never been able to give her what she’d wanted—what she’d demanded. Money, security, devotion, a future. He and Clarice had spent as much time at each other’s throats as they had in each other’s arms. And after two years together...
A sudden, jarring thought struck him like a belaying pin between the eyes: even after two years together, he had found it easy to leave Clarice. He’d found it easy to leave every woman he’d ever had a liaison with.
Until Samantha.
Somehow, in a little more than a week, Samantha had become as much a part of him as the heart that pumped his life’s blood through his veins.
“Clarice’s feet are traveling in very well-to-do circles these days,” Masud continued. “She wasn’t exactly happy to see me. Her gentleman friend doesn’t know about her past associations.”
“With less-than-savory characters like us.” Nicholas forced his mind back to the topic at hand.
“And she’d just as soon keep it that way.” Masud drained his glass. “She isn’t involved in this business, Cap’n. She swears she never told a soul that you survived that fiery wreck.”
“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