Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1)

by Shelly Thacker

  She managed to look thoroughly wanton and utterly angelic at the same time. So sweet in his embrace, so trusting. His heart couldn’t seem to slow down.

  You matter to me.

  The words she had spoken earlier kept running through his mind. It had been a very long time since he had mattered to a woman. To anyone.

  Longer still since anyone had mattered to him.

  He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this…important to him. All he knew was that he couldn’t keep denying it.

  You matter to me, too, angel.

  He shut his eyes, unable to say it, the confusing feelings knotted together in his chest, the words choked up in his throat.

  Then he became aware of moisture sliding down his ribs…from tears on her cheeks.

  “Samantha?” he asked softly, hearing the concern in his own voice as he reached down and tilted her head up. “Oh, hell, I—”

  “No. No, it’s not that. You didn’t hurt me,” she assured him. “I’m not crying because of that. It’s because I…” She hid her face against his chest. “You’ve given me such…you make me feel…” Her voice became a whisper. “Nick, I can’t even put it into words.”

  Her gentle admission made an ache unfurl through him. She filled a place inside him that had been dark and empty for a very long time. Filled it with warmth and light and…life.

  “Even with a shackle around my ankle and lawmen on our trail,” she said with a little laugh, tracing lazy patterns along his chest with one finger. “I’m happy. For the first time in years…I’m happy.”

  He tightened his arms around her. He could almost feel her happiness seeping into him. It was a completely new experience. One of many he’d had in the last few days.

  Never, in all his innumerable liaisons, had he ever made a woman happy. He’d made love to them, made light of them, even made room for them on his ship now and then…but mostly he had made them miserable.

  But Samantha was different. Unlike any woman he’d ever met. Her courage, her cleverness, and her impetuous enthusiasm for life all captivated him as much as her beauty. And her innocence and gentle heart affected him in ways he had never imagined possible.

  Made him yearn for all the things he had denied himself these past six years, he thought with a painful tightness in his throat. Warmth, kindness. Caring. Things he had thought he didn’t need to survive.

  Samantha made him see—as if a blindfold had been ripped from his eyes—that he’d been living only half a life. That in every way that mattered, he had died in that fiery wreck six years ago.

  And he realized as he held her that he didn’t want to let her go, not tonight…and not tomorrow.

  He didn’t want to send her off to Venice, where she would no doubt attract suitors by the gondola load. She might think she’d enjoy an independent life there, but with her beauty and charm, she wouldn’t be alone for long. Some rich baron or count would snap her up.

  Just like he had snapped up the gypsies’ ruby.

  He frowned as he imagined the Italian signori prowling around her villa, each man intent on making her his own, maybe making her his wife—

  He cut that thought short as a surge of possessiveness shot through him. The image of Samantha with another man, lying in the brocade-draped bed of some Italian count…

  “Nick?”

  “Sorry.” He had to consciously relax his hold on her, realizing he was squeezing too tight.

  Possessiveness was yet another new experience. He had never been possessive with a woman before. He cherished his own freedom too much to interfere with anyone else’s. He had never expected or demanded exclusive relationships with his mistresses.

  But now he found himself entertaining reckless ideas: ideas of taking Samantha with him.

  Keeping her with him.

  “Nick?” she asked hesitantly. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to…to tell you.”

  He shifted his weight and looked down at her, smiling, glad for a distraction from his bewildering thoughts. “Yes?” He wondered if there was something else about her past she wanted to share.

  Sitting up, she reached for her yellow silk gown—only to have it fall apart in her fingers. She blushed profusely. There wasn’t much left of it.

  “Sorry about that.” With a grin that betrayed his lack of remorse, Nicholas handed her his new shirt. Her new clothes were out of reach under one of the other trees. “You were saying?”

  She slid her arms into the sleeves. “Well, when we were in the cave, during your fever…” She paused while he helped with the buttons. “You…were delirious for a while, and you…said some things.”

  His fingers froze. He felt as if a load of lead ballast had just been dropped on his head. “Things?”

  She covered his hand with hers, looking at him with concern in her eyes. “About how you came to have the brand.”

  He stared at her, mute, horrified.

  “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “You talked about how you…you saw your father hanged. And the prison hulk, and a man with the branding iron. You said the name Wakefield.”

  Nicholas remained utterly still, his every nerve ending on edge. He didn’t confirm or deny the truth of what he’d apparently let slip. “What else did I say?”

  “That was all.” She threaded her fingers through his, smiling. “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “You understand?” he repeated on a dry throat.

  “Yes. You were thrown in gaol for a crime your father committed. It wasn’t your fault.” Her eyes held compassion…and curiosity. “And I think I can guess the rest.”

  He withdrew his hand from her touch, feeling as if he were suddenly, entirely made of ice. “Can you really?”

  “I don’t think you’re a planter.”

  A riot of curses tumbled through his head. But he had no voice.

  “You fight as if you’re used to fighting,” she continued. “And you tell directions nautically. You’ve always checked which way we’re going by looking at the stars. You haven’t been finding our way, you’ve been navigating it. Then there’s the way you work with rope—those knots you used to secure the fishing creel. And the brand…and your scars. It looks like you’ve been flogged.”

  He felt as if he were splintering into painful glass shards.

  “I’d say you’re a seafaring man,” she said triumphantly. “Perhaps an officer in the navy? You’re certainly no planter. Or if you are now, you haven’t always been. And you wouldn’t be an ordinary seaman. You’re too used to giving orders and having them obeyed.” Smiling, she reached out, caressing his bearded cheek with her fingertips. “Won’t you tell me the truth…Captain?”

  “No.”

  His curt reply seemed to take her completely by surprise. She stared at him in confusion, the warmth slowly melting from her expression. “But—”

  “No,” he repeated more forcefully. “No, I don’t care to tell you the truth. Do I need to make it any clearer for you?” He untangled himself from her, stood up, wanted to walk away.

  And hated that he couldn’t. The chain pulled taut before he moved two paces.

  He couldn’t move. Trapped, he went still, left with no outlet for the anger coursing through him, the disbelief. He had told her. Damn him, he had told her about his past—not all of it, but far too much. He stood in the shadows, breathing hard, unable to even look at her.

  What a tale she had spun from the few strands that she knew! Hellfire and damnation. She thought he was some kind of bloody naval hero? Him?

  She thought he was the innocent one, that his father had been guilty of a terrible crime?

  She was so naive, so eager to believe the best about him—when the truth was completely the opposite.

  The truth was that his father had been an innocent man wrongly accused.

  While he, Nicholas Brogan, had committed terrible crimes that could never be forgiven. Had spent fourteen years in a mindless quest for vengeance. Spilled an ocean o
f blood. Heedlessly hacked down whoever stood between him and his quarry.

  Including a child. He had taken the life of a child.

  He shut his eyes, clenching his fists, choked by guilt. How would that compare to her image of him as some kind of noble navy captain?

  He didn’t have to guess. He knew that a woman as gentle and innocent as Samantha would never be able to forgive such a senseless act of violence.

  “Nick.” She sounded as if he’d knocked the breath from her. “I don’t understand. After all we’ve shared…after…” She struggled to speak. “You still don’t trust me?”

  He could not make himself face her. “The less you know, the better off you are,” he said tersely.

  “But I thought…I thought you…”

  He turned. “What?” he snapped.

  She gazed up at him, looking perplexed, mystified.

  Hurt.

  He knew what she wanted to say. I thought you cared. The word was like a knife in his gut, and she hadn’t even said it aloud.

  She couldn’t possibly understand. And he couldn’t make her understand. A man like him couldn’t care. Not about her, not about anyone. The crimes he had committed all those years ago had doomed him forever. Sentenced him to a life of secrecy.

  A life alone.

  For a few idiotic, reckless moments, he had forgotten that. Had allowed himself to entertain the idea of being a man like other men, with softness and tenderness in his life. The softness and tenderness that only a woman could offer. One special woman.

  But there was no way to change what he was—a pirate with years of sin branded on his soul.

  He had made his choice when he was barely more than a boy, with no thought for the future, no concern but vengeance. And never had he regretted it.

  Until now.

  “Nick,” she whispered, her eyes full of pain.

  “Don’t,” he bit out. “Don’t ask questions you don’t really want answered, Samantha. And trust me,” he added darkly, “you don’t want that one answered.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I can’t explain it to you.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  He turned away. How the hell had this gotten so complicated? Once, he had intended to take his pleasure of her and take his leave. Then he had thought to merely initiate her into the pleasures of her passion and again simply walk away.

  But she had made mincemeat of all his intentions. This lady possessed the most unfathomable ability to befuddle his mind and blast his motives to dust. He couldn’t simply shrug her off as he had every other female who had shared his bed.

  But he had to walk away from her. He had to. He couldn’t take her with him. Couldn’t tell her the truth. It would be better for them both to send her away to Venice, to her dreams.

  He felt another blade in his gut, twisting this time. Frustrated, he fell back on a phrase that had served him well in the past. “I never offered you any promises.”

  “I never asked for any.”

  Swearing, he faced her again. “Then what’s the problem? I thought we both knew what was happening. What we shared was”—he forced the word out, his voice sharp as a knife edge—“pleasure, nothing more.”

  She flinched as if he had slapped her.

  And he wished that the darkness of Cannock Chase would close in and swallow him whole.

  “Yes, of course.” Her voice became cool and even, as if she were making a great effort to control it. “Pleasure and nothing more.”

  She looked so small and fragile, swamped by his shirt, the cuffs engulfing her hands. It made his heart ache just to look at her. “Then what is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “The truth.”

  He shook his head, looked away.

  The truth that she wanted would be the end of everything. The truth—his past, his real name and identity—would turn the hurt in her eyes to shock, horror.

  And hatred.

  Because Nicholas Brogan, scourge of the Atlantic, terror of the Caribbean, despised by every law-abiding, God-loving Englishman, was exactly the sort of man that a good, sweet woman like Samantha Delafield would utterly loathe.

  And it would do no good to try and explain that his infamous reputation had far exceeded his actual deeds.

  Because his actual deeds were more than enough to merit her hatred.

  And if he told her even a hint of the truth, he would have to spend the rest of his life wondering whether she had mentioned his name to someone else. To anyone else.

  He already had one blackmailer to worry about. He didn’t want to live the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for a few dozen more.

  His life was going to be bleak enough as it was.

  When he looked at her again, the force of that fact hit him like a physical blow. On their first night in gaol, he had suspected that this lady would have some part to play in the divine retribution God had in store for him—and now he knew that was true.

  She had been a brief taste of heaven. Of genuine happiness. The only one he would ever know.

  He clenched his jaw, tried to harden his voice. “Sorry to have to disappoint you on that score, your ladyship. If it’s truth you want, you’ve got the wrong man. If you had rules and conditions, you should have spelled them out before you and I—”

  “Stop it.”

  “I just wanted to make it clear—”

  “It’s clear,” she said icily. “Everything is clear. I understand you perfectly.”

  The sun broke through the trees. She rose and walked past him, the chain clanking, and scooped up her new clothes. Turning her back, she started unbuttoning the shirt she wore, her movements slow and steady.

  Then she passed it to him in a calm, civilized manner that twisted the knife in his gut all over again. He almost wished she would throw it at him. Curse him.

  Instead she simply started to dress in her new clothes. Didn’t say another word.

  Nicholas turned his back. Partly to give her some measure of privacy, partly because he didn’t want her to notice that he couldn’t keep his own hands steady. Pulling his shirt on, he tried to ignore that her warm, soft scent permeated the cloth. He buttoned it to his throat with quick, savage motions, covering the brand on his chest, as he had so many innumerable times in the past. The mark of the Molloch. The indelible evidence of who and what he was.

  What he would always be.

  Samantha would be better off without him. Soon, she would be on her way to Venice. Which was for the best, he told himself. She already knew too much about him. He would be safer with her out of England. And maybe, when he put some miles between them, all of these blasted feelings would go away.

  Besides, she would be happy there. She would have her villa by the Adriatic, her lacemaking work…

  And some rich Italian count or baron for a husband.

  Bile burned his throat. He clenched his hands, wanting to throttle the bastard—whoever he would be. The vision of Samantha showering her sweet passion on some other man made him want to put his fist through the nearest tree.

  And of course, now that he had shown her she had nothing to fear from lovemaking, she would be less reluctant to accept another man in her bed.

  He muttered an oath.

  “Are you ready, your ladyship?” he asked curtly. “It’s time to go.”

  The sun, Sam thought, had the most awful way of revealing things. Everything that had seemed dreamy and magical and special last night had been exposed by the glaring light of day.

  Transformed into something common and real and painful.

  And the worst part was that she could see her own foolishness now, with agonizing clarity.

  As she followed Nick through the trees, heading back toward the gypsy camp, their shackles jangling, she kept hearing his biting, cynical words. I never offered you any promises.

  It was true. He hadn’t said a word about caring, or any feelings at all. Clearly, he didn’t have any feelings for her. She
had been a pleasant distraction to him, nothing more.

  And she couldn’t even hate him for it. He had shared with her exactly what he had offered: physical pleasure. He hadn’t hurt her. Hadn’t taken anything by force. She had given it all willingly.

  She had given him her innocence.

  She had given him her heart.

  The first he had accepted gladly.

  The second he didn’t want.

  If she had misinterpreted his soft words and gentle touches, had seen behind them a meaning that wasn’t there, that was her own stupid mistake. Obviously there was a lot she still didn’t understand about lovemaking.

  She had thought it involved the heart, not merely the body.

  The morning sun felt unseasonably hot, beating down on her, plastering her stolen chemise to her back and shoulders. The coins in the deep pocket of her green silk skirt bumped against her leg now and then. Nick carried the bulk of their stolen money in the coin purse, but he had insisted on giving her a few guineas. She would need to buy food on her way to Merseyside, he had pointed out—after they were separated.

  She stared at his broad back as he trudged ahead of her. Those were the last words he had spoken to her. He had barely even spared her a glance since they set out at dawn.

  Which was just as well, she thought gratefully. She had come perilously close to tears during their last exchange. If nothing else, she wanted to get out of this with some shred of her pride intact. At least she had one saving grace: she hadn’t humiliated herself completely by telling him that she loved him.

  If he insisted on keeping his secrets, at least she still had one of her own.

  Though that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  She could hear sounds coming from the gypsy camp: women chatting as they prepared the morning meal, the laughter of children playing.

  And the metallic, clanking rhythm of the blacksmith at work.

  Nick led the way as they crept closer. They remained within the trees, cautiously circling around until they were positioned a few yards from the smithy’s wagon, and stopped.

  He slanted her a measuring glance. “This is it, your ladyship. Remember, if anything goes wrong—”