Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,129

in stunned silence. The deck suddenly seemed to shift beneath his feet. The horizon tilted dizzily. The wind felt unnaturally cold against his face.

Sweet Jesus, it all made horrible sense. That was why it had taken six years for the blackmailer to make his demands...

He had been growing up.

But even in shock, Nicholas felt another, unexpected emotion: relief. The innocent life he thought he had taken had in truth been spared.

But the final irony was that in order to save himself, he had to kill Foster now.

And he wouldn’t do it.

He threw his knife aside. “Go ahead and shoot.”

“No!” Samantha cried, scrambling to her feet.

“Stay back,” Nicholas ordered her.

Foster looked from one of them to the other, his gun swiveling left and right, his expression confused.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Nicholas said forcefully. “I won’t do it.”

“How noble.” Foster raised his gun, aiming right between Nicholas’s eyes.

“No, please!” Samantha threw herself between them, sobbing. “Don’t do this. Don’t you see? You’re him twenty years ago.”

“Samantha—”

“Get out of the way, Miss Delafield.”

“No. You can’t do this! He was just a cabin boy, too. He was as innocent as you were. He spent years seeking vengeance, just like you. You’re the same!”

The lad’s eyes burned. His jaw clenched.

“When does it stop?” Samantha’s voice softened to a whisper. “When does all the killing stop?”

A second passed. Another.

“Foster, I’m sorry,” Nicholas said with genuine feeling. “I can’t make you believe that, but it’s the truth. I can’t make up for all the losses and pain I caused, but I can give you what you want—”

“Nicholas, no!”

“You can go ahead and kill me.” He raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. “Get your ten thousand pounds. It won’t bring you peace, and it sure as hell won’t bring you happiness. You’ll find that vengeance solves nothing.”

Foster cocked the gun. “But it will bring me satisfaction.”

“Then go ahead,” Nicholas said, his voice steely. “Destroy your life the way I destroyed mine. I took the vengeance I wanted and it brought me nothing but years of misery and anguish.” He lowered his voice to a soft accusation. “Fire that gun and you’ll become what I was. You’ll be me.”

The young man swallowed hard. The gun in his hand wavered, unsteady.

“Joseph,” Samantha pleaded, her voice desperate, “you asked me not to judge you by appearances. Don’t judge Nicholas. It’s a mistake to judge any man by appearances or by his reputation. You can never know what’s in his mind.” Her gaze shifted to Nicholas. “Or in his heart.”

Foster’s hand was trembling.

“You can either shoot me,” Nicholas said slowly, cautiously, “or you can choose a different way. Let me give you what I didn’t have at your age.” His voice turned rough with emotion. “A second chance.”

“It’s too late for that,” Foster replied. “I’ve come too far to change now. It’s too late.”

“Too late?” Nicholas asked ruefully, hearing the two words that had haunted him for years. “No, Foster, you’re wrong. If there’s one thing I’ve learned”—he glanced at Samantha—“it’s that it’s never too late to become the man you were meant to be.”

Masud cleared his throat. “No matter how far you’ve gone down the wrong road, turn back,” he said quietly. “Old Turkish saying.”

Foster’s eyes burned into Nicholas’s, just as they had in the middle of a blazing deck six years ago.

Then, slowly, his hand shaking, the young man lowered the gun.

Nicholas watched it happen, almost blinded by the light of the sun rising over the waves. He felt a warmth that flowed not only through his body, but through his soul—a sense of forgiveness and renewal, as if he himself were getting a second chance. A chance to regain the years he had lost to violence and vengeance.

“So what the hell am I supposed to do now?” Foster asked uneasily.

“I have an idea,” Nicholas said, even as the thought occurred to him. “I have nothing to offer you—nothing that can make up for what I did to you. I can’t give you money, and I can’t give you back your arm or your lost career. But perhaps I can offer you a better life than the one I’ve had.”

“Meaning what?” Foster asked, eyes full of suspicion.

“Meaning...” Nicholas glanced at Samantha and then at Masud for approval. “How do you feel about Italy?”

Epilogue

Venice, 1743

Bright sunlight filled the piazzas of the San Marco district with spring’s fresh warmth and dozens of cittadini, townsfolk enjoying an afternoon stroll. Several of them smiled or waved at Sam,