Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,117

you something to eat.” Wearing an elegant purple dressing gown, the woman crossed the room carrying a silver tray in one hand, an oil lamp in the other. “That pair of pirates wouldn’t think of it, but I guessed you’d be hungry after so long.”

“Thank you, madame,” Sam said politely, though she had no appetite.

“Clarice. And I don’t think this is necessary, either.” Setting the lamp and the tray on the bedside table, she untied Samantha’s hands. “You’re not going anywhere, not with Masud parked outside your door. And the drop out these windows is about thirty feet, straight down.”

Sam flexed her fingers and rubbed her wrists, giving her hostess a grateful smile. “He’ll be angry with you.”

“Hell, it won’t be the first time.” Clarice picked up a china cup filled with steaming, spice-scented tea and placed it in Samantha’s hands. “Besides, no matter how much he blusters, no woman really has anything to fear from Sir Nicholas.” She handed over a plate of roast chicken.

Sam accepted both the food and drink, deciding it was best not to argue. She had had enough arguing for one day. “Sir Nicholas?”

“That’s what they called him, in the old days. For his chivalrous treatment of captives, especially the ladies. Despite all the stories spread about him, he never abused prisoners taken in raids. He never let his crew touch them, either.”

Sam blinked in surprise. “But I thought... I mean, according to his reputation, Nicholas Brogan killed without conscience, and all he cared about was money.”

Clarice laughed. “Tall tales invented by people who didn’t know him at all. I never met a man in my life who cared less about money. When I knew him, Brogan’s one and only goal was vengeance.”

Sam stared down at her own reflection in the dark surface of her tea, remembering what Nick—Nicholas—had said earlier.

“They” are not always accurate.

“Vengeance against whom, Clarice?” she asked softly. “And why?”

“It was mostly the navy he was after. I don’t know why. He never talked about his past. Not to me, not to anyone. All I know is...” She paused, sighing. “He got the vengeance he wanted. It almost killed him, but he got it. And as soon as he did, he quit. Left England, gave up piracy. He was never the greedy murderer the admiralty made him out to be.”

Sam took a sip from her cup, her hand trembling, the hot liquid burning its way down her throat. What Clarice said contradicted everything she had heard about the infamous Captain Brogan.

She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, couldn’t make sense of all the conflicting stories. But bits and pieces of what she knew about Nick—Nicholas—were starting to fit together in her mind.

Like the brand, the lash marks, his horrific childhood aboard a prison hulk... a ship run by navy overseers.

And the image that had wrenched at her heart once before: that of an orphaned boy with bright green eyes, alone, terrified, subjected to torture.

There was so much she didn’t know about Nicholas Brogan. So much that, perhaps, no one knew about him. For him, keeping his secrets had meant staying alive. It couldn’t be easy to let down his guard. To trust.

And earlier tonight, when he had finally begun to share his past in even a small way, how had she reacted? Instead of listening, instead of offering the sort of understanding and comfort he had once offered her, she had cut him off with angry, hateful words, so wrapped up in her own hurt and betrayal that she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.

“Miss Delafield?”

Startled from her thoughts, Sam lifted her head, realizing that she’d been staring down at her reflection again, oblivious to everything but memories of Nick. “I’m sorry.” Glancing down at the chicken leg she held in her hand, she set it aside on the plate. “And it’s Samantha. Or Sam.”

“Samantha...” Clarice began, studying her with a pensive expression. “I really didn’t come here to talk about Brogan’s sordid past. I wanted to...” She glanced at the abandoned chicken leg, frowning. “No appetite,” she said under her breath. “Staring off into nothing in the middle of a conversation.” She began counting on her fingers, as if ticking off a checklist. “Definite moony look in the eyes. Oh, hell, I think I’m already too late.”

“Too late?” Sam echoed, watching her in puzzlement.

With a rueful curve to her lips, Clarice pointed a lacquered fingernail at the rope she had tossed on the bedside table. “I don’t think you need