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 a 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 Navy 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