She barely noticed as the storm gathered strength around her, the gentle rain becoming a drenching cascade. Tears joined the raindrops that clung to her lashes. She closed her fingers around Nick’s gift. This gem had meant so much to him. He had been counting on it to buy him a better life in the Colonies. And after paying the blacksmith, he couldn’t have even a hundred pounds in coins left.
He had sacrificed his own comfort, perhaps more. For her.
Pressing the jewel to her chest, she looked over the fields, west, toward York.
Nick James did care about her. He might not be able to say the words, but he cared.
And he had stolen her heart as easily as he had stolen this gem.
But none of that changed the fact that he did not want her in his life.
Sam wiped at her eyes. He was still very much a mystery to her—and always would be. He was gone, out of her life, part of her past.
And she needed to keep moving. Gather up the fractured pieces of her heart and just keep moving. She had to seek shelter. Turning her horse back onto the road, she slipped the ruby back into her skirt pocket…but could not make herself let it go.
In another two days, she would reach her flat in Merseyside. And then, thanks to Nick’s gift, she would be on her way to Venice.
The Black Angel.
Clearly, this was not one of York’s finer establishments.
Sitting astride a spirited gray hunter a few yards down the street, Nicholas studied the pub that had been his destination for weeks, a fiery satisfaction pumping through his veins that he could only call triumph.
He flicked a glance into the clear night sky, sending a defiant glare heavenward.
He had made it. Despite all the insurmountable obstacles thrown into his path. Despite the physical suffering he had endured—and the other, more painful retribution God had meted out. He had made it, with three days to spare.
Keeping the horse under control with one firm hand on the reins, he reached up to raise the collar on his greatcoat and pull his tricorne low over his eyes. It wouldn’t pay to let impatience get the better of him now. The streets were almost deserted at this late hour, most of the night’s revelers having already stumbled home, but it was still wise to be cautious. He nudged his mount forward.
The pub huddled in the middle of a row of cheap gin shops and bawdy houses. A pair of grimy oil lamps on either side of the door spilled light onto the street and illuminated the wooden sign that hung from an iron stanchion.
The Black Angel. The tavern’s name was spelled out in bold lettering, above a picture of a winged creature with a fierce expression—and a pitchfork in one hand.
Nicholas grimaced, certain now that the blackmailer was someone who knew him. Someone who had seen the brand. This place had not been chosen by chance.
Anger and resentment made his heart pound hard against his ribs. He didn’t like the feeling that his unknown, unseen adversary held all the cards. Didn’t like being forced into this game. Whoever the blackmailer was, he was about to discover that gambling carried risk.
That he’d made a grave, greedy mistake the day he’d sent that note to South Carolina.
Dismounting, Nicholas tried to appear calm and casual as he led his horse toward a hitching post. Tried to blend in to his surroundings. Fortunately, at the moment he looked more like a member of the house of commons than a ruthless pirate.
He had stopped at a town after leaving Cannock Chase, where he traded the sluggish draft horse for the fastest animal he could afford, wolfed down a hot meal, and bought himself a new set of clothes. In addition to the greatcoat and tricorne, he now wore a waistcoat and breeches of navy blue brocade, a ruffled shirt with a fancy ascot that was choking him, and a frock coat with wide cuffs.
Appearances could be deceiving. And helpful.
Tying his stallion to the hitching post, he pretended to be loosening the cinch on the animal’s saddle while he surreptitiously glanced around, wariness lifting the fine hairs on the back of his neck.
He didn’t see anyone. No one crouched in a doorway, no one peered from nearby windows. No one had been posted on watch.
Of course, the blackmailer was not expecting his arrival. The cove would come here three days from now expecting to find a package—not Nicholas Brogan himself.
With a grim smile of anticipation, Nicholas opened his saddlebag, pausing to light a cheroot, a daily indulgence that he had missed for too long. The smoke curled into the cool night air as he exhaled. A few days and several drenching downpours had made a marked difference in the weather, the long, humid summer finally giving way to the first chilly bite of autumn.
As he tucked the box of cheroots back into his saddlebag, his fingers brushed the white cotton shirt stuffed into the bottom…the shirt he’d stolen from the gypsy wagon.
The one that carried a light trace of Samantha’s scent.
He withdrew his hand, frowning at the rumpled garment, telling himself he should just get rid of it. Leave it behind with everything else he’d brought out of Cannock Chase.
But somehow he couldn’t. He’d had ample opportunity over the past couple of days to dispose of it, yet he kept carrying it around.
He shook his head at his own foolishness, beginning to realize that time and distance were not going to dull these maddening feelings. He couldn’t stop thinking about Samantha. He couldn’t even get used to the strange sensation of not having the shackle around his ankle.
Every step he took reminded him of her.
And while riding in the drenching rain, he had found himself worrying about her thin chemise and skirt, wondering whether she had bought a coat or cape to protect herself from the weather. Or stopped somewhere to seek shelter.
Was she safe? Was she taking care to avoid the lawmen who were almost certainly still searching for the two of them?
Was she afraid?
He closed the flap on the saddlebag with a sharp motion, reminding himself that Samantha had survived on her own for six years before meeting him. She didn’t need his protection. Inhaling deeply of the fragrant cheroot smoke, he blew a blue-gray cloud into the night air.
But he barely tasted what had long been one of his favorite pleasures. He was too busy wondering what Samantha had thought when she found the ruby in her skirt pocket.
Wishing he could have seen the expression on her face.
He abruptly realized he was gazing into the night sky with an idiotic grin tugging at his mouth. He blinked hard, trying to come back to his senses, clamping the cheroot tighter between his teeth.
It had been a senseless act of generosity, giving away that jewel. One he would no doubt live to regret. But there was no sense in tormenting himself over it, or anything else concerning his ex-traveling companion. Samantha was no longer his responsibility, no longer…his.
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 glo
w 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 bar on 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.” 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, grudgingly turned upward 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 bar on the opposite side of the smoke-filled room. “Glad to see we’ve entrusted something so valuable to an alert, dependable sort.”
Masud laughed. “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, chuckling. “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 bar 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 stack 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 cheerfully. “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 car
e about.” He opened one of the papers to an inside page, pointing. “The articles are all about her.”
Nicholas stared at the full-page story beneath Masud’s finger—and every sound, every movement in the pub seemed to stop for a frozen moment of time.
At the top of the article 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 sounded 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.
Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1) Page 25
