“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 counter 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 newspapers 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 with a chuckle. “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 care about.” He opened one of the papers to an inside page, pointing. “The articles are all about her.”
Nicholas stared at the story beneath Masud’s finger—and every sound, every movement in the pub seemed to stop for a frozen moment of time.
It 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 was saying, sounding 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.
A feeling he had never known before went through him, one that cut far deeper than worry or concern.
Cold, stark, overwhelming fear.
Had Samantha stopped at a town on her way to Merseyside? Had she seen a newspaper?
“Cap’n?”
Masud sounded confused, but Nicholas barely heard him. The roar of his pulse filled his ears. There was no way to warn her. No way to get to Merseyside and back before the blackmailer arrived here in York.
He had to stay here and kill whoever showed up to collect the package. It was the whole reason he’d come to England. Risked his life. He couldn’t walk away now.
What the hell was he going to do?
Samantha was alone—and she was riding straight into a trap.
Chapter 22
Trudging through the dark streets of Merseyside, Sam rubbed her arms, the night wind biting through her thin garments, even through her cloak. After three days of riding, she felt exhausted, her entire body sore. She had sold the bay gelding at the first stable she’d come to upon arriving in the village—and if she never saw another horse again, that would be just fine with her.
Shivering, she tried to cheer herself up by thinking of how good it would feel to sleep in a real bed tonight. She had avoided all the towns between here and Cannock Chase, deciding that an inn would be a dangerous indulgence, since she couldn’t know where the lawmen might be searching. She had stopped to rest only once, at a remote farmhouse, trading a few coins for food and shelter and the hooded cloak to keep her dry in the rain.
But even with a roof over her head, she had barely been able to close her eyes for long. It felt so strange to have no one watching over her while she slept. She missed that feeling.
She missed Nick.
Even when she did manage to slip into unconsciousness, he invaded her dreams. And the first time she’d seen her reflection, in a mirror while washing up at the farmhouse, she had been shocked by how different she looked. Changed, somehow. Even washing and neatly braiding her hair hadn’t brought back the appearance of the girl she had been only a fortnight ago.
She had also discovered marks on her neck that no amount of soap and scrubbing would remove—and realized they were tiny bruises from Nick’s passionate kisses.
He had marked her, body, heart, and soul.
Swallowing hard, she tried to banish that thought—just as he had banished her from his life. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had to face facts, stop wishing for what could never be. In time, she would grow used to being alone again. The days and nights would get easier. Eventually.
She hoped.
Without thinking, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her green skirt, her fingers closing around the ruby.
The moon was almost full, shining on the rain-splashed streets beneath her slippers. Normally, she looked forward to the time she spent in Merseyside. Whenever she completed her work in a given district, she would travel here to add the money to the cache concealed in her room. Then she would rest a week or two between jobs, living peaceably, visiting the village marketplace, chatting with neighbors. Enjoying brief glimpses of a normal life.
But tonight her mood remained as bleak as the worn, wet cobbles underfoot.
Finally, she came to the ramshackle building tha
t housed her room. Glancing up at her window, at the cramped space in the attic that she had called home for five years, she couldn’t even summon a feeling of relief. Trudging up the steps in the dark, she realized she was going to have to pick the lock on her own door. Her small purse, containing her keys, had been confiscated by Bickford when she’d been arrested.
There was little space to move and less light at the top of the stairs. By memory alone, she felt for the lock, and went to work. She had it open in a matter of seconds. Sighing, she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.
Moonlight spilled in through the window. She moved forward in the darkness—and tripped over something.
“What in the world...”
It was her little hall table, lying on the floor. Stumbling, she froze.
By the scant silvery light, she could see a vase lying smashed on her threadbare rug. Chairs broken. Her few clothes and belongings strewn across the floor.
Her place had been ransacked! Damnation, in her melancholy mood, she had neglected to check her one security measure—a thread that she always placed carefully in the door.
A prickle of danger went down her neck. Lawmen.
Remaining utterly still, she didn’t even breathe, wondering whether she was alone.
She didn’t hear a sound. Not a footstep. Not a breath. Nothing but her own terrified heartbeat.
She was alone. But they could be watching from outside. It might be only a matter of minutes before they rushed in to arrest her.
Whispering oaths, she ran to the far corner, to the hiding place where she kept her money. She had to get out of here. Fast.
Pushing her dresser out of the way, she fell to her knees and found the hidden compartment behind it, felt for the box concealed deep within the wall. She bit her lip, straining for it in the darkness. Was it there? Had they found it and taken it?
Her fingers closed on the smooth walnut jewelry case. She clutched it in shaking fingers, yanked it free, opened it. Her money was still there.
With a sob of relief, she shut it and stood up.
And sensed the movement behind her an instant too late.
She heard the footstep and the click of a pistol being cocked in the same second that a thick, masculine arm grabbed her from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream.
The box slid from her numb fingers and hit the floor as the man’s other arm circled her waist.
“Good evening, my dear niece,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear as the barrel of a pistol jabbed into her ribs. “So nice to see you again.”
Shock and terror spiraled through her. It was her worst nightmare come to life. Her uncle had found her.
Struggling, kicking, she fought his hold on her with all her strength. No! She kept screaming but his hand smothered the sound.
“Now, now, Samantha. Don’t make trouble for yourself.” He fought to subdue her, shifting the gun until the cold metal pressed against her temple. “It will go easier for you if you cooperate.”
She went still, breathing in shallow gasps, shutting her eyes. God, please, help me. This was impossible. How had he found her?
“I must say, I’m surprised to discover you still alive,” he whispered in that soft voice that had haunted her nightmares. “And pleased. It didn’t even cost me very much. The people of this poor district were pitifully eager to trade information on your whereabouts for a few coins. I’m sure you’ll be worth every shilling.” He shifted his hold on her, squeezing her breast. “We have such a lot of catching up to do.”
A white-hot flash of panic rendered her momentarily blind and immobile. Moonlight and darkness swam around her, her stunned senses reeling in disgust and disbelief. No!
“But not here and not now, unfortunately,” He loosened his hold on her just long enough to stuff a rag in her mouth, tying the gag behind her head. “As you can see from the remains of your room, the marshalmen are rather overzealous in their quest to bring you to justice. They might return before long, and hanging is not what I have in mind for you, my dear.” He jerked her hands behind her back, binding them tightly with a length of rope. “I’ve a lovely place awaiting you in London. A private suite where you’ll be available to me whenever I please.” He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. “We’ll have ample time to get reacquainted at my leisure. Years.”
The roar in her ears was like the rush of a waterfall. She was trapped. Helpless.
Oh, God, please.
Nick, help me.
“The marshalmen might spend the next several weeks chasing their tails, but they’re never going to find you, my dear. No one’s ever going to see you again. Now, off we go.” He shoved her ahead of him toward the door. “We mustn’t waste any time.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere, your honor.”
Sam froze in the middle of the room, staring in shock at a dark silhouette that filled the entryway.
“Who are you?” Uncle Prescott demanded.
“Call me a concerned bystander.” The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Sam didn’t recognize the voice, and she couldn’t see him very well in the moonlight. Her rescuer was a tall, slender young man with dark hair, dressed in a black frock coat and breeches. A man she had never seen before.
And he was brandishing a gun.
A second later she realized with a shock that the right sleeve of his coat hung empty. He had only one arm.
“See here,” Uncle Prescott snarled, “I am in charge of this investigation. If you’re with the marshalmen—”
“Wrong guess.”
“Do you have any idea who I am—”
“Oh, I know who you are.” The young man chuckled. “It’s been in all the papers.”
“Then you know I could have you arrested for pointing a gun at me. Assaulting a magistrate is a serious offense. I advise you to leave here before I call the marshalmen.”
“You’re not going to call anyone. It would ruin your plans. Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you take the lady with you. Step out of the way, Miss Delafield.”
She started to move.
“Stop right there, Samantha.” Uncle Prescott snarled, aiming his pistol at her. “I’d hate to damage one of your lovely legs—but you know I’ll do it.”
Sam froze, trapped in the line of fire between the two men, her heartbeat chaotic.
The stranger advanced fearlessly toward Uncle Prescott. She could see him better now. He had blue eyes, dark stubble on his jaw, angular features. And he couldn’t be any older than she was.
“I don’t mean to be unreasonable,” he said calmly, “but I need to ask the lady some questions. And I can’t do that if you take her to London.”
“Fire one shot and this place will be swarming with lawmen.”
The stranger slid the gun smoothly into the waistband of his breeches at his back. “We can do this quietly, if you prefer.” A blade suddenly flashed in his hand.
Fear gleamed in Uncle Prescott’s eyes. “Do you think I’m afraid of a cripple?” he sneered.
A muscle twitched in the young man’s tanned cheek. “I think you’d be a fool to underestimate me,” he returned smoothly.
Uncle Prescott laughed at him—a cruel, familiar sound that made Sam shudder.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I’m offering you a choice. You can leave here right now and live, or stay and die. Which will it be?”
Uncle Prescott sobered. After a moment, he slowly began to lower his pistol.
But then he suddenly turned it to use as a club and attacked.
The stranger dodged out of the way. He aimed an agile kick at Uncle Prescott’s hand, knocking the gun from his grasp. Uncle Prescott lunged in again and the two men locked together, wrestling for the knife. The younger man grunted in pain as her uncle landed hard blows to his ribs.
Sam darted toward the door but the violent fight blocked her way before she could escape. She flattened herself ag
ainst the wall, could only look on in horror as the struggle went on for terrifying minutes. Uncle Prescott had a clear advantage. Already he was turning the blade toward the young man’s neck. But then the stranger used his strength and evident experience to fight back, kicking, twisting.
And the struggle ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Suddenly Uncle Prescott was sinking to his knees, clutching at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest, eyes wide as he turned desperately toward her. He reached out one hand as if to plead for help. A second later, he fell forward.
Sam staggered away from him, tripped over something and fell to the floor. She lay there stunned, numb with shock. He was dead.
Uncle Prescott was dead.
Looking up at the stranger who stood over the body, she didn’t know whether to feel grateful—or more terrified than ever.
He kicked her uncle onto his back, staring down into the sightless eyes for a moment. Sam almost thought she saw remorse in the young man’s face, just for an instant. Then he knelt, yanked out the blade, wiped it clean on Uncle Prescott’s expensive waistcoat. And moved toward her.
She tried to scramble backward, but with her wrists bound behind her, she could barely move.
He smiled grimly at her. “Miss Delafield, there’s nowhere to run. And don’t bother to thank me. I’m not here to be gallant. I don’t give a damn about you or your lecherous uncle or anyone else who preys on the innocent.” Bending down, he set the knife aside and used his hand to open the box she had dropped. “He was nothing but corrupt scum, and from what I’ve read, you’re nothing but a thief.” He counted the money with a low sound of pleasure. “It’s money that I’m most interested in.”
She stared at him in confusion, her heart hammering. Was he a bounty hunter of some kind? A thief-taker?
He picked up the knife and the slender box, sliding both into the pocket of his worn frock coat as he stood. Then he came over and hauled her to her feet. “Sorry that there was no time for proper introductions. My name is Foster. Joseph Foster. But that’s not important. I’m here for a little information.”
Hooking his foot around a straight-backed chair that the marshalmen had knocked to the floor, he righted it and pushed her into the seat.
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