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 an
y 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.”
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 sense 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.”
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 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 Nav
y 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.”
Escape with a Scoundrel (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 1) Page 27