly turned into a grin. “So how long have you been here?”

“Two days. Been keeping an eye on the place.” They both shifted easily to a low, conspiratorial tone.

“Has the package arrived yet?” Nicholas lit another cheroot.

“Aye. The barkeep’s got it. Says no one has inquired about it yet. Other than me.”

Nicholas glanced at the fat man dozing behind the counter on the opposite side of the smoke-filled room. “Glad to see we’ve entrusted something so valuable to an alert, dependable sort.”

Masud chuckled. “Aye. I thought it best to be here whenever the place is open. Though I’ve practically pickled myself. His pub may be a piss-hole but his ale is good.”

Nicholas took another long swallow from his glass, laughing. “It would take more than two days of ale to pickle you, you old sot. So tell me, why aren’t you in South Carolina?”

“I only meant to take a small detour. After I dropped you off on the coast, I decided to sail down to London to have a little talk with a certain lady.”

“Clarice.” Nicholas lifted an eyebrow, curious and a little bemused. “You still think she’s involved?”

“I admit I thought she was. A woman scorned, and all...” Masud shook his head. “But she said she hasn’t given you a single thought in the past six years, and I believe her. Took me a while to track her down—she’s not in the East End anymore. Got herself a town house in Cavendish Square. Paid for by a dandiprat merchant banker who thinks the sun rises and sets in her dainties. She’s not wanting for money.”

“So she finally hooked herself a big fish, did she?” Nicholas blew a puff of smoke toward the grimy ceiling. “Always knew Clarice would land on her feet.”

He felt not a twinge of jealousy. Clarice had been a pleasant distraction during a time when he’d been single-mindedly devoted to vengeance. He had never been able to give her what she’d wanted—what she’d demanded. Money, security, devotion, a future. He and Clarice had spent as much time at each other’s throats as they had in each other’s arms. And after two years together...

A sudden, jarring thought struck him like a belaying pin between the eyes: even after two years together, he had found it easy to leave Clarice. He’d found it easy to leave
every
woman he’d ever had a liaison with.

Until Samantha.

Somehow, in a little more than a week, Samantha had become as much a part of him as the heart that pumped his life’s blood through his veins.

“Clarice’s feet are traveling in very well-to-do circles these days,” Masud continued. “She wasn’t exactly happy to see me. Her gentleman friend doesn’t know about her past associations.”

“With less-than-savory characters like us.” Nicholas forced his mind back to the topic at hand.

“And she’d just as soon keep it that way.” Masud drained his glass. “She isn’t involved in this business, Cap’n. She swears she never told a soul that you survived that fiery wreck.”

“But no one else knew,” Nicholas muttered. “No one but the three of us.”

“Maybe we were wrong about that. Someone else must have known.”

“Someone who decided not to do anything about it for six years.” Nicholas glanced at the other men seated at the tavern’s tables. “Which makes no sense.”

“Aye,” Masud agreed. “That’s why I decided to make another little detour once I left London. Figured York wasn’t all that far away. Besides, our ship wasn’t in any shape to leave port.”

Nicholas frowned. “Problem with the mizzenmast again?”

“No, the mizzen is fine. Problem with the patch job we did below the waterline a few years back. She was taking in water amidships.”

Nicholas swore.

“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed, Cap’n. I just didn’t have the money. Had to leave her in dry dock in London.”

“How much do we need?”

“About fifty, maybe seventy-five.”

“Terrific.” Nicholas felt for his coin purse. Evidently, he was going to leave England every bit as poor as he had arrived.

But better that than not leave England at all. He contemplated sending his quartermaster straight back to London with the money. “Masud, as soon as this business is over,” he nodded toward the counter at the far end of the room, “I’ve got to leave the country and fast. I... uh, ran into a little trouble with the law on my way here.”

“I wondered about that.”

The lack of curiosity in his voice surprised Nicholas. “You aren’t going to ask what’s been keeping me?”

“I know, Cap’n. Everyone in England has been talking about little else for a week.”

Nicholas felt ice slide through his veins. “What the devil do you mean?”

Masud slid from the bench and crossed to the bar, scooping up a pile of newspapers and bringing them back to the table. “It’s been in all the papers.” He pushed the newspapers across the scarred tabletop. “Thought the description of the ‘scurrilous male fugitive’ sounded familiar. Especially the sound of the way you... uh... took care of the guards.”

“Bloody hell,” Nicholas groaned, reading the blaring headlines:

DARING DAYLIGHT ESCAPE IN STAFFORDSHIRE.

MARSHALMEN KILLED. TWO FUGITIVES SOUGHT.

MAGISTRATE HIBBERT OFFERS REWARD.

Publicity was the last thing he wanted. It could be decidedly bad for his health—and Samantha’s.

“It’s really not bad news, Cap’n,” Masud said with a chuckle. “No one who doesn’t know you could guess it was you.
I
wasn’t even sure. They list you as some footpad by the name of Jasper Norwell. You’re not the one they care about.” He opened one of the papers to an inside page, pointing. “The articles are all about
her
.”

Nicholas stared at the story beneath Masud’s finger—and every sound, every movement in the pub seemed to stop for a frozen moment of time.

It was a pen-and-ink sketch of Samantha, perfect in every beautiful detail.

He grabbed the page, swearing, his hands crinkling the paper. “What in the name of—”

“The law has that picture posted on every wall in the north of England. You, they couldn’t care less about.
She’s
the one who’s big news.”

Nicholas wasn’t listening. He was reading. He felt as if all the air had been knocked from him. Like he’d been struck in the chest by a cannon blast.

He was mentioned only once or twice. Samantha was the focus of all the stories. There were descriptions of her in every paper—detailed descriptions. All supplied by a young marshalman by the name of Tucker.

Nicholas ground his teeth. He should have killed Tucker while he had the chance.

Samantha’s uncle, well-known London magistrate Prescott Hibbert, claimed to be deeply concerned about his “mad” niece. He was in the area to join the search personally. And he had offered a substantial reward for any information on her whereabouts. Anyone who had seen her in the vicinity in the past few months was asked to contact him.

Nicholas felt bile rise in his throat as he read Hibbert’s sentimental pleadings. It was all lies. Bilge water. Hibbert was the one who had hurt her.

And the bastard would no doubt do worse if he caught her.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Masud was saying, sounding jubilant. “There’s very little mention of you at all. It’s
her
they’re after. Really rather comical, isn’t it? That they think you’re just some catchpenny footpad?”

“Hilarious.” Nicholas shoved the paper aside. He didn’t have enough breath for more than that one word. Samantha was in far more danger than he was—and that irony wasn’t the least bit amusing.

A feeling he had never known before went through him, one that cut far deeper than worry or concern.

Cold, stark, overwhelming fear.

Had Samantha stopped at a town on her way to Merseyside? Had she seen a newspaper?

“Cap’n?”

Masud sounded confused, but Nicholas barely heard him. The roar of his pulse filled his ears. There was no way to warn her. No way to get to Merseyside and back before the blackmailer arrived here in York.

He had to stay here and kill whoever showed up to collect the package. It was the whole reason he’d come to England. Risked his life. He couldn’t walk away now.

What the hell was he going to do?

Samantha was alone—and she was riding straight into a trap.

T
rudging 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.