Run Wild (40 page)

“Thank you, madame,” Sam said politely, though she had no appetite.

“Clarice. And
I
don’t think this is necessary, either.” Setting the lamp and the tray on the bedside table, she untied Samantha’s hands. “You’re not going anywhere, not with Masud parked outside your door. And the drop out these windows is about thirty feet, straight down.”

Sam flexed her fingers and rubbed her wrists, giving her hostess a grateful smile. “He’ll be angry with you.”

“Hell, it won’t be the first time.” Clarice picked up a china cup filled with steaming, spice-scented tea and placed it in Samantha’s hands. “Besides, no matter how much he blusters, no woman really has anything to fear from Sir Nicholas.” She handed over a plate of roast chicken.

Sam accepted both the food and drink, deciding it was best not to argue. She had had enough arguing for one day. “Sir Nicholas?”

“That’s what they called him, in the old days. For his chivalrous treatment of captives, especially the ladies. Despite all the stories spread about him, he never abused prisoners taken in raids. He never let his crew touch them, either.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “But I thought... I mean, according to his reputation, Nicholas Brogan killed without conscience, and all he cared about was money.”

Clarice laughed. “Tall tales invented by people who didn’t know him at all. I never met a man in my life who cared
less
about money. When I knew him, Brogan’s one and only goal was vengeance.”

Sam stared down at her own reflection in the dark surface of her tea, remembering what Nick—Nicholas—had said earlier.

“They” are not always accurate.

“Vengeance against whom, Clarice?” she asked softly. “And why?”

“It was mostly the navy he was after. I don’t know why. He never talked about his past. Not to me, not to anyone. All I know is...” She paused, sighing. “He got the vengeance he wanted. It almost killed him, but he got it. And as soon as he did, he quit. Left England, gave up piracy. He was never the greedy murderer the admiralty made him out to be.”

Sam took a sip from her cup, her hand trembling, the hot liquid burning its way down her throat. What Clarice said contradicted everything she had heard about the infamous Captain Brogan.

She wasn’t sure
what
to believe anymore, couldn’t make sense of all the conflicting stories. But bits and pieces of what she knew about Nick—Nicholas—were starting to fit together in her mind.

Like the brand, the lash marks, his horrific childhood aboard a prison hulk... a ship run by navy overseers.

And the image that had wrenched at her heart once before: that of an orphaned boy with bright green eyes, alone, terrified, subjected to torture.

There was so much she didn’t know about Nicholas Brogan. So much that, perhaps,
no one
knew about him. For him, keeping his secrets had meant staying alive. It couldn’t be easy to let down his guard. To trust.

And earlier tonight, when he had finally begun to share his past in even a small way, how had she reacted? Instead of listening, instead of offering the sort of understanding and comfort he had once offered her, she had cut him off with angry, hateful words, so wrapped up in her own hurt and betrayal that she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.

“Miss Delafield?”

Startled from her thoughts, Sam lifted her head, realizing that she’d been staring down at her reflection again, oblivious to everything but memories of Nick. “I’m sorry.” Glancing down at the chicken leg she held in her hand, she set it aside on the plate. “And it’s Samantha. Or Sam.”

“Samantha...” Clarice began, studying her with a pensive expression. “I really didn’t come here to talk about Brogan’s sordid past. I wanted to...” She glanced at the abandoned chicken leg, frowning. “No appetite,” she said under her breath. “Staring off into nothing in the middle of a conversation.” She began counting on her fingers, as if ticking off a checklist. “Definite moony look in the eyes. Oh, hell, I think I’m already too late.”

“Too late?” Sam echoed, watching her in puzzlement.

With a rueful curve to her lips, Clarice pointed a lacquered fingernail at the rope she had tossed on the bedside table. “I don’t think you need that or a guard on your door to keep you here. I don’t think you want to leave him.”

Sam clutched at the fragile teacup in her hands. “That’s...” She swallowed a quick gulp of the hot liquid. “That’s—”

“The truth. Don’t bother denying it, sweetie.” Clarice sighed. “You’re not the first pretty young thing to fall for the charms of Sir Nicholas. I came here to warn you about that.” She shook her head mournfully. “Samantha, that man can’t even say the words ‘I trust you,’ never mind ‘I love you.’ If that’s what you’re hoping for... you could spend the rest of your life hoping.”

Sam’s cheeks burned. How could her feelings be so transparently clear when she barely understood them herself?

She also realized suddenly that Clarice spoke as if from experience. She felt foolish for not seeing it earlier. “You and he...”

“Let’s just say, a very long time ago, I was one of those pretty young things who fell for the charms of Sir Nicholas.” Clarice grimaced. “One of many.”

“Many,” Sam repeated in a whisper, remembering what Foster had told her about Nicholas Brogan having numerous mistresses.

“I have no regrets,” Clarice continued with a shrug. “I’ve learned my lesson, Samantha. Love may be a wonderful fantasy. It makes for pretty fairytales to amuse children. But it’s not something that we adults find very often in the real world. Learning that lesson is part of growing up.”

“I see,” Sam said, not seeing at all.

“It’s better to be realistic.” Clarice rose, carrying the lamp to the mantel opposite the bed, using it to light another lamp there. “Take me, for example. I’ve got myself a lovely house, lots of rich friends, a man who takes care of me.”

“A very nice life,” Sam said hollowly.

“Very nice,” Clarice agreed. “And my gentleman friend is quite kind. He’s sweet and thoughtful. He pays for my home, gives me gifts—”

“But he says nothing about caring or love? This benefactor of yours doesn’t love you?”

Clarice laughed, a sophisticated, sparkling sound. “I’ve never asked. I’m too old for that sort of thing, sweetie. And too smart.”

But something in Clarice’s voice and her laughter sounded forced. It made Samantha wonder whether any woman could ever truly give up on love.

And made her suspect that Clarice wasn’t following the very advice she was trying to give. “And do you love him?” she asked softly.

Clarice didn’t answer at first. She ran one finger over a porcelain figurine of a dancing lady on the mantel. “He... he comes from a wealthy and distinguished family, Samantha. I was born gutter trash in a hovel in the East End the likes of which is beyond your imagination.”

“But that shouldn’t matter if—”

“We’re from two separate worlds,” Clarice said more firmly. “And even though I can play at being part of his world, I’ll never truly belong in it. It’s impossible.” She walked back toward the bed, her smile a bit too bright. “I’ve accepted that.”

Sam felt a surge of empathy for this woman she barely knew. She understood exactly how it felt, to love the wrong man.

And to know that he did not return that love.

“I’m happy with what I’ve got.” Clarice indicated the lavishly decorated room with a sweep of her hand. “This is the best I could hope for. I’ve not done too badly for myself.”

“No,” Samantha agreed, not feeling it. “You haven’t.”

In a purely financial sense, it was true. But without love, she felt, all the riches in the world would be worthless.

“But I didn’t come here to talk about me,” Clarice chided gently. “I came here to help you.” She sat on the bed and placed a hand on Samantha’s arm, the gesture almost sisterly. “Take some advice from someone older and wiser, sweetie. Put this behind you as soon as you can. Learn from it. Find yourself a man who will treat you right. Someone stable and reliable.”

Sam sipped at her tea, not tasting it.

“A nice merchant or a barrister or an apothecary,” Clarice advised. “He won’t set you on fire, but so what? A rogue will set you on fire, all right—and burn you to a cinder and be gone before your ashes cool. Without so much as a by your leave.” She gave Sam’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Take it from me. Stay away from sailors, soldiers, actors, musicians, and outlaws of all sorts. It’s a rule of thumb to live by: never love a rogue.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good.” Standing, Clarice set the dishes of food on the bedside table, picking up the tray. “Now try to eat something, Samantha. He’s not worth losing your appetite over.” She headed for the door, but paused with her hand on the latch. “And Samantha?”

“Yes?”

“Even when you find yourself a nice barrister, guard your heart,” she whispered, opening the door. “Lock it up tight, like a safe. And never give any man the key.”

N
icholas had already drawn the curtains and turned the lamps down low. Now he prowled the room, looking at the gilt-framed pictures on the walls, the vase of flowers on the dressing table in one corner. He rearranged the collection of glass bottles on another table. Wasn’t sure why, except that it gave him something to do.

Something other than stare in bleak pain at the woman who lay sleeping on the bed.

Stopping before the hearth, he braced one arm against the mantel and hung his head, gazing down at the hot coals in the grate, unable to feel their warmth. For hours now, he had been trying to think, to plan, but he could only hear a sweet voice in his memory—speaking words that ripped through his heart.

The sound of Samantha declaring her hatred for him.

He shut his eyes, his fingers closing tightly around the polished marble edge of the mantel. He had always known she would hate him if she ever learned his true identity. But the fact that he had anticipated her reaction so accurately hadn’t cushioned the blow in the least.

Unable to sleep, he had found himself drawn here, to her, to the source of his pain. It made no sense, this power she had over him, this connection between them. Nothing seemed able to break it. The force was almost magnetic. As if he were a compass needle and she were true north.

Straightening, he turned to look at her. It was unnerving to discover that, without the shackles, he felt more bound to her than ever.

He noticed that someone had untied her. Clarice, no doubt. A plate of food sat on the night table. Untouched. Samantha had fallen asleep fully clothed, still wearing the blouse and woolen waistcoat and skirt of her riding habit. But she had taken off her shoes... and he noticed the mark around her ankle. The shackles had left what might be a permanent scar.

The same mark they had left on him.

His heart thudding in his chest, he walked back to the wing chair he had placed beside the bed. The huge, velvet-draped four-poster made her slender form seem so small, so... alone.

He sat down, listening to her soft breathing, watching her while she slept. The way he had watched over her during so many long nights in Cannock Chase. And the ache inside him widened and deepened.

He reached out and let his hand rest on the blankets, near hers, but he did not allow himself to touch her. He hadn’t intended to come here until morning, to tell her the decision he had made. A decision that would make her furious—if it were possible for her to be any more furious with him than she already was.

He didn’t look forward to fighting with her again. He was so bloody tired of fighting.

So he did not wake her, wanting simply to look at her, to hold onto one last, peaceful moment.

His gaze traced over her in the gentle glow of the lamplight—from every flawless curve of her face to the way one of her hands clutched a corner of the pillow, while the other lay upturned on the rumpled covers. Her fingers looked so delicate next to his.

Breaking the chain hadn’t changed anything, he thought, his throat constricting. Time and distance had only made him more aware of how important she was to him, had only made his feelings for her stronger.

Samantha Delafield was the most precious treasure he had ever held in his hands. The only one that had ever really mattered to him.

The only one that was utterly beyond his reach.

She stirred, making a small sound—and opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

Both of them went still. Neither of them spoke.

She glanced at his hand, so close to hers, and then she sat up, withdrawing as if afraid he might burn her. “W-what are you doing here?”

It took him a moment to summon an answer—at least, one that he was willing to speak aloud. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She drew her legs under her, perching in the middle of the bed as if she might make a dash for the door.

But she didn’t. In fact, a moment later, strangely enough, she relaxed a bit. And though her gaze remained wary, he didn’t detect any of the blazing fury he had seen earlier. Perhaps because she was tired.

He looked down at his hand still resting on the covers. And decided with bleak resignation that there was no sense in delaying the inevitable. “I’ve made a decision.”