Run Wild (36 page)

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.”

W
ind 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.