Then he drew the knife again, holding it in front of her eyes.
“Now, you wouldn’t scream for help, would you?” he asked coolly. “Because you don’t want a dozen marshalmen in here anymore than I do. We’re agreed on that, are we not? Just nod.”
She nodded.
“Very good. We’re getting off to an excellent start.”
He leaned closer. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the cold touch of the blade against her skin.
But the chill against her cheek lasted only a second. He cut off the gag.
However, he left her hands bound. Her arms were tingling, going numb.
She tried to speak but her mouth had gone dry. “W-who... what—”
“Let’s not waste time, Miss Delafield. I have precious few hours to spare. Just to expedite this matter, let me explain a few things.” He pulled up another chair, turned it around and sat in front of her, folding his arm over the back. “It was the stories in the papers that caught my attention—”
“What stories? What are you—”
The tip of the knife touched her chin. “Please don’t interrupt. And please don’t waste my time by playing the innocent. As I said, I’m in something of a hurry.” He withdrew the knife, but dangled it in his fingertips only inches from her face.
Sam strained at the ropes that bound her wrists, hating that she was helpless, glaring at him in furious silence.
“Better,” he said. “Now then, after I noticed the stories in the papers, I located your uncle and followed him, figuring that he would lead me to you. I had hoped to find the answers I seek still attached to your ankle... but unfortunately, it seems that you and your nefarious companion have parted company.”
Nick, she thought with a sudden rush of understanding and an equally strong rush of fear. He was after Nick.
“When the marshalmen ransacked your room and found nothing,” he continued, “your uncle decided to wait for you. I thought he might know something I didn’t, so I decided to wait, too. I was about to give up and leave, when you finally arrived and... well, you know the rest.” He toyed with the knife, turning it deftly in his fingers. “All I want, Miss Delafield, are the answers to a few simple questions. Give me what I want and you can be on your way.”
“Not without that box in your coat pocket, I can’t.”
Her answer seemed to surprise him. “You should be grateful that I’m letting you escape with your life.”
“You expect me to believe that you’ll allow me to walk away, Mr. Foster? Killing seems to come rather easily to you.”
His eyes darkened. “I don’t kill without reason. I’ve merely learned a few ways of defending myself over the years. As I said before, it’s not you or your lecherous uncle that I care about. Now are you going to answer my questions?”
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 s
hoot 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.”
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 se
nse 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.”
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