Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,1
he could hear the concern in his voice. Nicholas shook his head. Even after twelve years, he hadn’t grown used to that—someone being concerned about him. Calling him friend.
Nicholas Brogan called no one friend. He trusted no one.
He never had. He never would.
“The man known as the reclusive Mr. James is perfectly safe here,” Nicholas insisted. “I’m an ordinary colonial, a simple planter from South Carolina. The authorities have no reason to harass me or even notice me. I haven’t broken a single one of His Majesty’s laws. Haven’t pilfered a shilling. Haven’t bothered a soul—”
“Haven’t so much as crossed the street the wrong way on Sunday,” Masud chuckled.
Nicholas scowled. “The pirate they knew as Nicholas Brogan met a fiery end six years ago,” he declared flatly, absently rubbing his beard, which covered an old scar on his jaw. “He’s dead and buried.”
“And every person in England believes that. Except one.” Masud gestured with the bottle of rum. “Someone out there on that vast island knows you’re still alive.”
Nicholas clenched his teeth, anger and frustration simmering inside him. For the past six years, all he had wanted was to find peace. All he had wanted was to be left alone.
But it seemed both would be forever beyond his reach.
Masud had spoken the truth: Someone knew that Nicholas Brogan was alive and living in South Carolina. An anonymous note had arrived by post a month ago. A blackmail note.
The blackmailer claimed to have evidence which he threatened to take to the authorities—unless Nicholas sent the sum of fifteen thousand pounds to a certain pub in York by Michaelmas Day, September twenty-ninth.
It was a king’s ransom. Or at least a pirate’s ransom.
And Nicholas didn’t have it.
This blackmailer seemed to believe the old tales in the penny-post newspapers—stories of the pirate better known as “Sir Nicholas” swimming in gold and jewels, with buried treasure chests scattered hither and yon on exotic islands.
Nicholas grimaced. It was hell having a legendary reputation.
The truth was, like most pirates, he’d spent what he’d stolen as fast as he’d stolen it. The truth was he’d plied the seas for fourteen years as a buccaneer with hatred burning in his heart and no thought for the future.
Until that day in 1735.
His jaw tightened. Until now, only two people had known he survived that day: Masud, who had pulled him from the burning wreckage, and Clarice, his sometime mistress, who had tended him until he was well enough to leave England.
Masud intruded on his thoughts. “Anyone could’ve sent that note, Cap’n. Anyone. Clarice might’ve let her guard down after all these years, let the secret slip. Or...” He took a long swallow of rum. “She could be the one blackmailing you.”
“Aye,” Nicholas said slowly. “I’ve considered that. But Clarice knows I don’t have that kind of money. And if she wanted to do me in, she’s had six years. Why wait until now?”
“Doesn’t make much sense,” Masud agreed. “On the other hand, ‘Hell hath no fury...’”
Nicholas frowned. If he had to add women scorned to the list, the number of people who would enjoy seeing his head on a pike would easily double.
“Cap’n,” Masud persisted, “the point is you’ve no way of knowing who or what you’re up against, no friends out there to turn to for help—and a few dozen enemies who’d love nothing better than to kill you.”
“And none of that matters a damn. Whoever this blackmailer is, I can’t pay. And I don’t want the greedy bugger spilling his guts to the authorities. Which leaves only one choice.” Nicholas’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. “And it’s too late to turn back now, since I’ve already posted the package.”
He’d sent it just before leaving South Carolina—a package addressed precisely as the note had instructed, containing not fifteen thousand pounds... but worthless blank paper.
He’d posted it on one of the Falmouth brigs that sluggishly collected mail along the American coast. It wouldn’t reach York until a fortnight from now. Just before Michaelmas. It would look perfect, right down to the South Carolina tax stamps on it.
And he would be at the pub long before it arrived, lying in wait to see who showed up to collect it.
“Aye, Cap’n, you’ve planned it all carefully,” Masud conceded. “You’ve ample time before he makes good his threat. But if something goes wrong and he doesn’t hear from you by Michaelmas Day—”
“Oh, he’ll hear from me by then,” Nicholas said darkly. “He’ll hear from me.”