Run Wild (2 page)

Nicholas shot him a quelling glance, but the moonless, starless night made it almost impossible for them to see one another. Though he could barely make out the African’s angular features, he could hear the concern in his voice. Nicholas shook his head. Even after twelve years, he hadn’t grown used to that—someone being concerned about him. Calling him friend.

Nicholas Brogan called no one friend. He trusted no one.

He never had. He never would.

“The man known as the reclusive Mr. James
is
perfectly safe here,” Nicholas insisted. “I’m an ordinary colonial, a simple planter from South Carolina. The authorities have no reason to harass me or even
notice
me. I haven’t broken a single one of His Majesty’s laws. Haven’t pilfered a shilling. Haven’t bothered a soul—”

“Haven’t so much as crossed the street the wrong way on Sunday,” Masud chuckled.

Nicholas scowled. “The pirate they knew as Nicholas Brogan met a fiery end six years ago,” he declared flatly, absently rubbing his beard, which covered an old scar on his jaw. “He’s dead and buried.”

“And every person in England believes that. Except one.” Masud gestured with the bottle of rum. “Someone out there on that vast island knows you’re still alive.”

Nicholas clenched his teeth, anger and frustration simmering inside him. For the past six years, all he had wanted was to find peace. All he had wanted was to be left alone.

But it seemed both would be forever beyond his reach.

Masud had spoken the truth: Someone knew that Nicholas Brogan was alive and living in South Carolina. An anonymous note had arrived by post a month ago. A blackmail note.

The blackmailer claimed to have evidence which he threatened to take to the authorities—unless Nicholas sent the sum of fifteen thousand pounds to a certain pub in York by Michaelmas Day, September twenty-ninth.

It was a king’s ransom. Or at least a pirate’s ransom.

And Nicholas didn’t have it.

This blackmailer seemed to believe the old tales in the penny-post newspapers—stories of the pirate better known as “Sir Nicholas” swimming in gold and jewels, with buried treasure chests scattered hither and yon on exotic islands.

Nicholas grimaced. It was hell having a legendary reputation.

The truth was, like most pirates, he’d spent what he’d stolen as fast as he’d stolen it. The truth was he’d plied the seas for fourteen years as a buccaneer with hatred burning in his heart and no thought for the future.

Until that day in 1735.

His jaw tightened. Until now, only two people had known he survived that day: Masud, who had pulled him from the burning wreckage, and Clarice, his sometime mistress, who had tended him until he was well enough to leave England.

Masud intruded on his thoughts. “Anyone could’ve sent that note, Cap’n. Anyone. Clarice might’ve let her guard down after all these years, let the secret slip. Or...” He took a long swallow of rum. “She could be the one blackmailing you.”

“Aye,” Nicholas said slowly. “I’ve considered that. But Clarice knows I don’t have that kind of money. And if she wanted to do me in, she’s had six years. Why wait until now?”

“Doesn’t make much sense,” Masud agreed. “On the other hand, ‘
Hell hath no fury
...’”

Nicholas frowned. If he had to add
women scorned
to the list, the number of people who would enjoy seeing his head on a pike would easily double.

“Cap’n,” Masud persisted, “the point is you’ve no way of knowing who or what you’re up against, no friends out there to turn to for help—and a few dozen enemies who’d love nothing better than to kill you.”

“And none of that matters a damn. Whoever this blackmailer is, I can’t pay. And I don’t want the greedy bugger spilling his guts to the authorities. Which leaves only one choice.” Nicholas’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. “And it’s too late to turn back now, since I’ve already posted the package.”

He’d sent it just before leaving South Carolina—a package addressed precisely as the note had instructed, containing not fifteen thousand pounds... but worthless blank paper.

He’d posted it on one of the Falmouth brigs that sluggishly collected mail along the American coast. It wouldn’t reach York until a fortnight from now. Just before Michaelmas. It would look perfect, right down to the South Carolina tax stamps on it.

And he would be at the pub long before it arrived, lying in wait to see who showed up to collect it.

“Aye, Cap’n, you’ve planned it all carefully,” Masud conceded. “You’ve ample time before he makes good his threat. But if something goes wrong and he doesn’t hear from you by Michaelmas Day—”

“Oh, he’ll hear from me by then,” Nicholas said darkly. “He’ll hear from me.”

Masud fell silent, as if trying to devise one final reason why his captain shouldn’t do what he had made up his mind to do. The African possessed the most annoying ability to do battle with words as skillfully as he did with pistol and cutlass.

Masud scuffed his boot over the deck planks, the wood scarred by years of grappling hooks, cannon shot, bullets. “You know, Cap’n, I never guessed we’d actually make it this far. Thought for sure our old scow here would sink before we made it a mile out of the Carolinas.” He chuckled. “But it seems she’s in better shape than either one of us.”

Nicholas didn’t laugh.

Masud sighed heavily. “Just grant me one favor.” He set the bottle aside, and Nicholas heard him withdraw something from inside his frock coat. “Take this with you.”

Nicholas couldn’t see what it was, but he knew. “I won’t need it.”

“You might. Better safe than—”

“I don’t want it.”

All trace of humor left Masud’s voice. “Has it crossed your mind that this blackmailer might want your
hide
instead of your money? He might’ve sent that note
hoping
to flush you out. You might be playing right into his hands. What makes you think you can slip into England, take the bastard out, and slip away without firing a single shot?”

Nicholas swallowed hard. He clenched his fists against the pain that knotted his gut. He started shaking, and hoped to God that Masud couldn’t see.

Masud continued in that low, even tone. “You’ve had a bellyful of killing. I know. I was there. But you can’t go ashore tonight without a gun...”

Nicholas still couldn’t speak, barely heard the rest. Aye, Masud had been there.
But he hadn’t seen everything. He didn’t know
.

Didn’t know what Nicholas had done in winning the revenge he had wanted. Nicholas alone knew the truth, and he had never spoken a word of it to anyone.

He gripped the rail, his fingers tightening with bruising force as he fought the memories that assaulted him.

The faces. The voices. The blood.

And the sound of the single pistol shot that had ended his infamous career.

That sound still haunted his nightmares. Louder than the roar of the storm that had battered his ship on that insane day, sharper than the crack of lightning that had struck the mainmast like a bolt from God trying to stop him.

No force of heaven or earth had been able to stop him that day. He hadn’t even cared that his own ship was ablaze as he blew Captain Eldridge’s Royal Navy man-of-war out from beneath him.

Eldridge’s men had swept aboard Nicholas’s ship—some fighting his pirate crew, some simply trying to save themselves—but by then they had all known they were about to die together. Nothing could save them from the fire or the sea or each other.

Slashing his way toward Eldridge with his cutlass, Nicholas’s only thought had been to take the bastard with him when he died. But the navy men swarmed over him, protecting their commander. In a blind rage, Nicholas hacked one man down, drew his pistol, spun, and fired at the next blue uniform he saw.

And realized too late that it was only a boy.

A cabin boy. Ten or twelve. Too young to know the difference between guts and stupidity.

In that frozen instant Nicholas had felt the rain on his face, so cold. Like a slap from the grave. So icy, deathly cold.

Unspeakable horror held him immobile as he stared into the boy’s eyes, watching the lad fall. In that innocent gaze he saw himself at the same age. Saw clearly for the first time what he had become since. What his quest for vengeance had made him.

A soulless animal.

And in the boy’s face he saw other faces. Too many faces. So many lives cut short by his hand. So much blood spilled in fourteen years.

A second later an explosion turned the world black.

Days after that, he had awakened to find himself at Clarice’s in London—and every newspaper full of stories about his well-deserved fiery end. The admiralty mourned the loss of the heroic Captain Eldridge, and declared the hated Nicholas Brogan dead. Both buried at sea. The bounty on his head was never paid.

As soon as he was well enough to get out of bed, Nicholas had slipped out of the country and left it all behind him. Piracy. England. All of it.

Even pistols.
Especially
pistols. He hadn’t touched one in six years.

He did not want to risk unleashing the animal within.

“... listen to reason,” Masud was saying. “And just take the damn thing—”

“Masud, for my purposes, all I need is a blade,” Nicholas said slowly, “and I’m carrying several. What do I need with a gun? I’m an ordinary planter traveling to York on a matter of business. No one will bother me.” He forced a laugh and raked a hand through the thick black beard that covered his cheeks, the silver-peppered hair at his temples. “And who the hell could possibly recognize me? Most of the coves who knew me well enough to identify me are dead—Falconer went down with his ship, Spears was shot by his own crew, Blake was killed fighting the French, Davison hanged at Execution Dock—”

“And that’s exactly where you’ll end up if you get caught,” Masud countered. “If someone—anyone—figures out who you are, you’ll be hanged before you can say ‘pieces of eight.’ ”

“I won’t get caught.” Nicholas flashed a shadow of his once-infamous sardonic smile. Then he turned to stare at the drowsy little village on the shore, at the glow from the hearths, and repeated it softly. “I won’t get caught.”

T
he unsteady flame of a single torch glowed red on the black iron bars of his cell. Nicholas closed his eyes with a groan and allowed himself to just lie there for a moment, on his side, letting the cool stone of the floor soothe his stinging cheek. He wanted to sink back down into unconsciousness, but the pain kept him awake—pain throbbing in his temples, in his jaw, in his stomach, everywhere. He recognized the sharp, metallic taste on his tongue as blood. His own.

Sounds of human misery assaulted him from all sides, the wretched sobs and moans leaving no doubt about where he was. He coughed, wincing.

First-rate job of it, Brogan. Back in England less than a day, and already you land yourself in gaol.

For something you didn’t even do.

He might have laughed at the irony of it, but his bruised ribs brought a stab of pain that choked off his breath in the back of his throat.

Gritting his teeth, he lifted one hand to inspect the damage. His ribs didn’t seem to be broken. His left eye had swollen almost shut. His lip felt about twice its normal size. And beneath the thick bristle of his beard, a deep cut along his right cheekbone still bled. He moved his jaw cautiously and discovered to his surprise that it wasn’t broken. There was no permanent damage. He would heal.

If he lived that long.

Letting his hand fall back to the stone, he lay there with his eyes closed and muttered curses under his breath, each one hurting his battered lips. He cursed himself. Cursed the local marshalmen who’d jumped him in the darkness, mistaking him for some footpad they’d been hunting for weeks.

Most of all he cursed God for deserting him. Again.

Rolling slowly onto his back, he opened his eyes—or at least his right eye—and glared up at the iron bars overhead. His vision, such as it was, slowly adjusted to the meager, flickering light. He could see that his cell was in the middle of a row of cells, each made entirely of iron bars. Including the ceiling, which was less than six feet overhead. He wouldn’t even be able to stand up straight.

It was like a stall. A kennel.

A sudden knot clenched his stomach. The local lawmen might be bumblers when it came to identifying a suspect on a moonless night... but their gaol appeared secure. Alarmingly secure.

He fought the unease rising within him. He’d survived worse situations than this. Much worse.

At present, however, he couldn’t remember any one in particular.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow, steadying breath, telling himself he was in no immediate danger. They didn’t know his true identity. They had no reason to suspect.

But in rural areas like this, even those charged with minor crimes—even accused footpads—had to wait for the arrival of the assize judge to have their cases heard. And the assize judge only visited from London twice a year: summer and winter.

Which meant his honorable lordship wouldn’t be arriving for several months.