and women.” Foster glanced out the window again, then rapped on the ceiling of the coach with the butt of his pistol. “He can spare a few thousand pounds for me. I only want what I’m entitled to.”
The coach rolled to a stop.
“This is the place.” His voice hardened as he pointed the gun at her. “Cling to your illusions if you like. Just remember to do as I’ve told you. To the letter.”
Her eyes on the gun, Sam couldn’t summon a reply. She was in a great deal of danger no matter what she did.
If she tried to warn Nick, she could be guilty of aiding and abetting one of the most notorious criminals in English history.
But if she did as Foster ordered, she could be signing a death warrant for the man she loved.
Concealing the gun in the pocket of his frock coat, Foster got to his feet. “Time for you to earn your freedom, Miss Delafield.”
He pushed open the door and stepped down from the carriage, glancing left and right along the crowded street before motioning her out. He paid the hackney driver, but even before the coach rolled away, Sam felt the barrel of the pistol jammed into her ribs.
“In case you feel the urge to get creative with the instructions I’ve given you,” he said as he pushed her toward a tavern a few yards down the street, “I want you to keep one thing in mind.”
“And what is that?” She tried to sound utterly cool and composed.
He nodded to the tavern sign overhead. She gazed up at the letters spelling out the pub’s name, the Black Angel, and the picture below—a demon with a menacing expression and a pitchfork in one hand.
“He’s not worth dying for,” Foster finished.
Sam’s throat tightened painfully. “A brand and a few lash marks,” she insisted, “do not make a man Nicholas Brogan.”
Foster chuckled, a low, mocking sound. “We shall see.” They were only a few feet from the door. “I’ll go in ahead of you. Count to twenty before following me in. I don’t want it to appear that there’s any connection between us.”
“Understood.”
“And remember, I’ll be watching. I’ll have my eyes and my gun on you—and your money in my pocket.”
With one last hard look, he went inside, leaving her in the street.
Sam stood in the shadows beside the door while the crowd moved and flowed around her. She began counting. One... two...
She still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. Some of what Foster had told her rang true. She had seen Nick fight, had seen him kill with brutal efficiency. And why would he refuse to tell her about his past—unless it was too horrible to reveal?
Three... four... five...
But how could Nick, the man who had made love to her so passionately, who had held her so tenderly, who had comforted her, protected her, saved her life, made her laugh—how could that man possibly be Nicholas Brogan?
Six... seven... eight...
Shouldn’t she give Nick a chance to explain himself?
Nine... ten... eleven...
Shouldn’t she try to warn him?
Twelve... thirteen... fourteen...
Oh, hellfire and damnation! If she had any sense at all, she would run. Run from this blasted place. From York. From England. Leave right now.
Fifteen... sixteen... seventeen...
But she couldn’t get far without a single shilling in her pockets.
Eighteen... nineteen...
And despite everything, she would not abandon Nick to his fate. Foster might be lying. He might be wrong. Nick might not even be here.
Twenty.
Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped into the pub.
With a single glance, she scanned the room. Coughing on the thick cigar smoke, she looked for those emerald eyes, that black hair and strong, bearded jaw and broad shoulders. The Black Angel was crowded—but she didn’t see Nick.
Even disguised, she would recognize him.
He wasn’t here.
Smiling in relief, she shot a look of triumph at the tense young man who sat on the far side of the tavern. He was wrong. Foster had had it all wrong! The man he was after was not Nick James!
He merely nodded toward the counter, reminding her of her assignment.
Awash in relief, she moved quickly to comply. The sooner she fetched his accursed package, the sooner she could be on her way. She elbowed her way through the crowd, heading straight for the tavernkeeper.
~ ~ ~
Masud sat in a dark corner at the rear of the pub, hat pulled low over his eyes, a newspaper concealing his face. He peeked over the top edge now and then, glancing toward