“Now.”
Justin flushed once again, his ears turning pink with embarrassment as he reluctantly reached for Devon’s wrists. “I’m sorry about this, ma’am,” he muttered.
“Not another word, Hartwood,” Cole warned, determined to drive the point home. “This woman is an enemy to the Union, and therefore an enemy to the United States. She is to be treated no differently than any other prisoner. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Cole waited until the boy finished, and then checked the ensign’s work. Satisfied, he turned and strode away, feeling Devon’s furious emerald glare burn into his back. He ignored it and kept walking, moving until the blackness of his thoughts melted into the blackness of the night, leaving him empty.
He was honest enough with himself to admit that it wasn’t just Hartwood and his captive that caused the dull fury that had been raging within him since they’d left Fort Monroe. They were a simple enough matter. Devon Blake would be handled and sent to prison. Justin would either learn to do his duty or spend the rest of the war in the stockades. They could be controlled. No, they weren’t the problem.
The problem was rooted deep within himself, festering away like a raw, ugly wound. He needed to drink until he passed out. He needed a good brawl—a couple of hard, solid blows, either dealt or received, it didn’t matter. He needed to turn the clock back, turn the weeks back, then go even further back than that. Back to the days when he’d been so reckless and wild. When he’d been so arrogant, so cocky, so goddamned stupid. Cole stopped and propped his shoulder against a thick oak as he stared into the darkness, then he closed his eyes. Despite his casual posture, his body was racked with tension as he poured his soul into one silent, fervent plea. Please, God, let me do it all over again. Please. Give me just one more chance.
The night answered with silence.
Memories of the battle he’d lost encroached upon his thoughts. He clenched his fists and pushed them away as a cold sweat broke out on his brow. How the hell was he supposed to lead a troop of greenhorn sailors all the way to Washington? He wasn’t capable. He couldn’t do it, he’d only get them all killed.
A rustle of leaves startled him out of his dismal reflections. He had his gun cocked and ready before he realized it was merely a squirrel darting between trees. Cole holstered his revolver and hung his head, taking a couple of long, deep breaths to ease the panic that flooded through his body. Very brave, McRae, he thought in disgust. Scared shitless by a hungry squirrel. He raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. If he managed to get his men and his prisoner anywhere near Washington, it’d be a goddamned miracle.
CHAPTER 5
Devon rolled onto her back and gazed up at the night sky. Judging from the shifting stars and the faint rose glow that beckoned to the east, it was probably about an hour before dawn. Unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, she drew her arms above her head, stretching to relieve her cramped muscles, then craned her head around to ease her neck.
She stopped abruptly when she saw Cole.
He was sitting with his back to her a short distance away, staring off into the horizon. He wore no shirt, likely because of the muggy heat that even now clung to the air. His arm was flung casually over his knee. Devon wasn’t fooled by the relaxed posture. She could see all too clearly the knots and tense muscles that rippled beneath his deep golden skin.
It had been a long, restless night. They’d come to a truce of sorts—if having to he next to Captain McRae, with her hands bound by rope and tied securely to his belt—could be called a truce. Knowing that his loathsome presence was within arm’s distance made falling asleep hard enough. Staying asleep had proved impossible.
It was a low moan that had disturbed her first. She had opened her eyes sleepily, not really sure she had heard anything, when the rope that bound her hands was suddenly jerked, sending her sprawling across her captor. Stunned, she had lain flat on top of him, her body draped across his broad, bare chest.
Amazingly the impact of her landing on top of his had not been enough to wake him. He had tossed beneath her, calling out a name. Devon had tried to pull free and shake him awake. Nothing had worked. Finally, desperate to awaken him, she had lifted her hand and slapped him. Not hard, but none too softly either. When she had lifted her hand a second time, his eyes had flown open and he had caught her wrist, holding it in a painful grip.
For a moment, Cole had simply stared at her, a blank, lost look in his eyes. She had known the instant recognition set in, however, for his features had turned to granite and a contemptuous sneer had curved his lips. Moving with chilling silence, he had angrily shoved her off him, pulled the rope free from his belt and thrown it on the ground, then stormed over to where he sat now.
So the man had nightmares. Devon should be thrilled. But she wasn’t. Despite repeatedly telling herself that she didn’t care, she found herself tossing and turning, Captain McRae’s silent, painful vigil was far more disturbing than his presence next to her had been. She stared at him now, wondering if he’d ever gone back to sleep or had simply sat where he was throughout the night.
“The sun will be up shortly,” he said without turning around, startling her. “Since you’re awake, you may as well get up.”
Devon rose without a word and walked into the low bushes a few feet from their camp. There she recited the alphabet aloud in a dead monotone while she performed her morning duties, the only concession she’d managed to win. Her hands remained loosely bound, not enough to truly hamper her movements, but rather, she assumed, to serve as a pointed reminder of her state of captivity. Gaining her privacy was a small victory, but it wasn’t nearly enough. One day had gone by. She estimated that in perhaps two or three more days, she’d lose her freedom forever.
The thought was not a cheery one. Neither was the sight that greeted her when she walked back to the glen. Operating with brisk military efficiency, the men were in the process of breaking camp, leaving little trace that they were ever there. The blankets they’d slept on were rolled and neatly packed, the horses saddled and ready.
Cole stood waiting for her, his expression cool and unfathomable. He’d donned his white linen shirt, and looked as though he’d dragged his fingers through his thick, tawny-gold hair. He would almost be presentable, in fact, were it not for the dark stubble that shadowed his cheeks and chin.
Devon shuddered to imagine what she must look like. Puffy-eyed and pale, probably. She hadn’t even bothered with her hair, but simply let it hang like a limp, tangled mess down her back. Well what did anyone expect, she thought irritably, after sleeping in the dirt all night?
Morning had never been her favorite time of day. She preferred to ease into the day slowly, and was quite content not to even look at another human being until noon. Since she and Uncle Monty did the vast majority of their business in the wee hours of the night, that was rarely a problem.
Now here she was, cranky and irritable, being forced onto the back of a horse before the sun had even risen. Too tired to even put up a decent fight as Cole lifted her and placed her in the saddle. She’d save fighting for a more respectable hour, she decided as she let out a weary sigh and closed her eyes.
“Blake.”
Her eyes snapped open. Cole had remained right beside her, rather than moving to his own mount. For once, she was able to enjoy the advantage of superior height, and gazed down at him. He looked exhausted from lack of sleep, and decidedly unhappy about whatever he was about to say.
He gestured at her hands. “Don’t grip the saddle horn like that,” he said curtly. “Use your legs to hold on. That way you’ll move with the horse, rather than against her. You won’t be as sore.”
Devon simply stared at him, not saying a word, and then she understood. He’d interpreted her reaction when he placed her in the saddle as one of pain, rather than simple weariness. Apparently it had affected him enough to offer her advice on how to ride. Despite his endless th
reats, the man was obviously not interested in truly hurting her. Devon nodded, storing the information away for future use.
They rode in a staggered line throughout the morning, exchanging no words but the essentials. The sun never did come out. Instead the day remained gray and hazy, the heat even more unbearable than it had been the day before. By noon, Devon was utterly miserable and felt permanently attached to both the horse and the saddle.
When Cole signaled for them to stop, she didn’t object. Nor did she protest when he lifted her down from the saddle. In fact, she was thankful for the support of his arms. Her knees buckled before she adjusted to the feel of solid ground beneath her feet. She swayed against him, her cheek brushing lightly against his chest. In that brief, awkward moment of contact, she became instantly aware of the heat of his body and the heady, thoroughly masculine scent of his skin.
Devon jerked out of his grasp and turned away, focusing all her attention on awkwardly brushing the dirt from her skirts. She breathed deeply of the thick, muggy air until she regained her balance, and then moved stiffly down the sloping bank toward the shallow creek where they’d stopped. She watched as Cole and his men tended to the horses.
Given that they were unsaddling them, she presumed their break was going to be a long one. Lord knew, she needed it. She turned toward the water, hoping to find a respite from the unmerciful heat. Nothing. The creek was a deep, dank green, the water absolutely still. Not even a breeze was stirring.
Spying a thick oak with a limb extending out over the water, Devon removed her shoes and stockings, silently cursing the ropes that bound her wrists as she did, for it made the simple chore a cumbersome task. Finally finished, she stepped up onto the branch and settled herself there, leaning back against the sturdy trunk, her skirts bunched up around her knees, her feet dangling in the water.
The position was highly improper, but she couldn’t quite summon the energy to care. For that matter, so was unbuttoning the top two buttons of her gown and letting the air fan her neck and skim the tops of her shoulders. Devon did it anyway. She let out a blissful sigh. She closed her eyes and was almost able to imagine she felt a slight breeze.
If she’d had her wits about her, she would have used the time to plot her next attempt at escape. But she was simply too hot, too tired, too worn out.
After a few minutes, she felt someone join her, and knew without looking that it was Captain McRae. Irritation surged through her. Something about his presence put a charge in the air which put her nerves on edge. A similar feeling, she presumed, to what a mouse must experience when a hungry cat creeps into the barn.
Automatically preparing herself to do battle, she opened her eyes and turned toward him. If he was at all shocked by her unladylike pose, he didn’t show it. Devon checked the thought. The man already believed her to be a cold-blooded murderess. Obviously it would take more than a petty breach of etiquette to crack his stony facade.
Her lips tightened as she saw that he carried two plates. So they were going to go through that again, were they? She watched him move toward her, coming to a stop near the trunk of the tree. He set his plate down, and then offered another to her.
Devon turned disdainfully away. “A lady does not eat with her hands tied.”
She stared straight ahead, ignoring the food. It was pointless, really, since they’d already gone through this charade last night. It wasn’t that the ropes that bound her wrists hurt, or even restrained her in any way. For in truth, Justin had tied them so loosely she could probably twist out of them with minimal effort. It was more the principle of the thing. And since stubborn pride was about all she had left in the world, she’d have to be a damned sight hungrier than she was now before she gave in. She tilted her chin a notch higher and waited for Cole to leave.
He set her plate in her lap.
Devon flinched, then anger surged through her.
Cole caught her wrists, guessing her intent before she could knock the plate into the water. “Don’t,” he said.
“I will not eat with my hands tied,” she repeated furiously, glaring up at him.
He stared back at her. Before she realized what he was about, he pulled a knife from his belt and with a quicksilver flash of steel, freed her hands. The rope fell limply to the ground. Startled, Devon tried to tug her wrists free from his grasp, but he wouldn’t let go, instead he tightened his grip ever so slightly until she stopped struggling and lifted her eyes once again to his. Their gazes locked and held, as if he was waiting for her to say something, but she hadn’t a clue as to what that might be.
Finally he let her know. “I believe a word of gratitude might be in order.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before—”
“Eat,” he said, dropping her wrists and turning away.
Devon watched him warily as he seated himself on the grassy bank. He drew one knee up, resting his elbow atop it. The posture was one she’d come to recognize as uniquely Cole’s, a combination of indolent ease and barely constrained power. She sensed a simmering energy just below the surface, as though he was impatient to spring into action. Not a cat, she thought, revising her earlier opinion. With his thick golden hair and tawny eyes, he brought to mind images of a savage lion stalking its prey…
Obviously she was weaker from hunger than she thought. Devon turned her gaze from him and studied her plate instead. Thin slices of ham, a corn biscuit, and an apple. Better than she’d expected. The farmer who’d sold the horses must have thrown a meal or two in the bargain as well. She gave in to her appetite, letting a silence fall between them as they ate. When she finished, she leaned back against the thick oak trunk, her outlook considerably brightened. She’d eaten, her hands were free, and the heat no longer seemed quite so intense.
She glanced around for the rest of the men and found them lounging about in the shade near the horses. Her eyes went back to Cole. Normally he was occupied with his own thoughts, and rarely deigned to even notice her. Now, however, his gaze was focused entirely on her, as though she were a strange, foreign creature to be studied.
Devon splashed the water with her feet, then turned to him, her soft green eyes mocking as she raised a dark brow. “Trying to commit me to memory in case you’ll miss me once I’m handed me off to that prison?”
He frowned. “You don’t look like a criminal.”
She shrugged. “That’s generally how it works. One does a much better business that way.”
“Nor do you speak like one,” he said, as if voicing his thoughts aloud. “That tells me you must have had some kind of education, some sort of proper upbringing. It seems you were meant to be a lady, though clearly that’s a goal you’ll never attain.”
Devon fanned herself with her hand. “My, we’re full of opinions tonight, aren’t we?”
“So the question is,” he continued, “what happened? What brought you to the point of relying on thievery and murder for your very existence?”
“Perhaps I enjoy it,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn’t quite feel. “Perhaps it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”
“I assume you had a mother, a father. What happened to them?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“If you’re honest with me, I may be able to help you.”
Devon laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. Obviously the captain had decided to switch tactics, employing friendliness now instead of intimidation. Did he really think she was stupid enough to fall for it? “You want to help me,” she repeated, her voice rich with bitterness and barely bridled contempt. “Now why don’t I believe that?”
“You have a choice,” Cole replied coolly. “Spend the remainder of your days rotting in a cell, or tell me about Sharpe. Everything. How you came to know him, how much he was paying you, where he is now, everything. Start at the very beginning.”
“And if I say no?”
“That would be a mistake.”
“I see.
” She fought to keep from clenching her fists. “How very generous of you, McRae.”
Cole simply stared at her, waiting.
She turned away, her light mood instantly dissolved. “The truth is rarely interesting. It certainly isn’t in my case.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Devon hesitated. Considered.
Ever since she’d lived her life “on the dodge,” as Uncle Monty put it, her background had become amazingly fluid, not unlike the stories she’d just told, tailored to fit whatever situation she found herself in. She’d become adept at letting people see whatever they wanted to see, and letting them believe whatever they wanted to believe. Up until now, that had always suited her. She’d stayed alive, and that was all that counted.
But the truth… that was another matter entirely. She turned back to Cole, noting that his eyes had never left her. He wanted the truth, did he? She thought it over, and then shrugged inwardly. She had nothing left to lose.
“You’ll help me?”
“If I can.”
“Very well,” she answered briskly, her mind made up. “The truth. I was sent for as a mail-order bride. It was a business arrangement, really. Jonas Sharpe was acting as an intermediary, as my intended was an associate of his. Sharpe must have planted the documents found in my trunks, for I had no idea they were there. Furthermore, I didn’t murder anyone. I discovered the body of poor Prescott in an abandoned warehouse, only seconds before the soldiers arrived and arrested me.”
Because she had told her story so many times, her delivery was rather forced and detached. She frowned a bit at that, but dismissed the concern as unimportant. Her purpose had been to relate the events as they had occurred, not to entertain.
As she finished and Captain McRae studied her in thoughtful silence, a tiny spark of hope was lit deep within her. Dare she believe she’d finally found someone who would actually listen to her?
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