Foster shook his head and muttered something under his breath. She couldn’t quite make it out, but the tone sounded insulting and she caught the word blondes followed by witless. “Miss Delafield, you are grasping at straws.”
“And you’re blinded by your thirst for vengeance.”
He turned to glare at her. “You live my life for a just one day, lady, and then tell me I’m not entitled.”
She looked from his youthful face to the empty sleeve that dangled from his shoulder, then dropped her gaze. “I realize your life must be difficult. But you’re not the only person in the world who’s ever suffered—”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to live as a cripple, Miss Delafield? To have people stare at you everywhere you go? To see pity and revulsion in their eyes?” He shot the questions at her. “Do you know how a man who’s only half a man earns a living? He scrapes out an existence. Resorts to begging to survive. Spends every day and every night of his life alone—”
He cut himself off abruptly, turned to look out the window again.
Sam pressed herself back into the plush cushions of the coach, stricken by his outburst, and by his pain. She felt a wave of sympathy and pity that she knew would enrage him. His life must indeed be terrible, she thought—not because he had lost an arm, but because he had given up hope at such a young age, had allowed hatred and bitterness to turn his heart to stone.
“Mr. Foster, you may not believe this,” she ventured, “but I know what it’s like to be alone—”
He spat an oath. “Save your sad tales for someone who cares. Whatever you’ve suffered is nothing compared to what I’ve suffered. Especially at the hands of Nicholas Brogan.” He said Brogan like a curse, as if the very name were responsible for all his pain. “You, he merely seduced and discarded, the way he’s always treated his doxies.” Foster turned toward her again, his voice cold. “Would you like to know how many mistresses he’s had? I could give you a rough estimate—”
“No, thank you,” she retorted, her voice brittle. “I can live without that particular piece of information.”
“Suit yourself. But believe me, Miss Delafield, this is not a case of mistaken identity. I’ve spent years hunting Brogan down. I’ve learned a great deal about him. And it’s not vengeance I’m after,” he said flatly. “It’s justice. That bastard could have pursued Spanish or French ships but he made it his mission to harass our ships—Royal Navy ships. British ships. He’s a traitor who deserves to be strung up on Execution Dock. Instead he’s been living a merry life in the Colonies, with all his wealth and women.” Foster glanced out the window again, then rapped on the ceiling of the coach with the butt of his pistol. “He can spare a few thousand pounds for me. I only want what I’m entitled to.”
The coach rolled to a stop.
“This is the place.” His voice hardened as he pointed the gun at her. “Cling to your illusions if you like. Just remember to do as I’ve told you. To the letter.”
Her eyes on the gun, Sam couldn’t summon a reply. She was in a great deal of danger no matter what she did.
If she tried to warn Nick, she could be guilty of aiding and abetting one of the most notorious criminals in English history.
But if she did as Foster ordered, she could be signing a death warrant for the man she loved.
Concealing the gun in the pocket of his frock coat, Foster got to his feet. “Time for you to earn your freedom, Miss Delafield.”
He pushed open the door and stepped down from the carriage, glancing left and right along the crowded street before motioning her out. He paid the hackney driver, but even before the coach rolled away, Sam felt the barrel of the pistol jammed into her ribs.
“In case you feel the urge to get creative with the instructions I’ve given you,” he said as he pushed her toward a tavern a few yards down the street, “I want you to keep one thing in mind.”
“And what is that?” She tried to sound utterly cool and composed.
He nodded to the tavern sign overhead. She gazed up at the letters spelling out the pub’s name, the Black Angel, and the picture below—a demon with a menacing expression and a pitchfork in one hand.
“He’s not worth dying for,” Foster finished.
Sam’s throat tightened painfully. “A brand and a few lash marks,” she insisted, “do not make a man Nicholas Brogan.”
Foster chuckled, a low, mocking sound. “We shall see.” They were only a few feet from the door. “I’ll go in ahead of you. Count to twenty before following me in. I don’t want it to appear that there’s any connection between us.”
“Understood.”
“And remember, I’ll be watching. I’ll have my eyes and my gun on you—and your money in my pocket.”
With one last hard look, he went inside, leaving her in the street.
Sam stood in the shadows beside the door while the crowd moved and flowed around her. She began counting. One... two...
She still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Some of what Foster had told her rang true. She had seen Nick fight, had seen him kill with brutal efficiency. And why would he refuse to tell her about his past—unless it was too horrible to reveal?
Three... four... five...
But how could Nick, the man who had made love to her so passionately, who had held her so tenderly, who had comforted her, protected her, saved her life, made her laugh—how could that man possibly be Nicholas Brogan?
Six... seven... eight...
Shouldn’t she give Nick a chance to explain himself?
Nine... ten... eleven...
Shouldn’t she try to warn him?
Twelve... thirteen... fourteen...
Oh, hellfire and damnation! If she had any sense at all, she would run. Run from this blasted place. From York. From England. Leave right now.
Fifteen... sixteen... seventeen...
But she couldn’t get far without a single shilling in her pockets.
Eighteen... nineteen...
And despite everything, she would not abandon Nick to his fate. Foster might be lying. He might be wrong. Nick might not even be here.
Twenty.
Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped into the pub.
With a single glance, she scanned the room. Coughing on the thick cigar smoke, she looked for those emerald eyes, that black hair and strong, bearded jaw and broad shoulders. The Black Angel was crowded—but she didn’t see Nick.
Even disguised, she would recognize him.
He wasn’t here.
Smiling in relief, she shot a look of triumph at the tense young man who sat on the far side of the tavern. He was wrong. Foster had had it all wrong! The man he was after was not Nick James!
He merely nodded toward the counter, reminding her of her assignment.
Awash in relief, she moved quickly to comply. The sooner she fetched his accursed package, the sooner she could be on her way. She elbowed her way through the crowd, heading straight for the tavernkeeper.
~ ~ ~
Masud sat in a dark corner at the rear of the pub, hat pulled low over his eyes, a newspaper concealing his face. He peeked over the top edge now and then, glancing toward the tavernkeeper, awaiting the signal they had agreed upon.
The crowd in the Black Angel was unusually large today—farmers, townspeople, travelers all out enjoying the holiday and the good weather.
So far, there had been no sign of his quarry.
But he was a patient huntsman. Smoking a cheroot, he easily divided his attention between the task at hand, the paper before him... and astonishment at the fact that he was sitting here alone. He still could not believe the way Cap’n Brogan had left so abruptly.
Because of a woman.
He kept shaking his head, still stunned even two days after his captain’s mumbled explanation and sudden departure. Masud never would have believed it possible, would have laughed himself stupid if anyone had even suggested it—but it was clear that Nicholas Brogan, scourge o
f the high seas, terror of every gentle English heart, had fallen in love. And fallen hard.
After a couple of decades spent resisting the wiles of the fairer sex, the captain was completely besotted. Not that he would ever admit it, of course. Couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. He had sputtered some bilge about honor among thieves and owing the lady his life and then he had gone to rescue her.
Almost more mystifying was what he had said as he left. Two words Masud had never heard from him before.
Be careful.
An expression of concern. A casual sort of thing one might say to a friend.
From a man who had always sworn that he had no friends.
Glancing over the top of his newspaper again, Masud sat up straight. The tavernkeeper was signaling him, surreptitiously gesturing toward a cloaked figure at the far end of the counter.
Masud nodded, and the tavernkeeper carried the package toward the person who had come to claim it. Tension and ready violence flooded through Masud’s veins. So this was the blackmailer, at long last...
He went still, staring at the unmistakable curves beneath that woolen cloak. It was a woman!
The momentary surprise faded a second later. Hadn’t he suspected this possibility? Hell truly had no fury like a woman scorned. He grimaced. The blackmailer’s sex didn’t change a thing. Not with his captain’s life at stake.
She was the one who had chosen to play this dangerous game.
And hell was exactly where this woman was headed.
The tavernkeeper handed her the package. There was no time to waste.
Say your prayers, you blackmailing wench.
Rising from his seat, Masud slipped his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers closing around a knife that fit perfectly in his palm. The small, lethal blade would do the job quickly, quietly.
He would slit her throat and be out the door before anyone knew what had happened.
Before her body even hit the floor.
Chapter 24
London
Fog descended with the gray light of evening, swathing the streets of Cavendish Square in a cloak punctured only by the occasional gleam of a streetlamp. Most of the homes lining the elegant avenues already had their curtains drawn for the night, as families inside gathered for supper. Smoke billowed from every chimney, thick tendrils rising to curl greedily around the sun, which hung suspended like a burnished gold pocket watch over the rooftops.
Nicholas rode alone through the streets, paying little attention to the wealth displayed all around him, even less to the half-finished cheroot smoldering between his fingertips. His stallion clopped along at a walk. Now and then, a carriage clattered past or a harried servant, arms laden with packages, crossed the street in front of him, but he barely noticed. Though he felt a clammy chill in the air, he didn’t bother to button his greatcoat.
The cold and darkness closing in around him matched his mood perfectly.
It had been two days since he’d left Merseyside. Alone. Samantha had been long gone by the time he located her room. She hadn’t needed his help after all, had apparently taken care of her problem herself. All he had found were a swarm of lawmen and her uncle, dead. Evidently she had killed the lecherous old sot herself and escaped.
His gaze fell to the worn cobbles beneath his horse’s hooves. By now, she was no doubt on her way to Venice.
He should feel happy and relieved about that... but he didn’t.
The fact that he would never see her again left him feeling as dark and empty as one of the chimneys that spat smoke into the gathering twilight. He hadn’t realized the truth until it slapped him in the face: part of him had been racing to Merseyside to save her...
But part of him had been racing there, risking everything, just to see her again.
And now she was gone. Out of his life. Forever.
He scowled, hating the pain that idea brought. He lifted his head, watched the red-gold sun melt over a distant church spire. Damn it, he had never wanted to feel anything for Samantha Delafield. What was the point? What was the bloody point in learning just how much he could feel for her, now after it was too late?
Except to drive home a lesson he’d already learned decades ago: that God took from him whoever he cared about.
And to exact further payment for the sins he had committed, remind him that he would never be forgiven.
Closing his eyes, he stuck the cheroot between his teeth again, exhaled the hot smoke. “I get the point already,” he muttered under his breath.
The hell of it was, he knew he had no one but himself to blame. He didn’t deserve the sweetness and warmth that Samantha had brought to his life. A woman like her had not been made for a man like Captain Nicholas Brogan.
And he never could have revealed his secrets to her, told her the truth about his past, his crimes. Could not have asked her to forgive the unforgivable.
Could not have endured seeing hatred in her beautiful golden eyes.
It was better this way, for them both. A clean break. Clean and final.
He kept telling himself that as he arrived at the town house on Sussex Street, noting with only fleeting interest that Clarice had indeed done well for herself. The place all but reeked of money, from its polished windows and soaring brick facade to the neatly landscaped yard complete with a dozen red rosebushes. He rode around to the back and stabled his horse, then headed for the rear entrance, doffing his hat to rake a weary hand through his matted hair.
It surprised him somewhat that no one was waiting to meet him. He had thought Masud would be keeping watch.
Unless Masud hadn’t arrived yet.
He knocked at the back door. No one answered. Leaning against the door jamb, he knocked again, frowning. The cheroot in his hand made a tiny red beacon in the fog and gathering darkness. He had to use the polished brass knocker a third time before the door was opened—yanked right out from under his fingers.
“If you expect me to bid you welcome,” a familiar feminine voice snapped, “you’ll be waiting the rest of your miserable life.”
The greeting was almost enough to make him smile despite his bleak mood. Some people never changed. “I can see you’ll make a most pleasant hostess, Clarice.”
“Well, don’t stand there attracting attention.” She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside, closing the door only after she looked around to make sure nobody had seen them.
“You don’t appear pleased to see me.”
“Oh, I’m thrilled.” She locked the door and rounded on him. “Absolutely thrilled.”
The years had been kind to her, he noticed by the light of a crystal chandelier glowing overhead. There wasn’t a dark curl out of place in her elaborate coiffure, her figure was still perfect, and whatever lines time might have drawn on her skin had been artfully concealed with cosmetics. Clarice could still outshine half the beauties in London.
What surprised him was that he felt not a single stirring of the old fires that had burned between them, all those years ago. Time, it seemed, had permanently banked those flames.
Time and a golden-eyed lady who had branded him forever.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Clarice said with exaggerated politeness, folding her arms over her chest, “but I don’t remember inviting a bunch of stray fugitives to take a holiday under my roof. What makes you and that arrogant friend of yours think you can just stroll in and take over after all these years? I am not running a home for wayward ex-pirates here!”
Nicholas removed his tricorne and greatcoat, tossing them over a nearby chair. “Masud and I just need a safe place to hide for a couple of days until our ship can be repaired. Is he—”
“This is not a safe place. And give me that foul-smelling thing.” She snatched the cheroot from his fingertips just as he was about to take another puff. “I have enough trouble on my hands without having to explain why my house smells like the back room of a Spitalfields tavern. I’ve got myself an arrangement with a rich widower—”
“A merchant banker, I’m told.” He watched with dismay as she disposed of his last cheroot in a pretty lacquered dustbin. “Congratulations.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “He’s a very kind, generous gentleman.” She drew out each word, especially the last one, her hazel eyes boring into him. “Who likes to visit me frequently. Sometimes daily. I’ve had to go through all sorts of hell—”
“Watch it, Clarice. You’ve been around me less than five minutes and already your language is slipping.”
“—to explain to him why he can’t call on me at the moment. He doesn’t know anything about my past.”
“And I sure as hell am not going to tell him,” Nicholas assured her. “I have no intention of interfering with your affairs, Clarice. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I thought it wise to get off the streets and out of the public eye before I end up full of bullet holes. I’ve made the papers, you know.”
“It’s not the first time.” Her voice and demeanor softened—so imperceptibly that someone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t have noticed. “And that’s the whole point. You’re not safe anywhere in England. Certainly not in London. Not even here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you do still care.”
She scowled at him. “Blow it out your scuppers, Brogan. All I want is exactly what I wanted six years ago—you out of my life. As quickly as possible.”
“We’ll be out of your way just as soon as the ship is ready. Now then, can I talk to Masud?” He turned and headed down the corridor. “I assume from your pleasant good humor that he’s arrived ahead of me.”
“Upstairs.” Taking a candelabra from a polished table, she followed him. “He arrived this morning.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
She pushed past him to lead the way up a curving, gilded staircase. Nicholas couldn’t help noticing the richly appointed rooms, the gleaming marble floors. Despite all the verbal daggers he and Clarice always threw at one another, and all the past wounds inflicted, he felt genuinely glad that she had found the happiness she had always sought. “I take it the servants have the night off?”
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