her...
But part of him had been racing there, risking everything, just to see her again.
And now she was gone. Out of his life. Forever.
He scowled, hating the pain that idea brought. He lifted his head, watched the red-gold sun melt over a distant church spire. Damn it, he had never wanted to feel anything for Samantha Delafield. What was the point? What was the bloody point in learning just how much he could feel for her, now after it was too late?
Except to drive home a lesson he’d already learned decades ago: that God took from him whoever he cared about.
And to exact further payment for the sins he had committed, remind him that he would never be forgiven.
Closing his eyes, he stuck the cheroot between his teeth again, exhaled the hot smoke. “I get the point already,” he muttered under his breath.
The hell of it was, he knew he had no one but himself to blame. He didn’t deserve the sweetness and warmth that Samantha had brought to his life. A woman like her had not been made for a man like Captain Nicholas Brogan.
And he never could have revealed his secrets to her, told her the truth about his past, his crimes. Could not have asked her to forgive the unforgivable.
Could not have endured seeing hatred in her beautiful golden eyes.
It was better this way, for them both. A clean break. Clean and final.
He kept telling himself that as he arrived at the town house on Sussex Street, noting with only fleeting interest that Clarice had indeed done well for herself. The place all but reeked of money, from its polished windows and soaring brick facade to the neatly landscaped yard complete with a dozen red rosebushes. He rode around to the back and stabled his horse, then headed for the rear entrance, doffing his hat to rake a weary hand through his matted hair.
It surprised him somewhat that no one was waiting to meet him. He had thought Masud would be keeping watch.
Unless Masud hadn’t arrived yet.
He knocked at the back door. No one answered. Leaning against the door jamb, he knocked again, frowning. The cheroot in his hand made a tiny red beacon in the fog and gathering darkness. He had to use the polished brass knocker a third time before the door was opened—yanked right out from under his fingers.
“If you expect me to bid you welcome,” a familiar feminine voice snapped, “you’ll be waiting the rest of your miserable life.”
The greeting was almost enough to make him smile despite his bleak mood. Some people never changed. “I can see you’ll make a most pleasant hostess, Clarice.”
“Well, don’t stand there attracting attention.” She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside, closing the door only after she looked around to make sure nobody had seen them.
“You don’t appear pleased to see me.”
“Oh, I’m thrilled.” She locked the door and rounded on him. “Absolutely thrilled.”
The years had been kind to her, he noticed by the light of a crystal chandelier glowing overhead. There wasn’t a dark curl out of place in her elaborate coiffure, her figure was still perfect, and whatever lines time might have drawn on her skin had been artfully concealed with cosmetics. Clarice could still outshine half the beauties in London.
What surprised him was that he felt not a single stirring of the old fires that had burned between them, all those years ago. Time, it seemed, had permanently banked those flames.
Time and a golden-eyed lady who had branded him forever.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Clarice said with exaggerated politeness, folding her arms over her chest, “but I don’t remember inviting a bunch of stray fugitives to take a holiday under my roof. What makes you and that arrogant friend of yours think you can just stroll in and take over after all these years? I am not running a home for wayward ex-pirates here!”
Nicholas removed his tricorne and greatcoat, tossing them over a nearby chair. “Masud and I just need a safe place to hide for a couple of days until our ship can be repaired. Is he—”
“This is not a safe place. And give me that foul-smelling thing.” She snatched the cheroot from his fingertips just as he was about to take another puff. “I have enough trouble on my hands without having to explain why my house smells like the back room of a Spitalfields tavern. I’ve got myself an arrangement with a rich widower—”
“A merchant banker, I’m told.”