Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,99

stepped inside.

A haze of smoke washed over him, carrying the pungent scents of ale and wine and male sweat that thickened the air. The only illumination came from an iron chandelier filled with flickering candles. It cast a dull glow over the hand-hewn tables and benches scattered haphazardly around the room, some filled with drunken patrons, others with men holding conversations in low tones.

He saw that there were no cheery groups of locals sharing gossip and ribald jokes and tavern songs. And there was only one other exit: a door at the back. This was a place well-suited to clandestine meetings and nefarious goings-on.

The blackmailer had chosen well, he noted, his respect and caution growing.

He moved toward the long counter that filled the right side of the room, and summoned the yawning tavernkeeper with a flick of his hand.

But before he could order an ale and ask a few questions, a hand landed on his shoulder and a quiet voice sounded behind him.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

~ ~ ~

Sitting with his back to the wall, his tricorne on the bench beside him, and one booted foot resting on the bench across from him, Nicholas studied his companion, shaking his head. “Damnation, you are the last person I expected to find here.”

Masud raised his mug of ale in salute, his grin unrepentant. “Glad to see you, too, Cap’n.”

“You never could follow orders worth a damn.” Still scowling, Nicholas took a long swallow from his own glass. “I should have had you keelhauled years ago.”

Masud nodded with a mock-serious air. “Might’ve instilled the value of discipline in me.”

“I suppose it’s too bloody late now.”

“Afraid so, Cap’n.” The African’s grin broadened. “That it is.”

Nicholas fell silent, studying his glass, running his thumb over a chip in the rim. There was no sense in sending Masud away, now that he was here. And to tell the truth, he was glad to have the company. It was good to see his quartermaster, to have loyal help at hand.

A loyal friend, he corrected, the thought coming into his mind unbidden. He frowned, surprised at the word. He had long refused to grant any man his trust, let alone his friendship.

But Masud had stuck by him through a lot of rough seas—steadfast despite all of his captain’s failings and surly ways, always there when needed. Even during the times when Nicholas Brogan had insisted he didn’t need anyone.

Nicholas glanced up, unable to think of a better measure of a friend... or a man more deserving of the word.

He noticed the way Masud even respected his long, moody silences. His frown slowly turned into a grin. “So how long have you been here?”

“Two days. Been keeping an eye on the place.” They both shifted easily to a low, conspiratorial tone.

“Has the package arrived yet?” Nicholas lit another cheroot.

“Aye. The barkeep’s got it. Says no one has inquired about it yet. Other than me.”

Nicholas glanced at the fat man dozing behind the counter on the opposite side of the smoke-filled room. “Glad to see we’ve entrusted something so valuable to an alert, dependable sort.”

Masud chuckled. “Aye. I thought it best to be here whenever the place is open. Though I’ve practically pickled myself. His pub may be a piss-hole but his ale is good.”

Nicholas took another long swallow from his glass, laughing. “It would take more than two days of ale to pickle you, you old sot. So tell me, why aren’t you in South Carolina?”

“I only meant to take a small detour. After I dropped you off on the coast, I decided to sail down to London to have a little talk with a certain lady.”

“Clarice.” Nicholas lifted an eyebrow, curious and a little bemused. “You still think she’s involved?”

“I admit I thought she was. A woman scorned, and all...” Masud shook his head. “But she said she hasn’t given you a single thought in the past six years, and I believe her. Took me a while to track her down—she’s not in the East End anymore. Got herself a town house in Cavendish Square. Paid for by a dandiprat merchant banker who thinks the sun rises and sets in her dainties. She’s not wanting for money.”

“So she finally hooked herself a big fish, did she?” Nicholas blew a puff of smoke toward the grimy ceiling. “Always knew Clarice would land on her feet.”

He felt not a twinge of jealousy. Clarice had been a pleasant distraction during a time when he’d been single-mindedly devoted to vengeance. He had