Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  They skidded across the hard wooden planks, their fall finally checked as their bodies slammed into a stack of rough crates. Cole shoved Devon beneath him as he braced his body for the impact. The crates teetered, then came crashing down on top of them, splitting open as they bounced off his back and tumbled across the floor. He felt Devon tense beneath him but didn’t move, not until he was sure the worst was over.

  When the last crate had fallen, and the only thing filling the silence was the steady hum of the train’s steel wheels whirling beneath them, Cole groaned and rolled over. His back hurt like hell, which he supposed was a good sign. He was still alive.

  Devon moved out from under him and slowly sat up, her face deathly pale, her eyes wide and glazed as she stared at the interior of the car, then at Cole. “We made it,” she whispered hoarsely, her tone one of awed incredulity.

  “Barely.” He grunted and stared up at the ceiling, not yet ready to move.

  She leaned over him, her brows knit with concern as she placed a delicate hand on his chest. “Are you hurt?”

  Cole stared up into her soft green eyes and fought back the urge to shake her senseless. “Of all the stupid, reckless—” he began as Devon scrambled to her feet, glancing anxiously around for a way out.

  Cole shot up, ignoring the pain in his back as he placed himself between her and the open door. “Don’t even think about it,” he snapped.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I’m not about to leap from a speeding train.”

  “What the hell do you think you just did?!” he roared. “You damned near got us both killed.”

  Devon’s mouth turned down in disapproval as her small, stubborn chin came up. “If you hadn’t been chasing me—”

  “You would have been crushed beneath the train’s wheels,” he finished for her.

  She stared at him in horrified disbelief. “Do you actually expect me to be grateful?”

  “For saving your life, you’re damned right I do.”

  “Oh, please,” she answered contemptuously. “You didn’t save me, you rescued your precious duty and honor. How embarrassing it would have been for you if your prisoner had been killed while trying to escape.” She paced back and forth, working herself into a fury that matched his own. “That would have spoiled all the fun, wouldn’t it? How inconsiderate of me to risk dying now, rather than waiting to rot away in prison. Forgive me for forgetting how important that is to you.”

  “Blake—”

  “No one’s ever going to lock me up again. Do you understand me? Never again.”

  Cole stared at her. So she’d been in prison before. While that certainly didn’t surprise him, neither did he relish the thought of her in a dark, dank cell. Nor could he completely harden his heart against the fear and panic he read in those expressive eyes of hers as she stared up at him, struggling in vain to maintain her brave facade. Irritated by the turn the conversation had taken, he found that his next word came out sharper than he’d intended. “Move.”

  Devon made a face at his rudeness, but moved nonetheless. He turned his attention from her to the crates that filled the boxcar. Given that no soldiers had been posted to guard them, Cole doubted he’d find much of value. He broke them open and began pillaging anyway, confirming his suspicions. The items the crates contained, though luxurious, were worthless to a nation at war. Lace corsets, bottles of scent, boxes of hand-rolled cigars. Obviously the shipment was intended for the black market.

  Cole shook his head in disgust, sickened by the greed. While men died on the battlefield for want of rifles and ammunition, blockade runners still put profit ahead of their supposedly glorious cause of liberating the South. Well, that was Jeff Davis’s problem, not his.

  “What are these?” Devon asked, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced behind him to see that she’d begun digging through the crates as well. Spread out before her was a group of lithographs depicting a big man with dark hair and muttonchop whiskers in a variety of ridiculous poses. In one he was shown in full battle gear, sitting astride a pig, in another he was dressed in a frilly smock, clutching a bouquet of daisies.

  “Butler. General Benjamin Butler,” Cole answered. Then, seeing her frown, he clarified in profound understatement, “Union general. Not very popular in the South.”

  Devon nodded and stacked the prints back inside the crates. “These seem like silly things to be transporting,” she said. “I would have thought the crates should be full of food and clothing.”

  Cole’s eyes darkened. That was exactly the sort of thing he needed to hear to put this all back in perspective. Thus far, Jonas Sharpe was one of the few blockade runners who, in addition to ruthlessly attacking Federal ships, was also dedicated to supplying the South with badly needed munitions. That was just one of the reasons the man had to be stopped. And the instincts he’d relied upon all his life told him that Devon Blake was the key to stopping him. “Fortunately for the North,” he answered curtly “most blockade runners are not as dedicated as your good friend, Sharpe.”

  Her hands paused in mid-air, then she shrugged and continued packing away the crates. “As I’ve already told you, he’s no friend of mine.”

  Cole refused to be drawn back into the same tired argument. Instead he flipped over a crate and sat down, calmly studying her. “You should have just yelled when you had the chance, rather than try something so stupid as leaping onto a speeding train,” he said at last. “You nearly cost us both our lives.”

  She turned toward him at that, her brows arched in cool, mocking challenge. “As I recall,” she said, “you threatened to kill me if I did.”

  Cole frowned, wondering if she believed he was actually capable of doing such a thing, then wondering why it bothered him that she obviously did believe it. “Is that why you didn’t scream?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  Her lips curled into a small smile. “Are you offering me suggestions for how to escape, McRae?” He waited, refusing to rise to the bait. Devon shrugged and settled herself atop one of the wooden crates. “I thought about it, of course,” she said, finally addressing his question, “but I figured there must be at least two hundred men on this train. Compared to your six, that hardly seemed a fair fight.”

  She hadn’t screamed because she didn’t want him or his men hurt? It took Cole no more than two seconds to dismiss that as the lie it surely was. “Do you actually expect me to believe that?”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then averted her eyes. “No,” she said. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  Cole felt a pang of doubt, which he knew was absolutely ludicrous. There was no reason he should believe a single word that fell from those traitorous lips of hers. The woman was a liar, a thief, and a murderess. Why was it so hard for him to remember that? He searched for another reason to hold on to his anger and it didn’t take him long to find one. “You’re an excellent rider,” he said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “You’re quite a little actress as well. I truly believed you’d never sat a horse before in your life.”

  “That was the plan.”

  Once again, Cole was torn between strangling her and applauding her performance. Then he remembered the scene she’d created when he’d first tried to put her in the saddle, and his anger surged anew. “You made me look like an ass in front of my men.”

  She shrugged lightly and brushed the dirt from her skirt. “It hardly seems fair for me to take full credit. I’d say you accomplished that pretty well by yourself.”

  “If that’s your way of begging my forgiveness, I suggest you try again.”

  “And I suggest you—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes wide as she pressed her hand flat against her breast. “My ring,” she gasped. “It’s gone!” Before Cole could say a word, Devon flung herself down on all fours, moving her hands frantically over the rough wooden floor.

  Cole watched her, then caught a glint of shiny gold near the crates where they�
�d tumbled to a stop. He stood and reached to pick it up, holding it between his fingers as he casually inspected it. It looked to be a wedding band, and one of rather poor quality at that. The gold was thin and rather scratched, the stones nothing but a few diamond chips. He turned toward her, holding the ring aloft. “If you’re going to go to all the trouble to steal something, perhaps you should aim higher. This is hardly worth—”

  She jumped up and lunged toward him. “Give it to me!”

  He swung his arm back, holding the ring just out of reach. “I must admit, you’re very resourceful. When did you find the time to steal it?”

  Devon glared at him, balling her hands on her hips. “I didn’t steal it. That belonged to my mother, and those are her initials engraved on the inside. ELB: Elizabeth Layton Blake. Now give it to me.”

  Cole glanced inside. “So they are. Tell me, which mother was that, the famous actress, or the Indian princess?”

  “Neither.” She held out her hand, her eyes locked on his. Cole took his time, thinking it over and enjoying holding the upper hand for once. With Devon Blake, that was a rare enough occurrence.

  “Damn you, give me the ring!” Her voice shook. So did her hand as she held it out, palm up. Her soft green eyes were sparkling bright, either with anger or tears, he couldn’t tell.

  He carelessly flicked the ring at her. “I suggest you watch your language,” he said coolly, then shrugged as his gaze moved appraisingly over her tattered gown, dirty face, and wild hair. “Then again, perhaps it doesn’t matter. No one will ever accuse a little tart like you of being a lady.”

  He saw her flinch as pain streaked across her face. Cole had wanted to hurt her. He wanted his words to be cutting, mean. It was her fault that Justin Hartwood and the rest of his men were now wandering, alone and probably lost, through the backwoods of Virginia. It was her fault that the Islander had been destroyed and his crewmen slaughtered. If he harbored even the slightest ambition of tracking down Jonas Sharpe, it was absolutely essential that he stop Devon Blake from getting under his skin. That he treat her with the contempt that Sharpe’s agent deserved. Finally she turned wordlessly away.

  That was what he wanted, after all, so why did he suddenly feel so dirty, so obscene? Cole let out a ragged sigh as he watched her retreat across the boxcar to sit near the open door, with her back to him, hugging her knees against her chest as she stared out at the passing countryside. The breeze from the open door blew back her hair, sending it cascading over her shoulders like a wave of dark silk. She’d placed the ring on the third finger of her right hand, and now absently twisted it around and around.

  His nerves stretched to the limit, Cole turned toward the stack of crates, wanting to release at least some of his frustration by driving his boots through the wooden frames, when a small, delicate sniff caught his attention. He whirled around, glaring at his prisoner’s back. God help him, the woman wasn’t going to start crying on him now, was she? Though her shoulders didn’t move, he heard another small sniff.

  Dammit to hell.

  Fine. Let her cry. He wasn’t about to let her manipulate him again. He was the one in control here, not her. Cole turned his back on her, reminding himself for the hundredth time that she was Jonas Sharpe’s agent. That she was every bit as responsible as Sharpe for the destruction of his ship, for the death of so many of his crew. For Gideon.

  It didn’t work.

  What he saw instead was an image of himself, an image of a man he never thought he’d be. He saw himself with jarring, crystal clarity: a failure at command, tired and defeated, and just out of control enough to bully one small, helpless woman to tears. As hard as it was to believe, he’d actually managed to sink to a new low. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. What the hell was he doing? What the hell was he doing?

  He heard another sniff and knew he couldn’t stand it much longer. Grabbing what he’d been able to salvage from the crates, he walked over to his prisoner and squatted down beside her. “Here. You might as well take some.”

  Devon wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks and jerked her head around. “I’m not a child,” she snapped, her gaze flashing from him to the box of fine imported chocolates he held.

  “I didn’t think you were,” he countered smoothly, setting the candy and a bottle of French brandy between them.

  “I wasn’t crying.”

  Cole nodded in polite agreement, ignoring the fact that her eyes were glistening bright, her long, dark lashes spiky wet. “This is the only food I could find,” he said. “Since our provisions remain strapped to the back of my saddle, I’m afraid this is dinner.”

  He settled in beside her and picked out a piece of chocolate. After a few moments’ hesitation, his captive followed his lead. He opened the brandy, took a deep swallow, then passed it to her as well.

  She shook her head. “Uncle Monty never allowed me to touch spirits. He said ladies don’t drink.” Devon stopped abruptly, then reached for the bottle. “I suppose that doesn’t matter anymore, now does it?”

  Cole watched as she carefully wiped the lip of the bottle with her tattered skirt, then tipped the brandy to her mouth and took a long, deep swallow. She abruptly began choking. “It’s very strong,” she gasped when she could finally speak.

  “Smooth,” he corrected, and took another drink. He passed the bottle back to her. Devon accepted it with a small frown and took another sip. This time she managed to swallow without choking, though he did see a slight shudder pass through her slender frame.

  They sat together in silence, sharing the bottle. Outside a gusty wind was kicking up, and Cole noted dark clouds gathering to the west. The storm would reach them soon, perhaps in an hour, maybe two. For now he felt nothing but the hot breeze that blew in through the open door; the thick, sultry air fanning them both. The countryside slowly disappeared as twilight descended into dusk, and then into night.

  Cole hadn’t planned on getting Devon drunk. But now that the opportunity presented itself, he wasn’t about to let it pass him by. Not if it meant a way for him to learn more about Sharpe. After the first couple of swallows, he’d merely tipped the bottle to his lips without drinking. Devon apparently had learned to acquire a taste for it. The brandy, he noted, was nearly half-empty.

  He searched for an innocuous comment, something he could say that would reveal a bit about himself, and perhaps coax her into doing the same. “This reminds me of where I grew up,” he finally remarked.

  “You grew up in Virginia?” Her voice had a singsong quality to it that he didn’t recognize, and was probably the result of the strong drink.

  “No. Outside of Philadelphia. But the countryside is similar, rolling green hills and all.”

  “Oh.” She drew her dark brows together as though processing very difficult information. Cole considered that she might be feigning drunkenness, the same way she’d pretended she couldn’t ride, but decided that was highly unlikely. Given the diminutive size of the woman, combined with the amount of alcohol she’d imbibed and the speed with which she’d downed it, she had to be feeling the effects. “Tell me something else about you,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to know something about the man who’s going to kill me.”

  Cole jerked his head toward her. “What makes you think I’m going to kill you?”

  “You’re not going to let me escape, are you?”

  “No.”

  “And I’m not going to let you lock me away.” Devon let out a dramatic sigh and wrapped her hands around her knees, resting her chin atop them. “Killing me is the only option we have left.” She tilted her head toward him, her eyes as frank and trusting as a newborn babe. “Your parents were very rich, weren’t they?”

  He blinked at the rapid-fire shift in conversation. “What makes you say that?”

  “I can tell. I’m very good at sizing up a mark. It’s the little things that give people away. Like your boots, for instance. Expensive. Definitely not governm
ent issue. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. I bought my boots.”

  She shook her head. “I meant, I’m right about your parents, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose so,” he answered.

  “That must have been nice.”

  He shrugged. “Money isn’t everything.”

  Devon stiffened beside him. “No, you’re right. Food is everything. Warm clothes are everything. Having a safe place to sleep at night is everything. A proper education. But that all takes money, doesn’t it?” She took another swig of brandy. “Tell me what it was like,” she said.

  Cole shifted, distinctly uncomfortable. Not only had he just received a royal and, unfortunately, richly earned setting-down, he was rapidly losing whatever control he thought he’d had over the conversation. “My father runs a factory outside of Philadelphia,” he said. “He builds wagons, buggies—”

  “McRae Coaches?” Devon gasped. “That’s you?”

  “No,” Cole said firmly, not at all surprised at how quickly she made the connection. To most people, the word coach followed McRae as naturally as night followed day. “That’s my father and brother. They’re the ones who run the company. It’s theirs, not mine.”

  Devon made a noncommittal sound. “So tell me what it was like for you growing up,” she said. “Your house must have been very grand.”

  “It was huge,” Cole admitted. He stretched out his legs, leaning back as the memories spilled over him. “Very grand, indeed,” he continued, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Run by an endless parade of white-gloved, stiffly starched servants, who kept everything in absolute order‌—‌including the children. To my mother, there was no crime worse than using the wrong salad fork at dinner. And God forbid my brother or I received less than perfect marks in our lessons.” He paused, shaking his head. “We practically walked around the house on tiptoe all the time. No laughter, no shouting, no noise of any kind. As if there was a body perpetually laid out in the front parlor.”