Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,124

him fall...” Tremors shook him, so strong they seemed to come from the depths of his muscled body, from his very soul. “And I could hear my mother’s voice, reading to me when I was his age. Even over the sounds of the battle, I could hear her...”

He paused, as if suddenly aware of Sam’s presence, of her hold on him. But instead of stiffening or pulling away this time, he turned toward her, into her embrace, burying his face in her hair as the words slipped out of him.

“Thou shalt not kill,” he whispered brokenly, his powerful arms trembling as they came around her. “Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill.”

She pulled him close and held him tightly, tears sliding down her cheeks. She could feel his hurt like a knife inside her, could feel how the guilt tore at him. He had lived with this bottled up inside him for so many years. Had cut himself off from the world, from people, from anything gentle or caring or kind. Condemned himself to an isolated prison of his own making. Not merely because he needed to conceal the truth about his identity.

But because he believed he didn’t deserve to be part of anything good.

“Nicholas,” she whispered, a sob tearing from her throat.

“So now you know the truth,” he said a moment later, his voice still unsteady, though his hold on her was unyielding. “The full truth about who and what I am.”

She only held him tighter. “And your name, the one you used in South Carolina?” she asked, her tears dampening his shirt. “The ‘James’ was for your father, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “His name was James Brogan.”

She closed her eyes, feeling as if she were meeting Nicholas for the first time, realizing that she was perhaps the first person ever to truly know him, to understand him.

He had so much good in him. So much caring and kindness learned during his childhood. It was so deeply a part of him that even years of abuse and violence hadn’t destroyed it.

But he was torn apart by remorse, consumed with pain and guilt over what he’d done during those years—guilt so terrible that he couldn’t forgive himself. Couldn’t set the good, decent, true part of him free.

Not by himself.

She lifted her head, wiped at her tears with one trembling hand. “So you gave up piracy on that night. And ever since, you’ve been living by the name of Nick James, as a planter in South Carolina.”

“Thinking I could leave it all behind,” he said hollowly, unwrapping his arms from around her, letting her go. “Almost thought I’d done it, after six years.”

The longing, the defeat in his voice brought a lump to her throat. “Almost...” She didn’t move away when he released her. She stood her ground, gazing up at him. “But you have been living peacefully all that time. You’ve been trying to live as a law-abiding man. And you succeeded until Foster forced you out of retirement.”

“I can’t blame him for what I am.”

“But what you are now is not what you were all those years ago,” she insisted. “You’re not the same man you were then. I know that even if no one else does. Even if you can’t see it—”

“Samantha—”

“You’ve changed,” she said stubbornly. “The good and honorable side of you, the side that the navy guards on that prison hulk tried to beat out of you, is still there. They failed, Nicholas. They didn’t destroy you. The good... the love,” she amended quietly, “has been right there, all along, hidden deep inside. Waiting for you to reclaim it.”

His eyes gleamed brightly as he gazed down at her, his expression one of astonishment that was very close to awe.

“And now you have,” she whispered, sliding her arms around him again. “You have. You are a good man. You deserve forgiveness. And love.”

His arms enveloped her, and she both heard and felt all the breath leave him. “You can forgive what I’ve done?” he choked out, his hold on her fierce, his voice raw with emotion. “Even knowing the truth?”

“The truth is that you’re not a harmless planter. But you’re not a dangerous pirate, either. You’re a little of both. Innocent and outlaw.” Her voice grew softer with each word. “Like me.”

Reaching up, she cupped his face in her hands, as he had done so many times with her. “The truth is,” she whispered, “that ‘they’ were wrong about you, Nicholas Brogan. And I’m not one of